IT IS WHAT IT IS

IT IS WHAT IT IS

By Claude L Arango

Living in Rio is like living in another world; you either feel right at home or like you just stepped off of a spaceship. The Carioca’s moral code is paper thin and culture shock is inevitable. The Brazilian’s put their sexuality out there in the open, on full display, and sometimes you wonder what the hell is really going on.

Slowly but surely you slip into your own decadent routine, that if practice anywhere else in the world, would be considered questionable, if not intolerable. But, eventually, your transformation is complete, and to your temperate surprise you no longer give a damn what people think. Your emotional equilibrium has been tampered with, and your moral code has shifted to some place just this side of anything goes.

While in this state of mental flux your insight has been rendered useless, and by the time that you figure things out, things have changed, for better or worse. Your social acumen has slipped, and you don’t know if you are feeding the monkey or the monkey is feeding you. There seem to be women everywhere that show more than a passing interest, but often their motivation is suspect; should you give in to temptation, and hope that their genuine interest is in you and not your fiscal endowment. Time to get real brother, this is Rio.

Rio de Janeiro is a tropical conundrum wrapped in a coconut paradox, a city that promotes insomnia, a city that never sleeps. Where personal convictions are constantly being tested, and even those of a secular mind know that debauchery is rampant, in the biblical sense. Self indulgence becomes a way of life, and for more than a few, moral corruption is complete. Rio is definitely a balancing act, but who is to say who's got it right.

Some would say that Morris Tucker got it right. He was living the good life in Rio de Janeiro. He had three young girlfriends, in his rotation, each of them less than half his age. He was in good health, and he had money coming in each month, enough so that it was not a concern.

His biggest problem was that he had scruples. He would not take advantage of situations just because he could. When he first arrived in Rio he didn’t have a clue as to how things worked. He had to mend his ways and alter his thinking in order to make, what seemed like extra ordinary happenstance, palpable. 

Reluctantly but inevitably, he slowly succumbed to the city’s vices. The endless opportunities for sexual escapades, without any strings attached, would appeal to most men, and in the process weaken any man’s moral resolve. Pay as you go became his mantra, and he gladly paid, not for their service, but for them to leave, afterwards. When you think about it, not a bad situation to find yourself in if you are totally narcissistic, but don’t think about it too long, narcissism is not a team sport. It gets lonely playing by yourself.

He wasn’t even aware of it, when Karma added one more position to his sutras, and flipped the script. He fell hard for a Hooker.

It happened suddenly, to his complete surprise, when he realized that the fundamental dynamics in his relationship with Lori, the top girl in his rotation, had changed. His normal routine would be to see one of the three girls, at least once a week. He treated all of them as equal. The girls had their own separate lives, they had boyfriends or girlfriends, and it didn’t make a difference to him. He was not a jealous man. He didn’t care who they were banging, and he was magnanimous towards them, as long as they came when he called.

They were in it for the money and he was in it for the sex, which are the usual dynamics in May-December relationships. But a hooker’s shelf life is measured in dog years, and by the time that they hit thirty they should be out of the game. So, it’s get what you can while you can, and leave the rest for posterity.

Lori was no exception to the rules of nature and lustful men. She turned thirty four on her previous birthday, and time was beginning to take its toll. She could no longer get away with doing things that she did get away with when she was 22. But she wasn’t about to change her mind or her ways; she was stubborn and selfish, which didn’t set well with her clientele. Her phone had begun to ring less often, except for calls from Morris, the Americano. In fact he was calling her more often than before. He was seeing her at least twice a week, which only reinforced her false self-image of being a young desirable vixen, totally in control.

When she came to visit Morris, she had the habit of telling him small details of her encounter with other clients. Morris didn’t particularly want to know about her escapades with other men, and he didn’t like the term client, but what else could he be to her, but a client. When she came to visit him he usually fixed dinner for two and one time she told him that all of her men cooked for her. This tidbit of information made him angry, and he told himself that it would be the last time that he would cook for her, but the very next time that she was there he had prepared spaghetti, her favorite. He also would buy chocolate for her, because he knew that she liked like it, even though it made her skin break out. 

These small gestures were innocuous by themselves, but when he thought about its collective meaning, it demonstrated his affection for her, an affection that he did not have for the other girls. This realization made him wary. He had violated rule number one. Never fall for a programmer; it’s only about the money.

How do you un-ring a bell? Now he found himself worrying about her, and they would talk to each other on the phone almost every day. After three years of seeing each other, at least three times a month, Lori hadn’t budged an inch as far as not treating him like a client. It was always about the money and nothing more.

Morris wasn’t stupid, he knew that this was a one sided affair. He purposefully stopped calling her every day, and started seeing other women. He needed to stop seeing her altogether, but this turned out to be easier said than done. If she didn’t hear from him for a few days she would call him, going through her client list to see who wanted to see her. He began to ignore her calls, but sooner or later he would give in, and tell her to take a taxi and come over.

One night after they had sex, they were lying in bed watching a video CD, and out of nowhere he told her that he loved her. He regretted it as soon as the words came out of his mouth. She patted her pussy and told him that this is what you love, you don’t love me. He told her that he would care for her always, because that was the way he was, and he had no control over the way he felt. He felt stupid telling her that, knowing that she didn’t feel a thing for him, but he told himself that it is what it is.

Now he knew that he would have to cut their ties, because it would never move beyond what it was. After all, she was a whore, and a selfish one at that. But he really did have feelings for her and he didn’t understand why, but be that as it may, he knew that this wasn’t going to have a happy ending, and he had to end it as soon as possible.

He stopped seeing her for several weeks, but he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He kept busy dating other women, but his mind kept drifting back to her, he had it bad. Then one night he ran into her at the local club. She was on the hunt looking for a trick, she needed money. She saw Morris and stopped to talk to him briefly, and then she told him she had to use the bathroom, and she was gone.

This brief encounter only served to reaffirm his suspicion that she was embarrass to talk to him in public or at least that was the impression he got every time that he ran into her in the street.

The truth of the matter was that whenever a Brazilian girl was seen with a gringo in public in Copacabana she was thought to be a prostitute. To some girls this didn’t matter, but to others it meant loosing face, so it seemed that Lori subscribed to the latter, although this seemed to be out of character for her.

They soon fell back into their old routine, but something had changed, he could feel it. He never brought up his feelings for her again; he knew that it had been a mistake to do so.

Now their sex seemed to be by route, like she wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. He was beginning to feel like a client more and more, and he called her on it. Oh no, baby. Its normal was her reply, but he knew better.

In the morning he liked to have sex, he had a natural hard on. But when he reached for her she pulled away and looked at the clock. Baby its 8 o’clock. Are you crazy? This infuriated him, and he told her that that was why she was there. I pay you for sex, have you forgotten why you are here. He reached for his wallet and gave her two hundred reais, and told her that it was time to go.

They hadn’t talked for a week, then one night she called him and said that she wanted to see him, and that she would grab a taxi and be right over. He waited for her all night but she never showed.

He called her the next evening, and she told him that she had fallen asleep. A lame excuse if he ever heard one. She promised that she would come that night and that she would call him, she never did.

He wondered what kind of game she was playing, and he had had about enough of her lying. He text her a message saying that he had had enough and that he couldn’t continue this way.

Then he called his number two, and told her to come right over. She said that she was on her way. She was there in half an hour, and told him that it had been a long time since they were together. He told her that he had been tripping, but that he was OK now. He asked her if she was hungry. She said yes, and he walked into the kitchen and started to make spaghetti, but then thought about it, and then asked her if she liked pork chops. She said that that would be fine.  

CHAPTER 6- COME AND GET IT

TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME

By Claude L Arango

CHAPTER 6

COME AND GET IT

The Shot Caller laid on his bunk, wide awake, listening to the sounds that the County Jail made after Lights Out. The steady hum of the ventilator was like music to the prisoners, and they all were fast a sleep.

The night guard sat at his desk at the front of the dorm, reading girly magazines, occasionally interrupted by an inmate asking permission to use the latrine.

The Shot Caller heard the sound of footsteps approaching. He knew that they were guards because they wore boots, inmates wore sandals.   

“It’s time” the lead guard told him, as he signaled for the cell door to be opened. “Let’s go”. Four guards surrounded him as they escorted him to the elevator, down three floors, and into neon lit room, where he changed into civilian clothes. Five minutes later he was standing in front of the LA County Jail, when a black van pulled up, with the side door open and Special Agent Jack Crush told him to get in.

They drove to Echo Park in Los Angeles and parked in front of a house in the middle of the block, across from the lake. This is your new home, the agent told him and handed him the keys to the house and twenty five thousand dollars in a big manila envelope. We don’t want you robbing banks or doing anything stupid. Get your crew together and we will contact you in two weeks with your first shipment.

 The Shot Caller brought his brother, Antonio, in from Mexico. He would be the muscle and keep the crew in line. They bought three used cars for transport, to serve as taxis, and 15 beepers for communication.

At the end of two weeks he got a call on the house phone, and was told by a voice that he didn’t recognize to go to the rear of the police station on Rampart, and on the back street he would find a green Toyota. The keys would be under the front seat and the junk would be in the trunk. He was told to ditch the car after he made the transfere.

Everything went like clockwork, and every two weeks he would get new instructions on where to pick up the new shipment. Six months later they were rolling with 20 taxis and dispersing a kilo of cocaine powder a day.

Now when they made the pick up, they would leave the car that they drove, with $600,000 in the trunk, at the curb.

After their last pick up the Shot Caller got a call from Agent Crush, which was unusual, because he hadn’t n heard from the agent since he was handed the keys to the house six months earlier. “We got a problem. The money was not in the trunk. Somebody got to it before we did.” Agent crush said, without any emotion. “We have to meet tonight. I will send a car”, and then he hung up.

The black van was outside of his house at midnight, and he was driven to a warehouse near the airport. Once inside he was met by agent Crush and three other men in dark suites who never spoke.

Agent Crush told him to have a seat at a metal desk in the middle of the floor. The lights were dimmed and a film began to play against the back wall. It showed Plino, one of the Shot Caller’s drivers pull up, and parked the money car, at the designated location the day before. He then got out and walked pass two cars up to a black sedan, got in and fished under the seat for the key and drove away.

The film then speeded up five minutes, and a white Toyota Camry came into the frame and stopped beside the money car. A young Chicano got out, and opened the trunk with a crow bar, garbed a dark green trash bag, got back into the waiting Camry and drove away.

“That’s who got our money, and you have until midnight to get it back. Agent Crush said to The Shot Caller in a calm, steady, menacing voice. He is a member of White Fence, the local gang in the area where you live. More important, I believe that you have a traitor in your crew. When you bring the money tonight, bring the traitor too. Here is a copy of the tape.”

With that the meeting was over, and The Shot Caller hadn’t said a word.  He knew that he had to deliver on both counts or the Feds would terminate him and his crew.

He called his brother, Antonio, and told him to bring the three drivers that they had used to make the pickups from the Feds. He, Antonio and the three drivers were the only people who knew about the pickups.

When they all got to the house he told them that there had been a problem and that they had to make another delivery that evening. Only this time they were going to split the package. Each driver would be carrying $200,000. They were told to meet him back at the house at 3:00 pm.

Antonio had all three of them followed. Two went home and the third went straight to the White Fence hang out at Fountain and Western Ave. in old Hollywood.

We got the snitch, Antonio said to his brother, The Shot Caller, as he hung up the phone. Miguel went straight to those putas, White Fence, up in Hollywood. I bet that our money is still there. It will take those dumb bastards a week to count all of that money.

Go get my money and bring that puta, Miguel, back here alive, the Shot Caller told his brother as he walked around the desk and hugged him. We back in business Bro.

An hour later Antonio walked in the front door of the casa in Echo Park, carrying a green fifty gallon trash bag, with Miguel in tow, escorted by two of the Mob’s soldiers. He didn’t have a scratch on him, Antonio, said with disgust in his voice, they laid down like pussies when we busted in on them. And like I told you, they were still counting the money, out in the open, like they didn’t have a worry in the world. We lined the four of them up against the wall and shot them, and found this pussy trying to get out of the bathroom window.

“We treated you like family Miguel, the Shot Caller said as he walked up to Miguel and kissed him on both cheeks. “ And this is the way you repay us. Not only have you killed yourself but your family too. They all must pay for the sins of the father.”

That night at midnight the Shot Caller and his crew met Agent Crush at the warehouse, near the airport. They drove their cars into the warehouse, and the agents shut the door behind them.

The Shot Caller got out of his van with Antonio behind him with the green plastic bag and Miguel in tow. “Here is your money and here is the snitch.” Antonio said as he pushed Miguel toward the agent. Then the Shot Caller pulled out a Gluck pistol and pointed it at Agent Crush’s head, “And if you ever threaten me again I will killed you. I know that I cannot beat the agency, but you, I can get to.”

The other agents started to make a move for their guns, but agent Crush put up his hand and stopped them. “That’s what I like to see, Geronimo, a little imitative. Now you are ready for the next step. You will become the sole supplier for the entire West Coast. Now tell your people to get rid of the snitch and step into my office. We got things to talk about”.

TETHER DREAMS IN THE SHADOW GAME CHAPTER TWO

Tether Dreams in the Shadow Game
By Claude L. Arango

CHAPTER 2

DODGER BLUE

A day later and a continent away, “The Mob”, so apply exemplified by the crew riding inside the big black stretched Cadillac Escalade, with 22 inch chrome rims, and a bobbling head of St. Jude in the window, sat in the back of the Escalade, celebrating the Dodger’s victory over the Angels baseball team. They passed round a 40 oz. bottle of Old English Malt Liquor and a joint the size of a good Cohiba.

Three of the of the four ladies present, were bobbing their own heads as they performed fellatio on the entire crew, except for The Shot Caller and Hector, his personal bodyguard. The Escalade rolled through the barrio of Echo Park, in Los Angeles, with the music turned up, all the way. The Shot Caller sat nodding his head in approval, while tapping his feet to a funky Latin beat, thumping defiantly behind the Escalade’s heavily tinted dark windows.

The Escalade slowly glided up Alvarado Avenue, crossing busy Wilshire Boulevard, and Macarthur Park on the right; pass the pimps, whores, and street hustlers that own it now. It followed the traffic up to old Hollywood, and then turned right on Sunset Blvd., and slid in with the heavy traffic heading east, down the once proud boulevard. It continued down, until it entered into the parking lot of Taix, the ‘old school’ Mexican Restaurant, located a quarter mile from Chavez Ravine.


Its occupants were greeted profusely by uniformed attendants, and welcomed inside, with great fan fair, by Carlos, the head waiter. He guided them through the cavernous banquet hall, to the best table in the house. He was ever so thankful that there was no one around to witness this spectacle. It was late afternoon, and the lunch crowd had gone.

The entire crew was decked out in Dodger Blue uniforms. But they didn’t look like a baseball team, but rather like the felonious crew from the film, “A Clockwork Orange”. The Shot Caller’s ominous presence was enhanced by the five pound Louisville Slugger, that he carried by his side. It had been signed by every member of the current Dodger team. They had just left the annual Freeway Game, Dodgers vs. The Angels, the latter now billing themselves as the Los Angeles Angels, although they were from Orange County, and The Shot Caller, the Dodgers biggest fan, didn’t like it.

“That’s territorial infringement”, he told Edwardo, his lieutenant. If somebody tried to pull that shit on us there would be blood in the streets. Somebody ought to do something about that. ” Edwardo knew that if the Shot Caller thought that he could get away with it, he would have the entire Angels management whacked.

The Shot Caller ordered Champagne, burritos, and finger shrimp cocktails for all, and Hector gave the Head Waiter a CD of Latin Funk to play while they eat. And the four young Mexican girls, straight from the barrios of East Los Angeles, duly painted with Maybelline black mascara, black eye liner, black lipstick, and penciled in black eye brows, sat laughing and giggling at nothing in particular. Obviously they were not used to such attention, as they were served, by three waiters, around the thick oak table. And Miss Carlotta Sanchez stuck a wad of gum under the table, in preparation for the meal.


The Shot Caller and his lieutenant, Eduardo conferred, while a rousing Latin Funk song permeating the entire dining hall.

“I am very happy for the Dodger’s victory today, Patron. I think that we have a chance to go all of the way this year”. Eduardo gushed, offering his congratulation to the Dodger’s most rabid fan, The Shot Caller, who was the undisputed leader of The Mob.

Eduardo really didn’t give a damn about the Dodgers, and he thought that the Shot Caller was full of shit. But he knew that The Shot Caller’s fixation with the team was linked to Fernando Valensuela, who was no longer with the team. When the south paw picture first came to the Dodgers, his good fortune coincided with The Shot Caller’s own good fortune; they both had come from the same dirt poor village of Etchohuaquila, in the state of Sonora, Mexico.

With a forced grin, Edwardo told the Shot Caller about a call that he had received that morning, from their connection in Rio de Janeiro. Col. Roberto Javiar Silva of the Federal Police had wanted to speak to the Shot Caller directly. The Colonel would not tell him what the call was about, but he sensed that it was not good news, so Edwardo told the colonel that the Shot Caller could not be interrupted, and asked him to call back after the game.

At that moment, Hector, The Shot Caller’s personal body guard, handed him a cell phone, and Colonel Silva was on the line. The Colonel told the Shot Caller that his emissary, The Dishwasher, had been found dead at their business office in Rio de Janeiro, shot once between the eyes. He was quite dead, and there were no leads in the case, so far. Apparently the only thing missing was a gold key that his man wore around his neck for good luck. They also found something odd, a small wooden doll in the dead man’s lap.

The mentioning of the small wooden doll sent a shock wave through the Shot Caller’s body. He immediately knew that something was terribly wrong, and that he was being sent a message. He thanked the Colonel for keeping him abreast of the situation, and told him that he had done the right thing by speaking directly with him, and if something else came up to call him immediately, and then he handed the phone back to Hector.

He sat back in his chair, and calmly asked Edwardo why was the Dishwasher in Brazil, and how come he had not been told that the Dishwasher was there. Edwardo had a sinking feeling in his stomach, as he sat there and fumbled for an answer. Knowing that there was nothing he could say but the truth, he told the Shot Caller. “Yes this is true. He is in Brazil, taking care of our business. ”

“When did it become our business?”

“Oh, Patron, I did not mean any disrespect. I only meant the Mob’s business. ” “And when did you last hear from The Dishwasher?”

Edwardo did not like the way the conversation was going, and everyone at the table stopped whatever they were doing, to listen to his reply. He didn’t know what else to say, so he told him the truth.

“Three days ago. I haven’t heard from him since he left for Rio.”

“Perhaps he has been detained by one of those Brazilian senoritas. Eduardo”, the Shot Caller offered, pushing a taco into his mouth.

“He is a professional”, Edwardo shot back, a little bit too loud”, “and never before has he failed us, he takes care of our business”.

The Shot Caller let that one pass and said, “Well, Edwardo, The Dishwasher was found shot to death this morning, at our office in Rio, and the killer left a calling card behind, in the form of a small wooden doll, that was found in the Dishwasher’s lap.”

Edwardo’s head went spinning; he too knew that this was the signature of The Shooter, a legend in his own right, who had never failed to deliver on a contract. He was known as The Shooter, but his tools for dispatching people were not limited to the use of firearms. He was equally skilled with knives, ropes, poison, explosives, and hand to hand combat.

He gained legendary status when he took out four body guards and a Yakuza gang leader, in a Tokyo bath house, with a pair of chop sticks and a rolled up dinner menu. The man was a force to be recon with and once he took on the contract there was no calling him back. Any attempt to abort his mission would be considered an unforgivable sign of disrespect and would automatically put the offender at the top of his hit list, and he would still take out the target.

“So, you see Edwardo, we have a bit of problem on our hands.”

 Edwardo’s mind was racing now, he didn’t know what this had to do with the real reason why The Dishwasher was in Brazil, nor did he know what the Shot Caller knew or didn’t know.

“So Eduardo, you say that no one knows who this guy, The Shooter, really is”. “That’s right, Patron. But we do know that he is into Macomba, the Brazilian version of voodoo, and he goes through some kind of ritual before every hit. It is said that before a believer in Macomba can take a life, he has to prepare the way for the soul of the intended victim, by doing three things: he must recognize the attribute of resolve, in a stranger and reward it, he must give hope where none exist, and he must take the life without warning. We used him twice before, and he always leaves one of those voodoo dolls behind.

I told you all this before, Patron. When he worked for us before, we did everything by throw-away cell phones and Fed X. It’s like he was a fucking spy or something, he didn’t want to meet anyone. All he wanted from us was info about his target and his money, but that was OK, because he never missed, and he always got the job done. We had him by the balls because he only got half of the money up front, and the rest upon confirmation of the hit.”

At that moment Hector again approached his boss, and handed him the phone. The Shot Caller listened intently but didn’t say a word, and then he gave the phone back to Hector. Then he got up from the table and started to dance. Everybody at the table watched him, except for Edwardo, who had his back to him. As he got into the groove, holding the bat high above his head, he said to Edwardo “And did you have the Dishwasher by the balls when you decided to help him to steal our money, Eduardo”. The words were barely out of the Shot Callers’ mouth when he swung the bat in an arch of descent, impacting with Edwardo’s head, splitting it like a ripe melon.

Edwardo tumbled from the chair, and was dead before he hit the floor. “Come clean up this piece of shit“, the Shot Caller barked at Carlos, and get him the hell out of that uniform, before he spoils our celebration”.

“You better have them all by the balls, Eduardo, because where you are going they don’t play nice like me.” The Shot Caller said to the dead man on the floor, as three waiters rushed to the body to carry it away. One stayed behind to clean up the blood and brains, and of course, to wipe off the bat.

The taking of life aroused sexual desire in The Shot Caller, and he motioned Carlotta to go under the table, once he seated himself. He then motioned Hector to come to the table, and told him to bring Ramirez to him. The young man approach the table showing no fear, and The Shot Caller motioned for him to sit where Edwardo once sat. “You are my right hand, now. Arrange for our flight tomorrow. We are going to Rio.” he managed to say, through clenched teeth, as Carlotta dropped to her knees and did her thing.