Little Wing
Consuela watched as Brooks studied his map on the street, obviously lost. After a moment she walked over to him. Hey, you lost Mister?, she asked. Where you trying to get to?
Brooks was struck by her oval face, her petite build and the extraordinary way in which she was dressed — blues and greens mixed with orange and red and purple — reminding him of some wild forest bird, magnificent and exploding in layers of exotic color. She pointed out to him the way he should go, then twittered him a siren look. His heart fluttered.
Can I buy you a drink?, he said, a tad eagerly. Consuela had hoped for that very response. Why not, she said, I know a cute little place with the best margaritas you can find.
She took him to a bar called Outlandos d’Amour a few blocks away, down a flight of stairs into a cool, dimly lit room, empty save for an old bearded man tending bar amid a ramble of rock music blaring from a jukebox. Consuela called the waiter and ordered margaritas. She told him to keep the jukebox going. Michael Jackson, she said. I am in love with him.
They talked and drank luscious foamy margaritas that made Consuela more beautiful by the moment, certainly more chatty, until, four hours after they had come in, she excused herself to the ladies room. As soon as she left the waiter came over. Excuse me, Senor, he said. Your check.
Brooks looked at the bill and staggered out of his chair. What the hell is this?, he nearly yelled. The waiter was calm. It is your bill, he said politely. Brooks fumed. The hell it is, he spat. I’m not paying this. They argued. Brooks shoved past him to leave.
In an instant the waiter and a man standing in the shadows grabbed him and dragged him out a back door into an alley, where they began to beat him. Brooks fought back but was no match for two strong men. He fell into a pile of garbage. The waiter approached him with a baseball bat. You will please pay your bill, Senor, he said. Fuck you, Brooks said, spitting blood. The waiter touched Brooks’ cheek with the bat, then slowly raised it above his head.
Stop.
Brooks looked to the back door of the bar. It was the old bearded barman. Brooks struggled to his feet. I’m going to sue both of you assholes, he told them. I know my rights. The barman approached. Call the police, Brooks said. They attacked me. The barman slowly stroked his beard, then spoke.
Sir, he said in eloquent English. Did you not come into this bar of your own free will with this woman?
Brooks was dumbfounded. What are you talking about?, he said. So what? We had some drinks, but what the fuck. I didn’t drink $2,500 worth of margaritas.
The barman was also polite. Sir, he said. Do you not know the woman you came in with? That kind of woman is far from ordinary. Such a woman will fulfill your every desire. Truly, anything you want from such a woman, she will give it.
Brooks was yelling. What the fuck are you talking about? I didn’t do anything with her. We just talked.
The barman was unperturbed.
Sir, he said, it was there for you all the time, at every moment. Because you did not ask does not mean she was not yours to do with as you pleased. And such pleasures, I can assure you, men would die for. If you did not request them, you nonetheless occupied her time, and her time is as valuable as the gifts she is able to bestow. He turned to go. Please, if you do not mind, he said. You owe a debt. One way or the other that debt will be paid.
He walked away. Brooks looked into the cold eyes of the two men who began to slowly walk towards him now, but Consuela was aware of none of it. She had flown many blocks away from the bar, and was eyeing a dapper older gentleman in a grey suit getting his shoes shined by a young boy who smiled to her. She smiled back and walked towards the man, a foreigner who looked as if he might like some companionship in such a large city as this.
