"Alguien más", someone else. It was Alguien who was blown up on the Autopista, starting his Empresario's car, or it was Alguien who was gunned down, or garroted, or hung...The glee with which the locals repeated the stories and the sincere shudders and self-crossing were getting to Ruben, and Joachin, too. Each spoke to the other in English, though neither would question why aloud. Their Mexican Spanish worked for those they would talk to on the streets, and went uncommented on.Tonight, they would speak as if they were in the court of the King of Spain.Joachin was nervous, and in pain. No guns, he'd said, until they got employment, and maybe not even then, if they got places high enough in a cartel. Ruben didn't want to think about that, but there was no denying that Joachin didn't feel comfortable in Bogotá without one. I hate the things, and I'd feel better with one. The bigger, the better.The busses wouldn't run to Ciudad Kennedy after 10 PM, though they might convince a taxi to. "You were very good too." She reached out and switched off the light.Ho, hum. Well, what fella doesn't want compliments on his performance? Might be me actually, but right now... We kissed again. By golly, but she did feel good, just that one little thing. Was it a problem? That would have to be sorted out in the light of day.We both drifted off to sleep again.The Maid's TaleI was furious. I'd been working for this agency for several years, producing top quality work on a variety of projects, and in line for a directorship. This particular project had never seemed to go quite as smoothly as it should, but to have the client send in a no account nobody to 'put things on course' was just too much.I was called in and told this just before lunch on Friday, which was, I later found out, about twelve hours before he knew. I was having lunch with one of the heads of department at the local art college whom I had known for some years. We often did this to compare notes on some of the students.
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