The Going Away Present

     Slade heard the key rattle in the barred door down at the end of the long, dark hallway.
He prayed that good word had come at last.

     The bastards, they had to help him! He had risked his life for them and
their goddamn dope and they had to come through for him!

     Putting his head up against the bars he could see the dark form of the
slovenly guard Gordo slouching down the corridor. Of the eight or nine
guards in the filthy jail, Slade hated and feared Gordo most, because he
was a brutal man. Two days before he had watched as Gordo dragged a man
from the cell across the hall and beat him to death. He had not been in
any hurry to complete his mayhem, but had kept the poor man alive and
conscious as long as possible. Finally, mercifully, the screams were
silenced when Gordo struck the man across the head with a large club,
spraying the walls with his brains.

     Slade backed away from the bars as the pig-faced guard stopped and
turned to face him. Sweat ran down across Gordo's lumpy brown features
and dripped from the ends of his Zapata mustache. He looked like an evil
Mexican bandit in a motion picture. He smiled, his fat cheeks pushing
flesh up around his beady eyes. A great gap showed between his upper two
front teeth. It was not a smile of good cheer.

     "The captain will see you now, gringo caberone," he spat, sliding his
key in the lock. "Please, I beg of you gringo, give Gordo trouble!" He
slapped his huge palm with the same club he had used to dispatch the
poor man across the way. "Perhaps the captain will change his mind, eh?
Perhaps he will not put you to the wall but will let his trusted soldier
Gordo exterminate the Yankee pig smuggler. Gordo would love that muy
mucho!"

     "I'm not giving you any trouble," Slade said. He was not a man to back
off from danger but he knew it would accomplish nothing to allow Gordo
to provoke him. With his mastery of martial arts he could have killed
the fat sweating pig with one blow, but to do so would only seal his
death warrant--if, indeed, it had not been sealed already.

     "Come!" Gordo yelled, grabbing the nape of his neck and slamming him out
into the hallway. He flew across the narrow hall and slammed into the
bars on the cell there. Gordo then buried the end of his truncheon into
his ribcage. It was all Slade could do to keep from shattering the man's
larynx with the heel of his hand and ripping his nose off his face. He
bit his lip and let the urge pass, but he promised himself something: if
worst came to worst, if the guys back in the states didn't come through
for him with the money and get him out of this hellhole, he would kill
Gordo before they put him against the wall and shot him.

****

     Captain Alberto Ramirez sat propped back in his chair, his fingers laced
behind his head. His boots gleamed like new money atop the cluttered
desk. A small dark cigar rested contently in the corner of his full,
sensual lips, which sat beneath a well-trimmed mustache. He could easily
have been an actor in some Latin American soap opera.

     "I have brought the gringo pig as you ordered," Gordo growled, shoving
Slade into the room.

     Ramirez waved the fat sweating man away with a contemptuous movement of
his hand. "Back to your post! You should not use such language to refer
to our, ah, guest. We would not want Senor Slade to think us
inhospitable, would we?"

     "As you say, Commandante!" said Gordo. He turned and left the room
quickly, shutting the door behind him.

     "That man is an animal, he killed a man across the hall from me for no
reason," Slade said. Ramirez shook his head and grunted.

     "Yes, I am afraid Gordo is brutal at times," the captain replied.
     "Perhaps I myself will have to kill him one day. Such animals, while
useful at times, have a way of becoming difficult to control."

     "I'd be glad to do it for you. Anytime."

     Ramirez tossed back his sleek black head and laughed loudly.

     "Ah, no doubt you would, amigo! From what I have heard of you, you would
be well capable of dispatching Gordo with very little trouble." He
nodded at the automatic pistol lying on the corner of his desk, close at
hand. "I must admit, my friend Slade, your credentials are so impressive
that I feel it necessary to keep this close by during our little chat. I
would truly hate to find myself dead at such a tender age!" He laughed
again, but it was a laugh tinged with real humor, Slade noted.

     "Look, let's knock off the bullshit," said Slade. "I won't try to shit
you, I would kill any of you if it would do me any good. I've killed
better people for a whole lot less. But it wouldn't."

     "I'm sure you have," said Ramirez, still smiling. "I must say, you have
a very hostile attitude for one who is an uninvited guest in our poor
country. That is the great problem with you Americans, you are such
ungrateful and impatient people. Not only do you not care of the plight
of your undeveloped brothers, you seem to care so very little for your
own kind." Ramirez took a long pull on his little cigar and then
expelled the smoke slowly. "As I told you when first we met, I was
educated in your country. But I have never been able to understand the
American mind!"

     Slade sighed, dropping into a straight wooden chair in front of the
desk. He felt as if the air had gone out of him suddenly.

     "Okay, let's have it," he said quietly. "My friends didn't come through,
did they? What you're saying is they sold me out."

     "I am afraid that is true, Amigo," Ramirez answered. "Obviously you
friends felt you were not worth a hundred thousand Yankee dollars."

     "Those dirty bastards!" Slade exploded. "All the trips I made for them,
all the shit I brought in and they can't spring a lousy hundred gee's to
save my ass!"

     "Wait, Senor, before you berate them too much," said Ramirez, waving his
hand before him. "They are not totally without humanity."

     "What the hell are you talking about?" Slade asked. His heart was
pumping so hard he could feel his sweat-soaked shirt moving on his body.
"What's that mean?"

     Ramirez reached into the top drawer of the desk and extracted a brown
envelope, which he tossed on top of the desk.

     "Inside the envelope is two-thousand dollars," said Ramirez. "It is a
little going-away present from you associates."

     Slade snorted in disgust. "What the hell good will that do me? That
won't buy my way out of here! What the hell is it good for now?"

     The captain tapped the envelope with his fingers. "Contrary to what you
believe, Senor Slade, I am not an unfair man. I could have kept this
money and never mentioned it to you. And yet, it can be of use to you in
your final days."

     "How?"

     "Well, my friend, this is Tuesday. The tribunal has ruled that you shall
go before the wall at daybreak Friday. This money can buy you two days
of pleasure . . .As I have said, I am not an unfair man. There is no
reason you should not have something you desire during your last two
days on earth I think."

     Slade wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It was
almost impossible for him to believe that little more than a week ago he
had been climbing into the cockpit of the old C-47 for what he assumed
would be another milk run. He had made more than thirty trips into the
little banana republic without problems before the revolution. He always
picked up the stuff and got it back to the States without serious
incident. He made a cool hundred grand a trip--which now, in view of his
present circumstances, seemed as paltry as the two thousand in the
envelope.

     "Look man, there has to be some way out of this," he said to Ramirez.
"Shit, you guys are still fighting the government, don't tell me you
can't use a good pilot with combat experience? I can fly Cobras,
anything, and I'll fly for your people. I'll work it off!"

     Ramirez stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray and looked up at Slade.

     "Let me tell you something, my friend," he said. "Had your friends paid
the money you still would not have been allowed to leave the country.
Our revolutionary government plants to, how you say, make an example out
of you? You were a dead man the moment your plane came down, it is that
simple." He lit another cigar. "Accept it, that is the way it has to be.
I am sorry, truly so."

     Slade rose to his feet suddenly, his fists clenched at his sides. His
mouth twisted in fear and hatred and his blue eyes gleamed coldly.

     "I could probably kill you before you got to that thing," he spat at
Ramirez. "What the hell have I got to lose?"

     Ramirez smiled at him. "That would be very foolish, Senor. I would not
kill you, I would take your shoulder off with these dum dums. And then I
would give you to Gordo. Believe me, I will be far more pleasant to face
the riflemen. Gordo would skin you alive and enjoy every moment of it."
He motioned with the barrel of the pistol, which he had picked up. "Now
sit down, por favor, and forget this foolishness. Relax and think of
what you would have in your final days. You can buy much in our poor
land with two thousand Yankee dollars."

     Slade sat and attempted to compose himself. He had always wondered what
a man on Death Row felt, waiting for the end to come and knowing that
exact hour. When it dawned on him that he was, barring any unforeseen
development, going to be dead before three days passed a sense of peace
descended upon him. It was as if suddenly he had nothing more to worry
about, no more responsibilities. Fate had taken things from his hands
and, in some way he couldn't describe, he felt good.

     "Screw it," he said suddenly. "We all have to go sometime, don't we?"

     Ramirez smiled and nodded rapidly. "That is the spirit, my friend! We
must accept fate as an angel delivering us from our suffering here. And
now, tell me what it is you would have in you final days? But I ask that
you be reasonable, do not ask me for that which I cannot give."

     Slade thought of all the women he had known for the past 34 years. All
the pretty faces, the swollen breasts, the hot and supple vaginas he had
known.

     "A woman," he said. "I want a beautiful woman, young and full of juice
and passion. A man's last piece of ass should be a memorable occasion."

     Ramirez clapped his hands in delight. "You do not disappoint me!" he
exclaimed. "You are a man after my own heart. I believe, under other
circumstances, you and I might have become great friends." He pushed a
package of cigars and a bottle of mescal across the desk. "Please, smoke
and drink and listen to what I have to tell you."

     Slade lit one of the black cigars with he lighter Ramirez offered and
then tipped the bottle. He plugged the opening with his tongue until the
agave worm floated down near his mouth and then sucked the worm in with
     one quick move. He crunched it between his front teeth, then chased it
down with another might gurgle of the fiery liquid.

     "Ah, a true aficionado! The worm, she is good, no?"

     "Yeah, she's good, but I don't know what I can say about her luck."

     "Ah, yes! But listen. If one woman is a delight then two is pure heaven!
I have these distant cousins, Carla and Ramona, beautiful young
creatures. Carla is small and dark and lovely. Ramona is tall and
aristocratic--a natural blonde as well, rare among our people! That are
putas, it is true, but whores of distinction. They will make your final
days a true joy. What do you say?"

     Slade took another hit of the cactus juice and a big draw on the acrid
cigar. "Bring 'em on, along with a few bottles of this mescal if that's
possible."

     "It shall be done," Ramirez replied.

     The captain had Slade taken not back to his cell but to a small room in
another part of the prison. There was one small window, barred on the
outside and equipped with a pull shade. And there was a small bed in one
corner and a table under the window. A door led to an adjoining bathroom
of sorts with a rudimentary toilet and naked showerhead.

     Slade lay down upon the bed and immediately dozed off. He was awakened a
short time later by the sound of a key in the door. The door opened and
a wiry soldier lugged a cardboard box in, placing it on the table.

      "Commandante says you are to have these things," the little soldier
said. "I am to inform you that the remainder of your requests shall
arrive presently."

     Slade nodded to the man, who then turned and strode out briskly, locking
the door once again behind him. The captive walked over and looked into
the box. It contained ten bottles of the fiery liquor, a carton of
American cigarettes with a disposable lighter, two large bottles of red
wine, a large wheel of cheese and some fruit. Slade ripped open the
carton of smokes and had his first real cigarette in a week. It tasted
like heaven. He then unscrewed the cap from a bottle of mescal and had a
large jolt.

     He had been launching into a dream when awoken by the soldier with his
bounty. A soft and fuzzy dream in which he saw himself approaching the
landing strip in the old Douglas. Chaney was sitting at his right just
as he had been on that fateful day, scanning the terrain ahead with
binoculars. Once again Slade relived the moment when he heard the
metallic pings and saw the smoke suddenly boil out of the port side
engine. He was flying low and slow, flaps full out and the strip almost
two miles ahead. Slade fought the rudders to maintain directional
control of the lumbering old plane as he feathered the left prop. He
screamed at Chaney to draw off the flaps and clean up the gear. But it
was no use; he could not stretch it far enough.

     Slade tried to slip it in, bring it down sideways into the treetops. He
rolled the wheel to the right and rode the top rudder, hauling back on
the column and pushing on power in the remaining engine. The old Douglas
tilted like a shot bird and started down wildly. The last thing he
remembered seeing was the green below coming up fast and then Chaney's
head disappearing in a spray of red as something penetrated the
windshield. Fortunately, the fuel tanks were almost depleted else the
old bird would have gone off like a Roman candle.

     The revolutionaries had shot the plane down with a lucky round. Slade
had been taken, once he regained consciousness, to the prison where he
was placed on "trial" the next day. He had stood before a group of
heavily armed soldiers and, without benefit of any legal counsel, had
been sentenced to death. He learned that his contacts at the airstrip
had been taken into custody before he crashed and had already enjoyed
their "trials" and the execution of sentences. They were at that moment
beginning to mold in a common grave.

     It dawned on Slade suddenly that his "friends" had probably arranged the
whole thing. He had made too many trips, he knew too much. That was the
way they worked, the way they cleaned up loose ends. Pilots willing to
take big chances for big bucks were available everywhere. It made sense
for them to change personnel on a regular basis, it was good business.

     Slade wished he could get within touching distance of Seymour one more
time. He would rip off his nuts and feed them to him.

     He was working on the bottom half of the fifth when the key again
rattled in the door and Ramirez entered the room. He was accompanied by
two of the loveliest girls Slade had ever seen.

     "Good, I see you have begun to enjoy yourself without us," said Ramirez.
     "Well, my friend, I have brought the better part of your present. Permit
me to introduce my delightful cousins, Carla and Ramona!"

     Carla, the tiny dark one, flashed a white smile at him and stared
boldly. Her breasts were huge and threatened to spill over the top of
low-cut peasant blouse. She wore a loose, flowing skirt and was
barefoot.

     Ramona, a tall, slender girl, was the antithesis of her dark cousin. She
wore a very short pair of red velvet shorts that displayed her perfect
legs to great advantage. He high pointed breasts filled the bandana top
wrapped around them. Her hair spilled down over her shoulders like a
cascade of gold. She was cool, almost arrogant, as she inclined her head
toward Slade with an expression somewhere between a smile and a sneer.

     "The girls speak very little English, but I trust you will find a way to
communicate," Ramirez laughed. He walked to the door and then looked
back with a smile. "Enjoy yourself, Amigo. Remember the workings of
whore fate and enjoy yourself greatly."

     "You girls want a drink?" Slade asked. He held the bottle out. Ramona
tossed her long hair and shook her head. Carla answered by reaching
across her body and pulling the blouse up over hear head in one smooth
move. Her breasts spilled free, standing firm in the dim light of the
room. Her nipples were huge, surrounded by aureoles so dark they
appeared almost purple.

     "I drink," she smiled, swaying over to Slade and taking the bottle from
his hand. She tipped it up and took a large drink, then shivered. "Ah!"
She handed the bottle back to him and moved closer, pressing her melons
into the front of his stained shirt. She reached up and grabbed him
behind the neck and then pulled her head down, crushing her mouth into
his, licking and nibbling him.

     "You be good to Carla, Carla be good to you Gringo," she moaned,
reaching down and grasping the swelling that had begun.

     Slade, his head swimming from the effects of the harsh booze and the
ardent caresses of the girl, soon found himself naked on the bed. He lay
upon his back as the young beauty showered kisses down across his chest
and belly, her small hands caressing his cock and balls. His hand found
the tangle of dark hair between her legs and she opened to him, his
fingers slipping into her warm dampness. As her lips slid over his
erection he shoved all four fingers into her clear up to his knuckles.
She groaned deep in her throat and wiggle back against his hand. Slade
opened his eyes and saw that Ramona was slipping the shorts down her
legs. A small triangle of light hair, like an old man's goatee, stood
between the cleft of her supple thighs. She reached between her legs and
touched herself, then moved her hand to his mouth, over his lips. He
could smell the hot funk of her and he sucked the fingers into his
mouth, tasting her starch.

     "On my face!" he groaned, jerking in spasms from the practiced mouth
work of Carla. The sleek blonde climbed up on the bed and straddled his
face, lowering herself down. Looking up he could see the two succulent
halves of her pink pussy, open and glistening with dew. Slade pulled his
elbows around behind her thighs and buried his face in her, tasting her,
flicking at her hard clit with his tongue.

     After a while they had worn him out. He rolled to the backside of the
small bed and watched as the girls set upon one another. They kissed and
Ramona licked the residue of his sperm from Carla's face. Carla put her
hand between Ramona's legs and fingered her roughly, pushing her further
over onto her back. She then sprawled about before the taller woman and,
holding her legs back, began to go down on her in earnest, noisily
licking and sucking her dripping vagina. It lay open like ripe fruit,
the tattered inner lips sticky and white around the muscular hole.
Ramona came time and time again, writhing about and thrashing, pulling
the dark head harder against her groin.

     "No mas, no mas!" the blonde cried finally, shaking in near delirium as
she pushed away the head of the insatiable Carla.

     Had anyone ever told Slade that he could become tired of sex he would
have called them a goddamn liar and a fool. And yet over the hours he
spent with the two nymphs he reached that place where sex transcended
pleasure and moved into the area of agony. He was raw and worn and
bombed from the continuous sex and heavy drinking. His penis was bloody
raw and the little tag of skin beneath his tongue was throbbing from the
damage inflicted by over-extension.

     Late Thursday evening a guard came and took the women away. They dressed
silently and when it was time to go the small dark woman kissed Slade
tenderly. Ramona merely awarded him with her cold and distant smile,
nodding as she had done when they were introduced. Slade had the
distinct impression that the tall blonde would not mourn the fact that
within a few hours he would be standing before a pockmarked wall and
accepting several bullets into his heart.

     They came for him shortly before dawn, Ramirez and Gordo, along with two
stout guards.

     "It is almost time, Amigo," Ramirez said quietly. "I trust and hope you
have enjoyed yourself." He glanced at the ruined bed and the empty
bottles littering the floor. The air inside the small room was charged
with the lusty odor of sex.

     "I have, Slade replied. He turned up the last bottle and chugged the
remaining mescal. He reeled on his feet from a combination of alcohol
and exhaustion.

     "It is time, Commandante, time to put the gringo pig before our rifles!"
Gordo said.

     "Silence!" Ramirez screamed at him. "I am in charge here and should you
be tempted to forget it I might blow your stupid brains out!"

     Gordo hung his head like a scolded dog. "Pardon me, por favor, my
Commandante, I did not mean to offend you."

     "Come," Ramirez said to Slade. "Do not force me to have these animals
drag you, you are too machismo for that."

     Slade laughed and lit a Camel. He took a deep drag and nodded at the
dark captain.

      "Yeah, you're right," he said. "I think I've had all the booze and pussy
I want for the rest of my life anyway. Without that, what in hell is
worth living for?"

     Ramirez threw back his head and laughed.

     "I would be pleased to walk to Hell with a man so brave," he said,
throwing his arm around Slade's shoulder. Come, let us walk and meet the
Dark Man with a smile on our faces, let us show these fools the way a
real man dies."

      Slade looked into the piggy eyes of Gordo and snickered. He could kill
the man so easily, so quickly. One good chop and it would all be over.

     No, that would be too easy. An animal like Gordo always got his in the
end. Slade figured payback would come hard for the fat man someday,
something more horrible than a few strangling moments of terror.

     "I've decided to let the pig live," he smiled at Ramirez.

     Slade step out into the faint glow of dawn. Far to the east the sun was
just beginning to show through the heavy foliage. The air was already
becoming warm, filling with the humidity that seemed eternal.

     On the dusty courtyard a ragtag band of soldiers milled about. They
glanced toward Slade with flat eyes as he stepped out into the opening
with Ramirez. Slade was offered, and refused, a blindfold.

     "Adios, Amigo," said Ramirez, clutching Slade's hand and shaking it.

     "See you in Hell, Captain," he cracked wise.

     He turned and walked to the wall unaided, taking one last pull from the
cigarette. The sun came all the way over the trees at that moment,
bathing his face in warm sunshine. A lot of people would die today, but
few would die in the sunshine and fresh air. It wasn't worth worrying
about now.
     He smiled and waited for the sound of gunfire. He never heard it.

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