Brad never made it to the bar Johnson had told him
about Friday night. As a matter of fact, he never made it
to his bed. He did, however, make it to the bathroom: just
in time. As best as he could figure it, he drank the half-
of-a-fifth of vodka as he had planned. When it was gone,
rather than leaving well enough alone, he chose to drink the
rum, too. He didn't finish the bottle. It finished him.
By three o'clock Saturday, he finally managed to hold
down some coffee, but it was another couple hours before he
was brave enough to attempt food. He was able to throw the
empty vodka bottle in the trash, but simply looking at the
Bacardi caused his stomach to rumble. After a long shower,
and half a bottle of mouthwash, he began to feel almost
human again (almost, not quite). At eight o'clock, Brad set
out for the address that Johnson had given him, in hopes of
locating his soldier.
He knew The Perro Negro was not going to be the kind of
place you'd find respectable people, but when he saw the
neighborhood it was in, he was surprised. It was the kind
of street that was on the evening news as the scene of the
latest SWAT team raid or gang-related murder. There was a
drug dealer at every corner, a prostitute at every stop
sign, and junked or burnt cars in every vacant lot. Most of
the vacant lots were only vacant because the homes that had
once been there had burned or rotted. This was the cesspool
of society, the bottom rung of civilization, and exactly
where Brad would have imagined a mercenary to hang-out.
The Perro Negro is a hard place to find, because it
isn't listed in the phone book, and makes no effort to
advertise for customers. The outside of the building lends
itself to this same philosophy because there is little to
distinguish it as a bar. One of the most common identifiers
of the small 'neighborhood' pub is a neon sign advertising a
particular brand of beer. This is because beer distributors
often give them to a bar as an added incentive for serving
their product. The bar owners accept the offer because this
type of sign has been universally accepted by consumers as a
necessary part of a pub's atmosphere. This is not the case
at The Perro Negro.
The owner of The Perro Negro believes in the concept of
urban camouflage. If he were to hang a neon beer sign, a
passer-by might decide to stop in for a quick drink. If he
were to use the words 'club,' 'bar,' or 'pub' in the name,
it would also act as a passive advertising device. Instead,
the front of the building has an unobtrusive facade, one
metal door painted black, and bullet riddled 2x4's nailed
across what had once been a plate glass window. Only a sign
with the name and street number hang over the door.
Brad drove around the block twice in hopes that he had
somehow made a mistake. He knew he hadn't because the sign
had verified Johnson's information, but the neighborhood
made him uneasy to the point that he almost chickened out.
The lot next to the building was covered with a thin layer
of gravel meant to make it suitable for parking, yet there
were still large ruts and puddles scattered about. Brad
uttered a vile string of obscenities as his Firebird's
bottom scraped the curb upon entering the lot.
For several minutes he was concerned about leaving his
car in the unprotected lot, for fear that it might be
stolen. Even with the damage from the Thursday's wreck, it
was the nicest looking car on the lot. Truthfully, Brad had
nothing to worry about. About two years ago, a would-be
auto thief was killed in the lot when one of the bar's
patrons caught him and an accomplice trying to break into a
car. The thief drew a gun, but didn't even have time to
pull the trigger before the customer killed him with his
bare hands. He then snapped the neck of the accomplice,
leaving him a quadriplegic. Before leaving the scene the
man asked the accomplice to warn his friends to stay away
from this bar. Now, it's the safest place to park your car
in Metro Los Angeles, because car thieves avoid it like the
plague.
Nervously, Brad walked to the front door. As soon as
he stepped inside, he knew he was in the wrong place-- and
so did everyone else. One-by-one, all heads turned to look
at him. It wasn't that Brad was dressed wrong, or even that
he didn't look the part, it was his attitude: he walked
through that door scared, and everyone could sense it. If
he had turned around and left, everyone would have laughed;
if he'd yelled "What the hell ya looking at?" he would have
immediately been accepted as one of their own. Instead Brad
swallowed the lump in his throat, lowered his eyes, and
walked timidly to the bar.
Brad sat quietly and waited for the bartender to
politely ask him what he wanted to drink. Instead, the man
glared at him from the other end of the bar. Eventually, he
worked his way toward Brad, stopping several times to wipe
the counter or refill a drink. When he finally made it, he
stood silently before Brad.
"Let me have a Tom Collins," requested Brad.
"Wrong," stated the bartender.
"What?"
"We got beer, American whiskey, Russian vodka, and
Cuban rum."
Brad considered the options for a second and decided
he'd had enough vodka and rum to last him for the next few
months. "Okay, I'll have a Whiskey Sour."
"Wrong. We got beer, American..."
"Alright! I heard you!" yelled Brad, "Give me a damn
beer!"
The bartender let a slight grin cross his face. Maybe
the kid had balls after all; he'd let him stay. He turned
to the tap, filled a mug, and set it in front of Brad.
Before Brad could reach for his wallet, the man started
toward the far end leaving him to wonder whether he was
meant to run a tab, or the drink was on the house. As the
place looked rough, he decided not to cause waves, but to
drink this beer and wait it out.
Once settled, he realized that no one was interested in
messing with him. The bar was half-full, with twice as many
men as women. The women weren't the kind of girls Brad
thought much of as none of them were wearing the dresses or
suits that were common to the college educated, business
women he was used to dating or the secretaries he was used
to screwing. Only one of the women was wearing a skirt.
She had kinky, bleached hair, a tube top that struggled to
contain a set of large, sagging tits, and a black, leather
mini-skirt. Her legs were covered by white cotton stockings
that were held up by garters, buckled just below the hem of
her skirt. For several minutes, she flirted with a guy who
was running his hand up and down her thigh. When he tried
to move it beneath her skirt, she protested by backing away.
They talked for a moment more, then left together.
Brad shook his head in disgust, and thought of how
different this place was from the bars he was used to. No
music, no dancing, no food. It had no atmosphere other than
the trash stuck to the wall that looked like it had been
bought at an army surplus store. The women had no class and
the beer wasn't cold, actually, it was just warm enough to
leave a bad taste in your mouth. Why had Johnson known
about this place? Why would his man Asher hang out in such
a dive?
Without being too obvious, he tried to eavesdrop on the
conversation between a sloppy, T-shirt clad man and a pudgy
chick with crooked teeth. He was recounting the details of
an adventure he had just returned from in the jungles of
Columbia. Apparently, he and ten other men went to gain
information about the location of cocaine labs for the CIA.
They had stumbled upon a patrol, and during the ensuing
firefight, everyone was killed except him and the CIA agent
leading them.
Since the CIA guy had all the information about the
labs memorized, he had carried the wounded man fifty miles
to where the helicopter was to pick them up. The CIA was so
impressed with his conduct, that they paid him an extra
thousand dollars and offered him a job. The girl was duly
impressed and edged her stool closer. He put his hand on
her knee, and asked if she wanted to hear about how he had
directed F-15 air strikes against Scud missiles hidden in
Iraq. She giggled and he ordered another round.
After the bartender had served their drinks, Brad waved
him over. He ordered another beer and took a ten from his
wallet. He didn't know how much the beer cost, or how big a
tip it would take to get the man to finger Asher, but he
figured ten dollars would be a good start. The man set the
beer on the bar, and Brad slid the money toward him. "I'm
looking for Carl Asher."
The bartender cocked his head and peered at Brad.
"Why?"
"I got to talk to him."
"What about?"
Brad wasn't sure if this was the bartender's subtle way
of letting Brad know that his tip wasn't sufficient, or if
he was trying to protect the man. He decided the man would
have to make his intentions more obvious. "I got business
with him."
The bartender studied him. "You a Fed?"
"Do I look like a Fed?"
"Yes."
Brad looked at his clothes. "Ah, Johnson sent me."
"Shit, son, you should have said that fifteen minutes
ago-- if I'd known that I would have given you a cold beer.
That's Asher, over there." The bartender pointed to the
last man at the bar. He had been talking with another
customer until he saw the bartender single him out.
Brad picked up his beer mug and stepped around the bar.
Asher stepped into the aisle and faced him. The man had an
impressive stature, wore a Navy peacoat, and was carrying a
whiskey bottle one hand and a glass in the other. He
scanned Brad from head to toe to size him up. When Asher
set the glass on the bar and let the neck of the whiskey
bottle slip to the palm of his hand, Brad froze.
The bar fell silent, and again all eyes were on Brad.
Brad trembled.
Asher waited.
The bartender leaned over the bar whispered something
to Asher. A smile crossed his face, he picked up his glass,
and walked toward the table in the back corner. Brad
remained frozen in place until Asher pointed at the chair
across from him. Slowly, he approached, and the
conversations around the room returned to normal. Almost
reluctantly, Brad sat across from the man.
"You don't look like the type Johnson'd hang with,"
started Asher.
Now that Brad was close to the man, he was amazed at
what he saw. For a fleeting instant, Brad had been scared
that the man had been going to attack him. Now that he was
close to him he could see that Asher was an old man. His
face was wrinkled, his hair was gray as stainless steel, and
his knuckles looked arthritic. He was about to speak, but
was distracted when the women with the mini-skirt passed
them on her way to the rest room. "You're not what I
expected either."
"And what might that be?"
"I was expecting someone... ah..."
"Younger," interjected Asher.
"Yeah," admitted Brad bravely.
"Well, son, you get what you pay for. Johnson wants
experience, so he hires me. How 'bout you; what do you
want?"
"I want a soldier."
"Yeah, I gathered that much."
"But I don't want one that's going to have a heart
attack at the first sign of trouble."
"What do you know of trouble? You ever been shot at?
You ever been in a fight with an armed man-- I mean hand-to-
hand, where second place is a shallow grave? I bet not."
"Yeah, well, I'm not the one that's looking for work,"
snubbed Brad. He looked away from Asher to watch the woman
in the mini-skirt leave the rest room and start to work the
crowd again. "Look, I want somebody to help me with a
jailbreak. Can you handle that?"
"Depends on what jail. That's not really my specialty:
I mostly do recon and patrolling," said Asher as he poured
himself another drink.
Brad thought for a moment and decided it wouldn't be
wise to give Asher too much information. "What difference
does it make what jail?"
"It makes a shitload of difference. A penal farm is a
breeze, a county jail would be easy as long as it wasn't Los
Angeles county's. As for a federal prison, that would be
tough."
"It's on a military base."
Asher's glass stopped half way to his lips. "Anybody
you want to get out of a brig isn't worth the effort;
they'll be out in a few weeks anyway."
"He's been held for several years already."
"You're not talking about Leavenworth, are you?"
laughed Asher.
"No."
"Where?" Brad remained silent. "Look, if you're not
going to trust me, you need to leave right now."
"It's a special compound at Nellis Air Force Base. It
holds two prisoners. I want at least one of them out."
"Is it on the base, or in the desert?"
"The bomb range."
"You work for Johnson's newspaper, right?"
Brad was insulted at the thought that it might be
Johnson's newspaper. "I am a reporter for the Herald."
"And this is some kind of publicity stunt, right?"
"The Air Force is involved in one of the largest cover-
ups in world history, but to prove it, I've got to get one
of these people out," explained Brad.
Asher sat back and rubbed his chin. "Okay, shouldn't
be hard, hell the Air Force are a bunch of pussies, anyway.
I'll have to take a look at the objective to see if we'll
need any special equipment, but I do expect half my fee up
front."
"How much?"
"Ten thousand."
Brad nearly choked. "Dollars?"
"You're quick. You figure that out on your own?"
"Hell, I could hire an entire street gang for that kind
of money!"
"Sure, but how good are they at navigating through the
desert? And can they get past military guards without being
detected? You know damn well a street gang can't do a
jailbreak, because the jails are full of gang members."
"Yeah, well, that guy over there works for the CIA. I
bet I could get him for less than that."
"He told you he worked for the CIA?"
"He told her," stated Brad, pointing at the woman who
was currently engaged in a passionate liplock with the CIA
guy.
"Listen, son, no one works for the CIA-- they all work
for the State Department. If you were an intelligence
operative, would you tell some women you didn't know? She
could be a Russian spy."
Brad looked at the two once again. Asher made sense.
He seemed intelligent. Johnson had recommended him. The
woman in the mini-skirt walked outside with another
customer.
"I can't get the check until Monday..."
"Cash," interrupted Asher. "You ought to know better.
If I take a check, it's traceable income and the IRS will
want some. That means declaring my services-- and the
government does not always appreciate my line of work."
"Cash will take a few more days. Where can I reach
you?"
Asher wrote a phone number on a matchbook cover, picked
up his bottle, and pointed at the bar. "That price is good
'til Wednesday. Half up front, the second half upon
successful completion of the mission." He turned, and
walked to the bar.
Brad saw no reason to hang around the bar any longer.
He started to the door, and wondered what was good for a
headache caused from drinking beer on top of day-old vodka
and rum. Once outside, he fumbled with his keys for a
moment, as he looked at the car next to his. In it, he saw
a mop of bleached blonde hair bobbing up and down in a man's
lap. He wondered if he had another twenty dollars in his
wallet, but decided that if he were going to come up with
ten thousand dollars by Wednesday, he'd need every penny he
had.
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