Prologue

His face bears murderous determination; unlike the intense desire he had brandished at previous occurrences when their gaze had met. Suddenly his eyes flicker up at the sound of a familiar voice calling out from a faraway expanse of space, and then with a quick jerk her victor is up and running.

She gasps a hard breath, only to incite a searing pain into her lungs, a rip farther stretching the bounds of agony than even the blade had managed. No air!

Curious how the desperate scratch for survival can change things. She thinks, not in words, but in flashes, flash thinking that occurs to people meeting their end, or some other, unforeseen horror. Despite her best efforts and otherworldly talents, he had triumphed.

She heaves again hard, blinking wildly and thrashing her head trying to shake off the darkness that rushes in fast. She senses the faint smell of the grass amid the rusty aftertaste of blood, but still… no air. Over the years, the smell of grass had become synonymous with death, and she had loved it… until now. Digging her bare heels into the dirt, and clawing at the scant green blades, she struggles to get up but something other than pain has her pinned to the ground.

A thunderous crack nearby sends a rumble through the earth bed, and the sound of smashing rock hastens final impressions of defeat. Until now, it had been inconceivable, and her miscalculation will cost her everything.

Get up! She commands herself. But the blackness takes over as her vision dissipates into a heavily blanked nothingness. Final, desperate gasps do nothing to stop the tingling sensation that is fast becoming inescapable paralysis while the thumping of feet treading quickly over the ground draws near.



The Degree of Avarice


“Wheeskey,” he says as he straddles a bar stool next to his comrade. His demeanor is more relaxed and less like the refined Mr. Martinez.

The “Sleazy,” a small and sketchy hole in the wall, clouded with cigarette smoke, roughnecks, and gamblers, also serves as a meeting place for pirates. It’s a good place. Most folks keep to themselves drinking and playing cards. An old James Brown number is crackling on an antique jukebox on the far side of the room. Diego Martinez can’t help but nod his head to the beat, like everyone else in the place.


Look at me, know what you see?
You see a bad mutha
Look at me, know what you see?
You see a bad mutha
Paid the cost to be the boss…


“How did it go?” Carl asks.

Diego smiles. “What ees dis music? It sounds familiar, somehow.”

“That’s James Brown,” he waits for Diego’s acknowledgement. “The godfather of soul, man,” he prompts. “He was an American singer, big in the late twentieth century.” Carl chides, surprised to know something the distinguished Mr. Martinez does not. He takes a triumphant swig of his beer.

Diego nods reminiscently, and slaps Carl on the back. “See dat? I am fortunate to have such a friend who can remind me dis tings.” Carl chokes, trying not to spit out beer from the force of the slap.

“So what do we know?” Carl asks, irritated and gasping.

The bartender sets Diego’s drink down and walks away.

“I am close to de source, very close. He’s returning in a few days’ time. I have already made arrangements for renegotiations…”

Carl begins to shake his head in protest, but Diego raises his hand and gives him a hard look. Reluctantly, Carl shuts his mouth.

“Eet has been difficult to get away. I am not going to fuck you over, my friend. Jus’ leesten to me!”

“Okay,” Carl says defensively.

“De plans are remarkable, if everyting I’m told ees true. I intend to take copies wid me back to Spain. It ees tricky, however. De liaison is a slippery prick from what I understand. De woman who runs de teahouse, her name ees Santiago, she’s a slippery bitch az well, from what I hear. She ees not jus’ some den moder; she use to be some kin’ of mercenary, and she’s got some temper. Dios mío!” Diego smiles wide, chuckles gently, and sips his drink.

“You can handle a woman,” Carl says, almost a question.

“You tink?” Diego asks annoyed.

“Sorry,” Carl says. “So what’s happening now?”

“I imagine little Mees Leela ees recovering.”

“Who? From what?”

Diego pulls a small vial from his jacket pocket and holds it between his first finger and his thumb so that Carl can clearly see.

“Jus’ a little someting I give her to help her relax, so dat we can… how do you say? Chat.” Diego purses his lips together to resist a smirk.

“Who’s this Leela girl?” Carl asks, confused.

“I have become de new benefactor to one junior geisha, one dat ees close to Santiago an’ close to him,” Diego says. “Dat ees why I have renegotiated. I will attend de return party wid all de dignitaries. I will make my move den.”

“Benefactor, huh? What did that run you?” Carl asks.

Pronouncing each word carefully, Diego says, “Twenty tousan’ marks.”

“That’s,” Carl gulps, “two hundred thous–– I hope you are at least getting a piece of ass for that kind of money, Christ!”

Diego looks away from Carl, lifts his eyebrows, takes a sip of his whiskey, and sneers; reflecting on the many purposes Leela has served.

“I pay de cost to be de boss.”