I was recently in Los Angeles on business, and ran into
someone I didn't expect to see. It wasn't that I was
surprised to find Brad Dartmouth in Los Angeles, because I
knew he'd moved there after finishing college. What
surprised me was where I found him-- and the state I found
him in.
My job requires that I travel, so I often find myself
spending the night in a hotel room with nothing to do.
After realizing that if I stayed in the room, my only
options were either get drunk and pass out, or watch TV, I
soon came to the conclusion that it would be better to get
out and explore the neighborhood. After a few trips to LA,
I discovered a cozy little bar on the wrong side of town
named The Perro Negro.
Perro Negro is Spanish, and translates to mean "black
dog." I always thought the name was interesting, because it
wasn't in a Hispanic neighborhood and there weren't many
Blacks that frequented the establishment. Really, the only
part of the name that made sense was the word "dog." A few
of the people there were what I'd call Wanabee's, but
everyone else was a dog.
Most of those in the bar were men, but there were a few
women-- and they were definitely dogs. Now, that's not to
say that they weren't good looking. In fact, several of the
whores were quite attractive, but the rest of them looked
like they could have won a Janice Joplin look-alike contest.
What I mean is that none of them were the kind of girl you'd
take home to meet your mother. As a matter of fact, you
wouldn't take them home at all-- a cheap hotel maybe, but
never home. The thing about these girls is that they had
lived just a little too hard and had gotten 'burned-out.'
What made them the perfect type of women for The Perro Negro
was that they had the two qualities the male patrons were
looking for: fast and easy.
See, the men made up the rest of the dogs. Here again,
don't think I'm talking about their looks. Except for those
that were badly scarred, many of them were fairly handsome.
Most had a rustic look about them: skin leathered by years
of work in the sun, bodies hardened from carrying heavy
equipment, and a confidence fueled from working in
situations most men tried to avoid. But they were still
dogs. What brought them to The Perro Negro was that they
all (except the Wanabee's) shared a common bond, a
profession that singled them out from the rest of the world:
they were dogs of war. Guns for hire. Soldiers of fortune.
Mercenaries.
Somehow, over the years, The Perro Negro had become a
gathering place for soldiers who had temporarily found
themselves without a war. Because of this, it had also
become the chief recruiting center for the west coast. If
you were planning to overthrow an Pacific island government,
wanted to search for MIA's in Viet Nam, or were just looking
to start a 'rumble in the jungle,' The Perro Negro was where
you went to find the men for the job. As long as you had
the cash, there was someone who would take the job,
regardless of the political or legal implications.
The third type of people who hung-out in The Perro
Negro were the Wanabee's. A Wanabee is a guy who wants to
be a soldier, but won't (or can't) join the military.
Actually, its better that they don't enlist, because most of
them would wet their pants if they ever heard the cracking
sound a bullet makes as it narrowly misses your head. These
guys are easy to spot because they're always thirty pounds
overweight, wear camouflage pants, and a T-shirt that says
something like 'Kill 'em all and let God sort 'em out.'
These are the kind of people who read "Soldier Of Fortune"
magazine, buy AK-47 rifles, and still live with their mother
even though they're twenty-seven years old.
After the people, the second most distinguishing
feature of the interior was its unique decor. There was a
bar with a dozen stools on one side of the room, and about
as many tables scattered about the other. The wall opposite
the bar was covered with posters and other memorabilia that
the regulars had brought back from countless foreign
countries. There were maps of Afghanistan, Nicaragua,
Lebanon, and Viet Nam, but most of the rest of the souvenirs
were things like match books from the El Rashid Hotel,
ticket stubs from Flying Tigers, shoulder patches torn from
enemy uniforms, and an occasional photograph of the many
exotic locals the people had worked. What I found most
interesting, however, was the front wall.
The wall that faced the street wasn't actually what
you'd call decorated... it was covered with sandbags. At
first I thought this was meant to lend to the paramilitary
atmosphere of the place, but when I mentioned it to the
bartender he explained that it was protection from the stray
bullets that were the result of drive-by shootings. I
simply nodded and ordered another beer.
Now, any time I go to LA, I stop in at The Perro Negro
for a couple beers and to listen to the latest stories from
the front. Of course, I avoid the Wannabee's when I'm
there, because if you speak to them, they start saying
things about how they work for the CIA, and are on their way
to China to destroy the last Eastern bastion of communism by
telling people that Mao Tse-tung didn't like rice. If
nobody was around the bar, I'd wander to the back corner
where the 'recruiters' usually sat. They didn't mind
speaking to me, because I'd been in the Army and wasn't
trying to pump them for information about the where's and
when's of the party they were obviously planning. Of
course, I had enough common sense to dismiss myself, and
march back to the bar when it was time for them to transact
business with a viable prospect who had just come in.
On this particular trip, I'd barely had time to sit
down and order a beer when Brad spotted me. Brad and I had
been friends in college, but hadn't kept in touch after he
moved from our hometown. I always though that strange,
since the one thing we had in common was that we both
enjoyed writing. Other than that, we were as different as
night and day.
See, I was in Army ROTC and believed that America had
to be defended at all costs. I approved of covert action,
preemptive strikes against hostile nations, and secret
assassinations of known terrorists. Brad believed that
anything that had to be done in the dark was wrong. He
didn't trust the military or the government, because he
thought they were trying to hide something from the people.
Furthermore, he said the only purpose of a soldier was to
protect the politicians from the people when they learned
the truth. To him, the phrase "national security" was used
simply to cover-up bureaucratic corruption. That's probably
why he wanted to be a journalist. He felt that if he could
report for a major newspaper, he could keep the government
honest, and thus secure freedom for another two hundred
years. I told him the way to secure freedom was through
superior firepower. He called me a warmonger. I called him
a communist.
The truth is, I always envied Brad because he had a
gift for writing. We'd often get together and compare
articles, critique each other's work, and try to learn from
one another. See, Brad could write a story so well, argue
his point so masterfully, that he'd have you wanting to take
his side even if you hadn't originally agreed with him. As
for me, I once had a publisher tell me I wrote like Mickey
Spilane. When I thanked the man, he quickly explained that
he meant it as an insult and threw me out of his office. I
couldn't help but think that Mr. Spilane might not have won
too many literary prizes, but he was famous, so he must be
doing something right.
And that's why I was so surprised to see Brad at The
Perro Negro. Why would a man who didn't approve of
soldiers, be in a bar with a bunch of mercenaries? Why
would the most promising writer I had ever met, be in a
sleazy dive on a side of town that most respectable people
tried to avoid? And why was he so drunk he could barely
walk? They say curiosity killed the cat. If that's true,
then I lost three of my nine lives the moment I recognized
him.
Brad staggered toward me, and immediately fell against
my shoulder. The whiskey on his breath was so strong that
it almost overpowered the whiskey that he'd spilled on his
clothes. He balanced on the stool beside me and started to
announce to the world how happy he was to see me. At first
I wondered if he had decided to celebrate some wonderful
event and had found the Perro Negro by accident, but a quick
look at the state of his clothes told me otherwise.
Something had obviously happened that had caused Brad to
fall onto hard times, and reduced him to nothing more than a
drunken bum.
The more I looked at my friend, the more I wondered
what had happened to him. The day I watched him accept his
diploma, I knew he'd become one of the greatest newspaper
men in history. The Los Angeles Herald had hired him sight-
unseen from his portfolio of published articles and
fictional stories. Surely someone who had found such a
prestigious job so easily wouldn't have fallen apart simply
by being fired or laid-off. I knew his parents, and
wondered what could have been so bad that he couldn't have
called for help? I wanted the answers so bad I could taste
it, but Brad was in no condition to talk.
The way I saw it, I had two options: leave him and
forget it, or wait until he sobered-up and get to the bottom
of the situation. Being the nosey person I am, I chose the
latter. Well, seeing that we were in a bar, I figured the
only way to dry him out was to get him home. Since I didn't
know where he lived, I took him to my hotel instead. The
bartender was more than happy to help me carry Brad to my
rental car, because he said that Brad's money had run out
weeks ago and he was beginning to become a nuisance. The
bellhop at the hotel wasn't quite as enthusiastic about
helping me get Brad to the room, but its amazing how much a
ten dollar tip can adjust an individual's attitude.
The next morning, I tried to get Brad to eat breakfast,
but the most he could keep down was a cup of coffee. He
apologized for the inconvenience, and tried to leave, but I
wasn't about to let him get away without telling me his
story. When I asked what could be so bad as to make a man
become a drunk, his eyes began to cloud. He tried to cover-
up his obvious pain, but his upper lip gave him away when it
started to quiver. A moment later, he completely fell
apart.
Brad was nothing but a shell. I had to find out what
had happened to drained the very life from his soul. I
could tell by his eyes that he wanted desperately to tell me
about it, yet he refused to say a word. I stayed in Los
Angeles two extra days to help Brad-- and I finally got him
to talk.
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