AAA Back Story of the Antagonist--

Franco came inside the cement room and didn't see the three men at first glance. The men sat in shadow, three in a row. They didn't smile at Franco and Franco found this odd. Usually people smiled at him. Usually, they stood to their feet. It took a moment for Franco to see the three faces well enough to realize that these were three of the ugliest, most meanest looking men he had ever seen anywhere in his life, ever, ever, ever.

The three men sat at a card table on a cement floor. There was no rug on the floor. The table was the square kind his mother used when she gave Bridge parties. The kind the maids would fold up afterwards and put away. This table had no cards on it. No wine bottles in ice-buckets stood off to the side. It had an electric fan that hummed as it turned back and forth across the three men and a long, black walkie-talkie standing upright

Behind the men was a room separated by iron bars like in jail in a TV western. What was behind the bars, or inside them, Franco couldn’t see. Maybe bad people were back there, but if they were any worse than these three in front, Franco didn't want to meet them, ever, ever, ever.

Franco realized he was in a place he should not be. A place not for him.

There were many such places, in the jungles and in the cities, places his father took him to on business. Dark places. “Don’t go in there,” his father would say. “That is not a place for you.”

Franco had walked in here while his father was outside talking to Greco. Talking and talking and talking to Greco . Franco had seen the building off by itself and had wondered what was in there. And now, here he was.

It smelled in here of piss and sweat and of other things--a great many other things--all of which made Franco want to run outside into the light. Then he felt his father’s hands on his shoulders and knew by their grip he was in a lot of trouble. Still, Franco was much relieved his father was there.

“Bueno-Bueno,” Silo Pol said to the three men. He sounded happy to see them, as if he had just run into old friends.

The men stood quickly to their feet. Their chairs scraped the floor.

“Buen Dias,” the man in the middle said. The other two remained silent but nodded their heads with great sincerity.

Franco could see now that all three men held guns slung on straps across their chests. Franco knew these guns. They were Uzis. They were his favorite because of the sound they made when they fired. They were very deadly. Most of his father’s friends carried guns like these. Someday he would have one too. His father promised.

“All is well?” Silo Pol asked in Spanish.

“Si,” the same man answered. “Todo bien!”

Silo Pol turned Franco toward the open wooden door and they went back out into the light. Greco stood on the hard packed dirt in the sun looking at them both with great displeasure. Franco was being guided by his father’s hands which were now gripping his shoulders even more tightly than before.

“Don’t worry, Greco, he saw nothing…” Silo Pol said.

Greco went from shaking his head looking at Franco to nodding his head and looking at the ocean below them past the jungle.

“He has to learn someday,” Franco’s father called to Greco’s back as Greco walked away across the hot dirt toward the veranda of another small building, this one partially hidden in banana trees for shade.

The sound of a baby crying came from the building they had just left. Franco and his father both turned to see the wooden door slam shut, and all sound of a baby crying ceased in that moment.

Franco’s eyes, unblinking, stared up at his father.

Silo Pol took him by the hand and walked quickly toward the three Land Rovers parked in the shade near the building where Greco had gone. All the windows were rolled up in the Land Rovers for air-conditioning and Franco could not see his father’s men, but he knew they were in there.

The way Silo was walking, Franco was forced to run so as not to be pulled off his feet. He knew he was in trouble and he knew he should be silent now, but he had to ask, “What was in there, Papa? What was in there I didn’t see?”

Silo Pol looked down at his son, but didn’t stop walking.

“Women,” he said. “Girls, actually,” he was speaking English now.

“And a baby?” Franco asked.

“Yes, a few infants as well,” Silo said. Then he stopped walking and bent down to be eye to eye with Franco. “It is how we make our living, you and I.”

“And Momma?”

“And Momma too.” Silo said and straightened. He began walking quickly again. He was no longer holding Franco’s hand. “Later you will understand,” he said without stopping.

Franco stood still. He looked down at the dusty sandals he wore on his feet. He looked back once at the closed door to the horrible little room where he never should have gone.

“Momma too…” he said to himself. He blinked his eyes and studied the notion that his mother might know about the room and the girls and the babies in the darkness behind bars. He heard his name being called and ran to catch up to his father knowing that he himself would not ask any more questions about today. He would sit in the back seat with Garcia, his father up front in the passenger seat, Ramon driving, and they would all watch the jungle go by. Franco promised himself he would be silent the whole ride home to Medellin. He knew if he asked any more questions his father would answer with the truth, and he did not want that--not now--not later--not ever, ever, ever, ever, ever...ever.

--1023 Words --