Dance with Death

Two men head for the table in front of the dance floor. They sit down in the aluminum chairs silently and in unison. The man wearing the skintight black shirt orders two drinks. The bar is empty. It’s almost nine on a Wednesday night—a lazy night that slips through the waitresses’ and bartender’s fingers like thick wet sand. The men watch the few couples moving on the dance floor. Both men are light skinned and average height. The man in the black shirt’s small, sunken eyes notice everything. He has a small nose and fleshy lips. The other man has gray eyes rimmed with thick lashes, a broad nose, and very thin lips. When the waitress arrives with their drinks, they reach for their glasses without shifting their gazes from the dance floor. The man with small eyes drinks whiskey on the rocks, and the man with gray eyes, rum with lemon. They take a few sips, stand, and head for the exit, leaving their glasses on the table. The man in the black shirt tells the waitress something. She nods in agreement. As the men leave, two girls barely twenty years old enter in jeans that reveal their lower back tattoos; their tank tops show off their youthful cleavage. One girl drags her feet as she walks; she thinks she’s too tall. The other bounces forward; she’s wearing towering heels to make up for her short stature. As the waitress clears away the rum with lemon and the whisky on the rocks, the girls order a soda and a glass of ice. The waitress purses her lips in response. The girls exchange a look and purse their lips too, nervously touching their hair as they do so. They look at the nearly empty dance floor, the neatly arranged tables and chairs, and wonder if they’re wasting their time. Half an hour later the two men return, sit down, and order another round. They drink and cast a sideways glance at the two girls sitting at the next table, sharing a soda. The man in the black shirt likes the redhead and the man with gray eyes takes an interest in the tall blonde with the bun. The man in the black shirt sighs in frustration and the other checks his watch. They can’t get distracted, not yet. They need to leave one more time to complete this first phase. When they finish the job, they’ll disappear from the scene as quickly as possible. The short girl likes the man in the black shirt; his mouth twists slightly to the right and he looks like he’s smiling even though he’s not. The tall girl also likes the man in the black shirt; he’s slightly taller. A bachata comes on and the tall girl closes her eyes and moves to the beat in her chair, as the redhead quietly sings along. The men get up one more time. The girls watch them leave and they both let out a sigh. The bar feels even emptier than before and they order one beer and another glass of ice. The men drive an old, unmarked dark blue 4×4 truck with tinted windows and stolen plates. They drive to a high-rise building called Roca Vieja in the upscale Punta Paitilla neighborhood and park on the sidewalk across from the building. The security guard for the building is distracted as he talks to a housekeeper walking her dog. Finally a red car, an Audi A4, drives up and pulls into the parking lot. The men make a mental note: 11:20. Phase one is over. The man they are monitoring does exactly the same thing four days a week. He leaves the parking lot, but instead of going directly from the elevator to his apartment, he walks to the front of the building to smoke a cigarette. A very convenient habit.

“Think his wife won’t let him smoke in the house?” asks the man with gray eyes.

“Who cares?” responds the other.

The man with gray eyes says nothing. He thinks the other man is arrogant, pretending not to be curious. He starts the car and drives back to the bar. They walk in, and without exchanging a word, they each ask one of the girls to dance. The girls stand up, neither one looking the men directly in the face, and follow them to the dance floor, synchronizing their steps with the men’s steps even before they begin to dance. The man in the black shirt holds the redhead firmly. She finds his hand warm and soft. He leads her with conviction, as if he’d been dancing with her forever and knew how to direct her, when to turn, when to swivel her hip to the right or to the left, when to move on the dance floor. He manages all this with the light pressure of his right hand. His left hand sits on his partner’s hip, right on the curve, making her tingle inside. As he turns her, she unconsciously memorizes the man’s cologne. The man with gray eyes leads the blonde by the hand. They try dancing cheek to cheek for a while, but then let go of each another. He admires the way she moves her hips to the rhythm, syncopating and swaying with the music. The song ends and the men lead their partners back to the table and leave the bar, this time for good. At 11:15 the next night motorcyclists speed past the front of the Roca Vieja building. They swivel around, spot a red Audi, double back to spray the car with bullets from a mini Uzi, then disappear into the night. The security guard and the housekeeper walking her dog run toward the car, which has crashed into a line of parked cars. The man driving the motorcycle thinks they should have waited until the man had smoked his cigarette and killed him in a single shot, but the one with the mini Uzi had disagreed and in the end the shooter calls the shots. They ditch the motorcycle and flee in a car where they have everything prepared. At 11:30 the redhead ends her shift as a clerk in a fast-food restaurant, puts on high heels, walks slowly over to a table in the restaurant, and lingers over a coffee before taking the bus home. As the black coffee steams around her face, her gaze wanders, and she recalls the previous night’s dance, the warm hand that guided her, and the other that rested on her hip, his cologne . . . . She wonders whether the man goes to the bar regularly and wants to go back another night to see if she’ll run into him. At 11:45 the blonde wakes up to the sound of her youngest son, just six months old, screaming and crying. With sleep nagging her and an unbearable heat that the fan can’t disperse, she turns on the television. As she’s fixing a bottle, she hears the midnight news announce that assassins have just killed an important businessman in his car outside the Roca Vieja building.

Two men head for the table in front of the dance floor. They sit down in the aluminum chairs silently and in unison. The man wearing the skintight black shirt orders two drinks. The bar is empty. It’s almost nine on a Wednesday night—a lazy night that slips through the waitresses’ and bartender’s fingers like thick wet sand. The men watch the few couples moving on the dance floor. Both men are light skinned and average height. The man in the black shirt’s small, sunken eyes notice everything. He has a small nose and fleshy lips. The other man has gray eyes rimmed with thick lashes, a broad nose, and very thin lips. When the waitress arrives with their drinks, they reach for their glasses without shifting their gazes from the dance floor. The man with small eyes drinks whiskey on the rocks, and the man with gray eyes, rum with lemon. They take a few sips, stand, and head for the exit, leaving their glasses on the table. The man in the black shirt tells the waitress something. She nods in agreement. As the men leave, two girls barely twenty years old enter in jeans that reveal their lower back tattoos; their tank tops show off their youthful cleavage. One girl drags her feet as she walks; she thinks she’s too tall. The other bounces forward; she’s wearing towering heels to make up for her short stature. As the waitress clears away the rum with lemon and the whisky on the rocks, the girls order a soda and a glass of ice. The waitress purses her lips in response. The girls exchange a look and purse their lips too, nervously touching their hair as they do so. They look at the nearly empty dance floor, the neatly arranged tables and chairs, and wonder if they’re wasting their time. Half an hour later the two men return, sit down, and order another round. They drink and cast a sideways glance at the two girls sitting at the next table, sharing a soda. The man in the black shirt likes the redhead and the man with gray eyes takes an interest in the tall blonde with the bun. The man in the black shirt sighs in frustration and the other checks his watch. They can’t get distracted, not yet. They need to leave one more time to complete this first phase. When they finish the job, they’ll disappear from the scene as quickly as possible. The short girl likes the man in the black shirt; his mouth twists slightly to the right and he looks like he’s smiling even though he’s not. The tall girl also likes the man in the black shirt; he’s slightly taller. A bachata comes on and the tall girl closes her eyes and moves to the beat in her chair, as the redhead quietly sings along. The men get up one more time. The girls watch them leave and they both let out a sigh. The bar feels even emptier than before and they order one beer and another glass of ice. The men drive an old, unmarked dark blue 4×4 truck with tinted windows and stolen plates. They drive to a high-rise building called Roca Vieja in the upscale Punta Paitilla neighborhood and park on the sidewalk across from the building. The security guard for the building is distracted as he talks to a housekeeper walking her dog. Finally a red car, an Audi A4, drives up and pulls into the parking lot. The men make a mental note: 11:20. Phase one is over. The man they are monitoring does exactly the same thing four days a week. He leaves the parking lot, but instead of going directly from the elevator to his apartment, he walks to the front of the building to smoke a cigarette. A very convenient habit.

“Think his wife won’t let him smoke in the house?” asks the man with gray eyes.

“Who cares?” responds the other.

The man with gray eyes says nothing. He thinks the other man is arrogant, pretending not to be curious. He starts the car and drives back to the bar. They walk in, and without exchanging a word, they each ask one of the girls to dance. The girls stand up, neither one looking the men directly in the face, and follow them to the dance floor, synchronizing their steps with the men’s steps even before they begin to dance. The man in the black shirt holds the redhead firmly. She finds his hand warm and soft. He leads her with conviction, as if he’d been dancing with her forever and knew how to direct her, when to turn, when to swivel her hip to the right or to the left, when to move on the dance floor. He manages all this with the light pressure of his right hand. His left hand sits on his partner’s hip, right on the curve, making her tingle inside. As he turns her, she unconsciously memorizes the man’s cologne. The man with gray eyes leads the blonde by the hand. They try dancing cheek to cheek for a while, but then let go of each another. He admires the way she moves her hips to the rhythm, syncopating and swaying with the music. The song ends and the men lead their partners back to the table and leave the bar, this time for good. At 11:15 the next night motorcyclists speed past the front of the Roca Vieja building. They swivel around, spot a red Audi, double back to spray the car with bullets from a mini Uzi, then disappear into the night. The security guard and the housekeeper walking her dog run toward the car, which has crashed into a line of parked cars. The man driving the motorcycle thinks they should have waited until the man had smoked his cigarette and killed him in a single shot, but the one with the mini Uzi had disagreed and in the end the shooter calls the shots. They ditch the motorcycle and flee in a car where they have everything prepared. At 11:30 the redhead ends her shift as a clerk in a fast-food restaurant, puts on high heels, walks slowly over to a table in the restaurant, and lingers over a coffee before taking the bus home. As the black coffee steams around her face, her gaze wanders, and she recalls the previous night’s dance, the warm hand that guided her, and the other that rested on her hip, his cologne . . . . She wonders whether the man goes to the bar regularly and wants to go back another night to see if she’ll run into him. At 11:45 the blonde wakes up to the sound of her youngest son, just six months old, screaming and crying. With sleep nagging her and an unbearable heat that the fan can’t disperse, she turns on the television. As she’s fixing a bottle, she hears the midnight news announce that assassins have just killed an important businessman in his car outside the Roca Vieja building.

Baile Con la Muerte

Dos hombres ocupan una mesa frente a la pista de baile. Se sientan al unísono, sin hacer ruido, en unas sillas de aluminio y el que viste camisa negra, entallada al cuerpo, pide dos tragos. El bar está vacío pues son acaso las nueve de las noche de un miércoles, un día flojo que a las meseras y al bartender se les desliza como arena húmeda y espesa. Los hombres miran a las pocas parejas que se mueven en la pista. Ambos son de estatura mediana y piel clara. El de camisa negra tiene ojos pequeños y hundidos que parecen observarlo todo, nariz discreta y labios carnosos. El otro tiene ojos grises enmarcados por espesas pestañas, nariz achatada y labios muy delgados. Al llegar la mesera con los tragos, cada cual agarra su vaso sin mirar. El de ojos pequeños toma whisky en las rocas y el de los ojos grises, ron con limón. Sorben un poco, se levantan y salen del bar dejando los vasos sobre la mesa. El de la camisa negra le dice algo a la mesera. Ella asiente con la cabeza. Mientras los hombres se alejan, dos chicas de escasos veinte años entran al bar vestidas con unas camisitas sin mangas de las que se desbordan sus senos juveniles y unos jeans que permiten ver unos tatuajes en la parte baja de la espalda. Una arrastra los pies al caminar, pues se siente demasiado alta; la otra camina dando saltos ya que lleva unos tacones enormes para disimular su corta estatura. Mientras la mesera retira el ron con limón y el whisky en las rocas, las chicas le piden una soda y un vaso con hielo a lo que la mesera reacciona con una torcedura de boca. Las chicas intercambian miradas y también tuercen la boca, a la vez que se tocan nerviosamente el cabello. Miran la pista casi vacía, las mesas y sillas nítidamente ordenadas y se preguntan si no están perdiendo el tiempo. Media hora más tarde regresan los dos hombres, se sientan y ordenan otra vez. Beben y miran de reojo a las chicas sentadas a su lado quienes comparten una soda. Al de camisa negra, la chica de pelo rojo le parece bien y al de los ojos grises, la alta de pelo rubio atado en un moño le despierta algún interés. El de camisa negra exhala desesperado y el otro mira el reloj. Aún no pueden distraerse pues han de salir una vez más para terminar esta primera etapa. Una vez concluyan el trabajo deben desaparecer lo más rápido posible de escena. A la chica bajita le parece simpático el de camisa negra pues su boca se tuerce levemente hacia la derecha y parece que sonríe aunque no es así. A la alta también le parece simpático el de negro pues es más alto que el otro. Tocan una bachata y la chica alta se mueve rítmicamente en su silla entrecerrando los ojos, mientras la pelirroja canta en voz baja la letra. Los hombres se levantan una vez más. Las chicas los observan mientras se alejan y dejan escapar juntas un suspiro. El bar les parece aun más vacío y piden una cerveza y otro vaso con hielo. Los hombres manejan una camioneta cuatro por cuatro vieja, azul oscuro, con placa robada, vidrio ahumados y sin señas visibles. Manejan hasta un edificio en Paitilla llamado Roca Vieja y se estacionan en la acera opuesta. El guardia del edificio está distraído pues conversa con una empleada doméstica que pasea un perro. Finalmente llega un auto rojo, un Audi A4 que entra al área de estacionamiento. Los hombres se hacen una nota mental: 11:20. La primera etapa ha finalizado. El hombre a quien vigilan hace exactamente lo mismo cuatro días a la semana. Saldrá del área de estacionamiento pero no irá por el ascensor directo a su apartamento sino que caminará hasta el frente del edificio para fumarse un cigarrillo. Una manía muy conveniente. ¿Será que su mujer le prohíbe fumar en casa?—pregunta el de los ojos grises. ¿Y a quién le importa?—responde el otro. El de ojos grises no dice nada. Le parece que el otro es arrogante y pretende no tener curiosidad. Enciende el auto manejando de vuelta al bar. Entran y, sin mediar palabras, cada quien invita a bailar a la chica que le ha parecido simpática. Ellas se levantan sin mirarlos directamente al rostro y los siguen a la pista sincronizando sus pasos con los de ellos aun antes de empezar a bailar. El de negro agarra a su pareja firmemente con una mano que le parece a ella cálida y suave. Él la lleva con propiedad, como si hubiese bailado con ella siempre y pudiera dictarle cuando dar una vuelta, cuando girar su cadera hacia la derecha o hacia la izquierda, cuando desplazarse sobre la pista. Él logra todo esto con una leve presión de su mano derecha pues su mano izquierda se posa sobre la cadera de la pelirroja, justo en la corva, haciéndola sentir un cosquilleo interior y ella, mientras gira, se memoriza el perfume del hombre sin percatarse. El de ojos grises lleva a la rubia de la mano pero luego de intentar un rato bailar agarrados se dejan el uno al otro y ella empieza a mover las caderas cadenciosamente con tildes y asincopaciones que él admira. La pieza termina, llevan a sus parejas de regreso a la mesa y dejan el bar, esta vez para no volver. A las 11:15 de la noche del día siguiente unos motorizados pasan veloces frente al edificio Roca Vieja. Dan una vuelta hasta atisbar un Audi rojo y regresan rociando el auto con balas de una mini Uzi despareciendo en la noche mientras el guardia del edificio y una empleada doméstica que pasea un perro corren hacia el auto que se ha estrellado contra una fila de carros aparcados. El que conduce la moto piensa que debieron haber esperado a que el hombre se fumara el cigarrillo y matarlo de un disparo pero el de la mini Uzi se opuso y al final el que dispara es el que manda. Ahora han de dejar la moto y salir en un auto donde tienen todo preparado. A las 11: 30 la pelirroja sale de su turno como dependienta en un restaurante de comida rápida, se calza sus tacones y con su particular caminar se dirige a una de las mesas del negocio para saborear un café antes de tomar el bus a casa. Mientras el café negro humea en su rostro su mirada se pierde rememorando el baile de la noche anterior, la mano cálida que la guiaba y la otra que se posaba en sus caderas, el perfume… Se pregunta si el hombre va con frecuencia al bar y desea regresar otra noche a ver si se lo encuentra. A las 11:45 la rubia se levanta pues su hijo más chico, de apenas seis meses, despierta llorando a gritos. Con el sueño fastidiado y un calor insoportable, que el abanico no logra disipar, enciende el televisor y mientras prepara un biberón escucha el noticiario de medianoche donde se anuncia que un importante empresario ha sido asesinado por sicarios en su auto frente al edificio Roca Vieja.