AUGUST

CARLOS

"So what’s the deal, Edwards?"

"OK, first thing,” he whispered, “Do have a nickname you want me to call you by?"
“Just call me E.”

“Okay”, Edwards said, “and I'm going by “Red”.
“So who is this guy?” I said.
“Dunno, he walked up to a gate shack with no shoes on his feet. He told the MP’s there that he wanted to seek political asylum and was rushed to the hospital.”
“He’s supposed to be someone really important. He went from a hospital room directly to here... We gotta stay here while we wait for his flight to be scheduled out of the country.”

About an hour after the investigator left, the man came out from the back bedroom. He was an older gentleman, early to mid 60's, about 5 foot 10, & 250 lbs. or so. He looked like your typical Hollywood version of a Colombian drug lord.
He was wearing a red bathrobe and yellow fuzzy slippers on his feet, which were both brand new. Probably from the Post Exchange, I assumed. I could tell that his feet were quite torn up from running around in hiding without and shoes.
He looked at me and smiled as he limped out of the dark hallway, "Oh, you’re the new one.” he gestured a handshake. I shook it once firmly.
"You can call me E". He smiled a tired smile and said reverently, in perfect English, "OK, Mister E!"

He pulled a chair up to the flimsy round dining room table that Red and I were sitting at. As he watched Red flip another card, he began to brag that he’d learned how to play Solitaire the night before. Red pulled his cigarette away from his mouth and jerked to attention, “Yeah, can ya believe that?!? Your what, probably in your sixties, and never learned how to play solitaire!?”
I shook my head in phony astonishment and pointed at the pack of Marlboro Lights on the table to change the subject as I had no idea myself how to play. Red nodded and smiled as he flipped over another card.
In the middle of the table was an AM/FM radio that was constantly chattering in Spanish.
“They ever play any music on this station?” I said.
The man looked at the radio and then looked at me for the first time without a smile and said, “They were talking about me last night… There is a reward for me."

My eyes widened, and he watched my reaction as I held my lighter’s flame inches away from my cigarette.
He continued, "We cannot open that door for anyone, without knowing exactly who it is!” My eyes widened more.
Red interrupted, “Yeah man, we don’t open that door for fuckin’ anyone who hasn’t called us on the radio first... You got it?”
For the first time I realized the level of the danger. That MPI guy wasn’t bullshittin’.
To have this man so afraid for his life to beg me to comply with a commanding tone, when I’m the one wearing the gun?
Prior to that point in time, I had been focused on keeping him inside the apartment rather than protecting him from being killed by someone barging in. He knew that if he walked out that door, he would be a dead man.
Red nodded in confirmation as he flipped over another card and took a drag from his cigarette. I lit my smoke, got up from my chair, and walked across the large room to the couch. I released the clip from the .45 that was strapped to my chest and reached into my duffle bag where I kept the rest of my ammo. I filled the clip to capacity, replaced it, removed my spare clip from my tankers holster, and did the same as I sucked a long drag out of my lip-clenched Marlboro and blew it out of my nose. I went back into my duffle bag and slid out the 12-gauge shotgun and two boxes of ammunition. Tore open the boxes, and loaded four rounds. I then placed the shotgun and the rounds on the couch for easy access. The man looked at me, smiled, and nodded silently.

Red took another drag from his smoke as he squinted at me through his cloud with a smile, “Man, I’m glad they got you in here, all Bernie did was sleep.” I grabbed his cigarettes off the table and stuck one behind my ear as Red flipped over another card.

"So what do we got in here?" I said as I stepped into the small dingy kitchen. The kitchen was a “nook” that had a small window looking off into the nearby jungle-line at the end of the housing development. I examined the outside briefly and noticed two pre-teen American boys walking between the adjacent apartment building. These people had no idea what was going on around them.
Nearest to the window was the refrigerator, followed by a short counter and cabinet, a stove, another short counter and cabinet, and a sink. On the counter were some torn-open packages of cookies. The fridge contained a few cans of Coke, some leftover pizza, half a loaf of bread surrounded by used paper plates and plastic utensils.
I grabbed a can of Coke and flicked a cigarette ash into the sink. “This sucks,” I whispered.

. . . . .

As the first evening came around, we got a call on our radio that MPI was coming by with some food.
“So, whaddayo guys want to eat?” ... the Investigator asked over the static.
“How about pizza?” I muttered to Red.
“We could go for some pizza from building 95,” Bone said. Our captive gave a subdued scowl as he looked toward the dimming sunset through the closed curtains. Redbone noticed this just as I did, then glanced at me, and shrugged an “o-well”.
“WHADDAYA WANT ON IT?” MPI said back.
“Whatever... you choose,” Redbone said as he placed the radio back on the charger.
About an hour later, we got several squelches over our radio. I jolted out of my chair and grabbed the shotgun, Red slowly got up with a look as calm as it was ten seconds earlier and drew his 45 from the small of his back. Our inmate watched our reactions and looked surprised and a bit nervous as he quickly scooted up from his chair at the table and scurried into the back bedroom. I glanced through the blinds down at the parking lot just in time to see the MP investigator slam the back door of his sedan closed with his foot. He was bogged-down with two large pizza boxes with a large brown paper bag on top of it; not too smart, I thought. Then I noticed the marked MP patrol car on the street at the end of the parking lot.
I went to the door and removed the chain and dining room chair from under the doorknob. Redbone and I both stood near the door and listened to the investigator stomp slowly up the stairs, just as loud and as slow as possible.
On the landing of the second floor, the door of the apartment below us opened just as our person was stomping by.
“Hey, what’s going on upstairs?” The yelling voice resonated from both the stairwell, and from the entire floor we stood on. Immediately I felt naked to the world. If we could hear this man so clearly, even though we were being quiet, the squelches of our radio, and the footsteps of men walking around all day and not leaving, had to give up our operation to this nosey solider. This guy was spending enough time listening to us to put the person with the pizza together with our sudden movements over his head.
We were compromised.
The stomping stopped. “Nothing… I’m new here.” The investigator said with no sense of authority, whatsoever.
“Bullshit,” said the angered voice... “You got people up there, putting my family’s life in danger!”
The MP investigator took two more loud steps up, and then stopped... his voice possessed the appropriate authority this time... “The only one endangering your family’s life is you! .. Go back inside your house!”
There was a long pause of silence, and then the deafening sound of the door slamming beneath our feet. Our food recommenced its loud march up to our doorway.
Red slid the deadbolt, opened the door quickly, and silently as MPI stomped his way in. I aimed the shotgun passed him while Red, just as quickly and silently reversed the procedure and secured the door.