latino_menace | OOM: Bogotá on fight night

Again, she trails in his wake, eyes on the crowd, watching hands and cataloguing who's carrying. (Answer: everyone.) Her smile is easy, her movements relaxed. She's been here before. This place is always the same, no matter where it is in the world.

"Hector."

Her thumbs hook in the pockets of her jeans and she rests her weight on one hip, and she keeps Rico at her back.

The kid is taller than Ramon already, by a good two inches. He's thin and has a childish line of fluff on his upper lip; his smirk is an obvious imitation of his brother's.

'Senora.'

Ramon cuffs him lightly over the shoulder (technically Fi is old enough to be addressed that way but it's hardly polite) and rolls his eyes.

'Mind your manners, kid. And papa told me to make sure you don't get too drunk.' He's pulling a fifth of whiskey out of his jacket and handing it to the boy, completely shameless. 'Is Raul here?'

'Si, Ramon. Inside.'

'OK, I'm coming now. Go away and enjoy yourself.'

He turns back to Fi, rolling his shoulders once more, bouncing a little on his toes. 'I need to go talk to my uncle. You want to lay some bets?'

He pulls some notes from his pocket, ten one hundred dollar bills bound together with a band, and hands it to her. 'I wont be long. Hang out or go find a good spot against the wall, it's up to you.

Rico, stay with her.'

He disappears inside, confident that she'll be alright with his man. And if she isn't, who's fault is that? She said she could look after herself and now's her chance to prove it. Pablo has melted away but there are plenty of other guys around who look at her like he did. Plenty who look neutral too but who can tell what goes on behind their eyes?

She takes the money, not even bothering to hide it, lining the bills up across her palm and snapping them so she can count them. Two fingers curl them down the middle and she smirks up at Rico, heading off to find a good place to watch from. She finds a heavy water-filled fifty five gallon oil drum to perch on, her eyes picking out the other fighters and their little bands of followers. She's surprised not to see more women here. Even when she was growing up, the girls always wanted to hang out with the bad boys.

Maybe Colombian women aren't as hardy as the Irish, she thinks. And that makes her smirk broaden into a proper grin.

Rico isn't much of a conversationalist, and that's okay. It isn't long before she gets bored and wanders off to find the other bookies. She dives head first into the action. She's pleased to find out Ramon's odds are almost even. She refrains, reluctantly, from talking up how he's slow on that one side and how he drank too much last night, so she doesn't think he's going to do too well. He said not to embarrass him, so she won't, even it might mean a double on their take. He has to live here, after all.

Bets laid, she returns to her oil drum, and using Rico's shoulder to steady herself, she hops up on it. One foot goes flat on the corrugated tin wall and she rests on her heel. The metal is still warm from the day's heat, and she's got a perfect view of the fight. (And the exits, and the guys out on the street, and wow, nobody can grab her ass or steal her purse from here.)

Rico gives her a small and seemingly appreciative nod and turns his back to her.

Ramon's in an opposite corner, talking to a small man - smaller than he is, even - wearing a grey suit and a fedora that's pushed on to the back of his head. A cigarette hangs loosely from the guy's lips and no one touches him; it's like there's a forcefield about a foot wide all around the man. Even Ramon, who respects virtually no one in the world, appears to be speaking politely and judging by the way two pairs of dark eyes are looking in her direction, he seems to be having to explain what she's doing here.

The man looks away and Ramon glances at the floor, then at the centre of the ring of men that's gradually been pulling together. The fights are starting, two big guys start hammering at each other and it takes less than ten seconds for first blood to be drawn. He squeezes his uncle's shoulder in a rare gesture of affection and heads off to lay his bets on himself, dropping around five thousand dollars in five minutes. That done, he heads over to where Fiona's perching, smoking a cigarette and looking calm. Two men, and his brother, follow in his wake.

'No trouble?' he asks her, leaning against the drum and watching a fighter spit teeth. Hector hands him the whiskey bottle. He takes a swig and offers it up to her. 'Raul thinks there will be.'

She takes the whiskey from him, uncorking it and taking a long swig, never letting it interfere with her view.

"No trouble at all, right Rico?" She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand before taking another sip, watching the fights with a lazy interest.

She hands the bottle back and hooks her thumbs in her jeans pockets. "I hope he's right. Would hate to be a disappointment."

Ramon eyes her for a moment, then turns his head to watch the fighting.

'I wouldn't piss him off if I were you,' he murmurs, but offers no elaboration on why. After a pause, he adds, 'There are a lot of people betting against me tonight. It usually means something's going on.'

He seems pleased by the prospect, not worried. As time passes, he seems more and more relaxed but says little, just takes in the environment. As another bout starts, he pulls off his shirt suddenly and bounces, tilting his head far to each side to stretch his neck out. He doesn't say anything but he's obviously up next.

She reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder.

"Don't turn around," she says, keeping her voice down, for his ears only. Her arm rests on his, casual, but pointing in the direction of the man he's going to be fighting. "Knife, left pocket."

She smiles and giggles, turning her eyes away like he just propositioned her.

He looks up at her, then away, and nods. He's not worried - it's not against the rules to carry a knife in your pocket, as long as you don't get it out and use it. But now that she's mentioned it, he'll be able to keep an eye on it at least.

'Rico, watch her,' he tells his man shortly, and heads off to the ring. Men are shouting and shoving each other, placing last minute bets and passing bottles around. He hears none of it. He just focuses on the guy coming out to meet him; a muscled, meaty guy that stands about five inches taller than him. His favourite kind of opponent, actually - they're usually slower and he's fast to start off with.

The guy nods at him and pulls a 'duster from his pocket. Ramon nods back and finds his own, slipping it over the fingers of his right hand. People don't have to use them here but if you want to, your opponent has to agree - Ramon never says no. To say no would be weak and anyway, he likes the edge it gives proceedings.

As soon as they've sorted out that bit of business, the big guy swings. Ramon ducks it on reflex, laughs and just like that, everything else in life drops away. That's why he loves this. When you do this, nothing matters but survival and winning. He's loose, fast, dancing away from the big haymakers this man seems to favour. A couple of minutes in and he's taunting the guy, telling him what a good fuck his mother is and making his face turn red in rage. Ramon's barely thrown a shot yet but fuck it, he's enjoying himself.

She stands up as tall as she can, watching him, heart in her mouth. The air in the crowd is strangely charged, and she keeps just as close a watch on the crowd. It's not the usual casual bloodlust of these events, there's something more. He's royalty here, and it shows in their faces. Like this is the only place they'd dare lift a hand against him.

She cheers for him, regardless, one hand resting on the butt of her gun. She cheers and winces, unconsciously weaving as she watches the big haymakers come in low and slow, waiting for Ramon to open up on him.

She also watches his uncle, smoking that cigar and looking not the least bit worried. She turns her eyes back to the fight and the shifting energy of the crowd. Whatever happens, she can handle herself.

Part of the reason this is so much fun is that you can build them to a frenzy and watch them virtually defeat themselves. Hell, it's happened to him more than once and will happen again in the future. But not tonight, even when the man grunts out that he heard Ramon's having to marry some whore he knocked up. Ramon just laughs, shrugs and breaks his nose. The crowd cheers and he follows it up with a swift uppercut, knocking the guy on his ass. He turns away from him, arms outstretched and grinning, shining with sweat, soaking up the adulation.

He's knows it's not all adulation. Maybe most of it isn't. There are plenty of enemies out there, plenty who are going to lose money if he wins. Lots of them would like to see him dead - but most of them wouldn't dare not applaud.

'Get up, you fat fuck,' he says to the guy who can't seem to stop his nose bleeding. These fights are only won by knockout and he's not done playing yet. Maybe Fi hasn't seen the sadistic side of him in the future (he's aware of her watching, now he knows he's going to win easily) but she'll get a demonstration of it now. His opponent gets up, looking furious, and starts in again, Ramon ducks under his shots and throws a few to the body, concentrating on one side until he jumps clear again, laughing still.

It goes on for a long time. Half the crowd quieten down when they don't get the knockout they've been baying for, a little uncomfortable with Ramon's refusal to end it. The other half start to chant 'finish him, finish him' with something like glee - it's only when, after the man is down again and Ramon stands over him, they can understand why he's doing this. Because he leans down and pulls the knife out of his pocket, shows it to the crowd. They get it. Most of them come to the fights all the time. They know what happened to the first guy who pulled a knife on Ramon Salazar - after he got out of the hospital, his body was found in a schoolyard, stabbed through the heart. The general consensus seems to be that it's the man's own fault if he gets pummelled into meat.

Eventually though, his arms are tiring. The big guy is hardly bothering to attempt a swing anymore and is just trying to defend his head. Ramon looks up and see that Raul has moved; he catches the man's eye and he makes a cutting motion with his hand. He usually takes his uncle's advice; as his opponent makes another attempt to lumber in, Ramon feints left and then delivers a crushing right to the side of the head. It's all over a heartbeat later and he raises an arm, victorious.

It's probably not an accident that he's looking in Fi's direction as he does this.

She's watching but her gaze is flat. She puts a hand on Rico's shoulder and he clears a spot for her to get down from her perch. She stops to collect on her bets and then joins him ringside, handing his shirt back.

"Is that it?"

The grin fades on his fade and he's frowning as he takes his shirt from her, tossing away the dirty towel he'd been handed to get the sweat and blood off. He's unaware of Raul and Hector approaching from behind him and ignores the next fight starting up.

'What else were you expecting?'

"I don't know, a fight maybe?" She smirks at him, her hand skimming down his bare stomach, her fingers gripping his belt for a moment. "He wasn't any challenge for you at all. And... you've got company." She steps back as Raul and Hector join them.

Ramon opens his mouth to answer but another voice gets there first. Raul is softly spoken but you'd be hard pressed to find more authority in a tone.

'He can only fight those willing to take him on. Many others know better than to try by now.'

The man looks her up and down, then pulls at his cigar and turns to his nephew.

'Gringos now, Ramon?' He sounds vaguely amused at least. 'She'll have to wait. I just spoke to your father and there's a job you need to take care of tonight. But take Hector home first, he's drunk.'

He turns and looks at a man who immediately gets him a drink. Ramon looks at Fi and shrugs a shoulder; he's in no position to argue. But he hasn't forgotten the hand that was just on him.

'What's the job?'

'You just need to pay someone a visit. It won't take long. Henri will take you and your men.'

He knows what that means and nods, lighting a cigarette. He gestures to Fi to follow with a jerk of his head; Hector is ignored but he already knows he'll be tagging along. A car is waiting, engine running, and he holds the door open for her.

Fiona has always had a tact deficiency, but he asked her not to embarrass him, so she suppresses the smirk his uncle's comment elicits.

She slides into the car, one hand on the gun, one eye on the driver.

When he's joined her, she cocks a questioning eyebrow at him.

He holds up a finger - in a minute - and leans forward.

'Take us straight there, Henri.'

'But Hector...'

'Straight there.'

The car moves and Ramon settles back, throwing his kid brother a smoke. Time he grew up anyway.

'Paying someone a visit usually means they've done something they shouldn't and need to be taught a lesson. Or shot.'

He sounds unconcerned about which it might be.

'We'll find out when we get there.' He looks over to her, aware their legs are touching in the dark. 'You'll probably want to stay in the car.'

The fact that he's not telling her she will be staying in the car is an unusal show of respect, from Ramon.

"Have it your way," she drawls, and maybe he can hear the smirk in her voice. She's keenly aware of his proximity, and of Hector watching her.

She's also keenly aware this is not her world. She leans against the window, looking out at the city.

Her voice is quiet, almost distracted when she asks, "We still going out to dinner after?"

'Of course. We'll have to drop him,' he jerks his head at Hector, who is drunk enough to have dozed off before getting his cigarette lit, 'off first. And I'll need a shower. But after that.'

His hand comes to rest on her thigh, like it has a right to be there.

There's a car with his crew in behind them. Even if there weren't, he probably wouldn't turn around and notice the car behind that following them. Chances are good none of his guys have noticed either but they'll all find out soon enough.

"Claro," she says. Of course he needs a shower, after that little display.

She ignores his touch, eyes still taking in the city. She's still on edge from the fights, and she's not happy with being driven around. It makes her feel helpless. When she goes into situations like this, where a car can be equal parts transportation and weapons form, she drives.

"What about dancing, do you dance?" Her voice is distracted and she seems to be watching something as they round sharp corner. She's seen the other cars, but she assumes they're both his guys.

'No.'

Hell no.

'How much longer, Henri? This better not be on the other side of Cuidad Bolivar. I've got shit to do tonight.'

Whether or not he means Fiona, that's the way Henri will take it.

'Nearly there, Ramon.'

The slums are huge here. Some of them, in the future, will almost be respectable places to live and have schools and shops and water and electricity running through them. In 1979? Not so much. No one has even thought about trying to clean up this place. It's a slum out there and looks it.

Ten mintues later, they arrive. Ramon gives her leg a squeeze and pushes Hector out of the way to exit. The kid stays behind, woken from his doze, and stares freely at Fiona with a look on his face that is divided between envy, contempt and lust. Ramon is meeting with a man outside a house - a man who is holding up another man to stop him falling (a broken leg will do that to you) and nodding towards a shack a little way down the road.

He waves his guys out of their car and starts towards it, pulling a gun from the back of his jeans. The street is pretty quiet for such a rough area and there is no sign of a second vehicle behind the one that should be there.

"This is not good," she muses to herself, in English, her eyes scanning the street.

She turns in her seat, her gaze intent. Hector is ignored. Something's not right.

"Where did that second car go?"

Henri looks at her in the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised. A puta usually keeps her mouth shut around here. Not that he minds, he's just surprised.

'What?'

Hector is looking at her like she just crawled out from under a rock. But then, he's fifteen and trying to act the big man.

'Shut up. No one wants to hear from you.'

There's the clear sound of a gunshot from down the road. Ramon emerges with four guys behind him, wiping blood off his face. They're in no hurry and just saunter back towards the cars, chatting casually. None of them take any notice of the headlights coming towards them from the other end of the street.

"The second car," she answers Henri, again ignoring Hector.

"Oh there it is." The hair is standing up on the back of her neck. "Henri, you expecting company?"

One hand is on the door handle, the other is on the butt of the .45. She's counting the steps between the car and Ramon's crew. It's too many for her liking.

'...that's not with us.'

He's not stupid and reaches the same conclusion as her a split second later. He's out of the car without thinking, yelling, 'Ramon. Behind you!' and reaching for his own weapon.

They run. They make it to within ten feet of Henri's car when tyres screech, doors fly open and there's the unmistakable sound of shotguns being cocked. Everyone comes to a halt and, when instructed, turns around. The headlights can pick up Ramon's expression as he turns - angry, but not afraid.

'What do you want?'

'You're a cheat, Salazar. What do you think we want?'

'...you're not my type.'

A tall, thin guy walks up to him at that and gets up in his face. Ramon doesn't move an inch, right up until the second he jabs his elbow into the guy's throat and watches him fall. 'Anyone else?'

'We want our money. You threw that fight.'

It contines for a few more minutes, this back and forth banter that's edged with violence and the potential for murder. Ramon is vaguely aware of a couple of shapes moving but the headlights are in his eyes and he can't be sure.

Fi will likely be sure when they open the car door and grab her and Hector from the back.

'Hey! Look what I found.' This one's leer could rival Pablo's. 'His brother and his bitch.'

She hovers with her hand on the door as the scene unfolds, but stays put, the adrenaline flowing now. She counts five guys -- no, four, thanks to that elbow. Tall thin guy, another beside him with a shotgun, and the two goons who are yanking her out of the car.

Fiona breaks the grip of the guy holding her with ease, but doesn't make a move yet. Her eyes meet Ramon's. She glances at Hector, and then back to him.

She crosses her arms, her weight thrown over to one hip, looking for all the world like she's bored out of her skull.

She'll follow his lead, and get Hector out of the line of fire.

Edited 2010-03-02 23:59 (UTC)

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