Rendezvous At The Sparkling Mosquito

It’s only eleven thirty, he reminded himself. They had agreed to meet there in thirty minutes—at midnight, to be exact—last time they spoke…and yet, he still felt something in the pit of his stomach, something that told him not to trust whatever she had in mind. Why would she ever do something bad? Stupid question. He knew her all too well.

Stomp, stomp, stomp…

He silenced his steps (at least he tried to) and looked over his shoulder for the fifth time already. Two of those five times he’d caught a shadow moving behind him, but the quietness of the place itself denied any possibility of being followed. Maybe he was imagining things.

Yes, definitely.

Plus, even if a poor idiot decided to follow him, he had a gun. Not only that, but he knew better than all of those wannabes running down the streets these days, thinking they could call themselves thieves for such immature acts as stealing jewelry and some old lady’s purse—those probably having more sweet honey candies than actual money or valuable goods.

It angered him how the word thief was now easily associated with those amateur fools in zebra printed costumes, and it made it worse knowing they pointed him as one of them. Her, too. Perhaps both of them shouldn’t have brushed off the fact that staying more than a month in the same place just for a dumb break from their routine was more than risky.

Only seven more blocks, a voice whispered like a reminder in the back of his head, but a collision from the adjacent alley startled him. Looking over his shoulder yet once again, he noticed a shadow—this time a tiny one—moving from the fire escape’s dark corner into the lighted section.

A cat. A stupid, squalid, scar-covered cat with lamp-like eyes that appeared to be glowing was now staring back at him. One of its paws swayed in the air for a second, followed by it meowing with disdain.

“What are you looking at?” he hissed, annoyed. He hated cats. The languid creature showed him its sharp teeth this time, but he decided to let it go, looking down at the floor instead. There, lying broken, shattered into pieces with dirt all around, was an old flowerpot. That had probably been the cause of his change in heartbeat. So, disregarding the still meowing cat, he turned around and kept walking.

The past minutes he’d had a thought nagging the life out of him—a demand, to be exact. You have to start taking control of things again. Just because she felt tired of running away continuously—and he understood her frustration; he did share it, after all—didn’t mean they could give themselves the luxury of a prolonged stay in one of the towns.

They’d done that once before and learned the consequences wholeheartedly.

She had been taking the lead lately, and their money was running low now. That’s why it came across as crucial for her not to make any mistakes tonight. The last couple of days were horrible to cope with without her company, so it being all for nothing would mean time wasted. Time they risked on getting caught.

He refused ever going back to jail. One time had been enough.

He regretted involving her in all of it, though. She’d always stay behind, let him—Raymond, too, sometimes—do the jobs. And people had been dragging a whole lot of attention—unnecessary attention—to them ever since the smuggled gun that allowed his escape. They even made up a rumor of him cutting off his own toes. It was exhausting. Both for him and her.

Just four more blocks, he said in his head, humming. He regretted it almost instantly, though, because it seemed like a beacon in the street’s quietness. Not even cars were driving by. The town was asleep, and he appeared to be the only one up.

That’s good, though. Means they’re not looking for me. At least he hadn’t seen any police cars yet. The footsteps he kept hearing were the ones annoying him. Once again, he began to peek over his shoulder, only to this time encounter another man walking just a step behind.

“Don’t look at me. Just keep walking.”

He knew that voice. “I thought you’d much rather stay clear of this one, Ray,” he said, keeping his voice as low as he could and counted the remaining blocks till they got there: two and a half.

“What can I say? Can’t find myself far away from Bon-Bon,” Ray admitted before taking out a cigar from his pocket, his voice raspy from all the coughing.

“She hates when you call her that,” he said, worried he might’ve sounded a little bit jealous. There was no reason for him to doubt Raymond.

“And you hate that she’s still technically married to that high school Casanova. What was his name—Roy?” He stopped at Raymond’s words, shooting him a glare despite the warning on not calling for too much attention. “It was a joke, man. We all know she’s living in Clydesdale now.”

He glanced around the lawns, eyeing the street both ways before responding. “She’s mine.”

“And I won’t argue,” Raymond said, his thin fingers lighting one of his Camels cigars. “Want one?”

“No thanks. I’m not in the mood.” He adjusted his hat and kept walking down the street, eyes on the lookout for anyone else around them. “I just want to get out of this stupid town.”

“C’mon, everybody loves Mexico,” Raymond said, puffing the tempting smoke out with a cough. “Ciudad Juárez…. Doesn’t that sound like a good place to find a sexy Hispanic at a bar and show her a whole new world?”

“That sounds stereotypically discriminatory. Not to mention sadistic,” he grumbled, not really intending for Ray to hear him as he began walking again. He wanted to see her. And he was so close now.

“As if it weren’t a fact,” Raymond retorted, his answer muffled by his own coughs. “Anyhow, have you spoken to her?”

“No,” he said, feeling as if someone had stabbed his stomach with a knife. He knew that someone; it was an old friend of his: guilt. “You know we take jobs seriously, and communicating would jeopardize the cover-up. She left a sticky note for me today, though, so that has been about as much conversation we’ve had for the past three and a half weeks.”

“And then you’re complaining about her sleeping with other men. You constantly give her a green flag.”

“She’s not sleeping with them!” He stopped on his tracks again, this time turning around to push Raymond against the wall. Regardless of the fact that someone might’ve heard them.

“Jesus, Barrow, you need to calm down,” Raymond said, his eyes wide with surprise. “I’m just messing around with you.”

“Yeah, well, as I said, I’m not in the mood.” He let go of him, resuming his walk. Just this one last block and you’ll get to see her, he thought, hearing Raymond’s whining grumbles from behind about his wasted cigar, which had ended up on the ground.

“You messed with the Camels. One does not do that.”

“Yeah well,” he murmured. “You know I’m not one to be messed around with, either, Hamilton.”

And before he knew it, the glowing letters came into sight right across the street: the Sparkling Mosquito. There were just two vehicles in the parking lot. An old Sedan with the unmistakable Mercedes by its side. Part of their target was getting the car, too, but he couldn’t care less about that now.

She’d promised him that García would have at least ten grand from his gambling addiction stored in his safe. And, luckily, he was stupid enough to keep that safe in his office at the bar. (All of this she’d heard from the chatterbox lady who had approached her at the market for some advice on which tomatoes were better for enchiladas. As if they knew the first thing on traditional culinary tips.)

“I’ll go inside,” he said, walking across the street and into the parking lot area. “You stay here and get the things out of the Sedan and into the Mercedes. She said she’d leave the key—”

“Behind the back left tire. I know.” Raymond adjusted the coat around him tightly and cleared his throat, almost measuring his words. “Try not to lose it in there.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, but, truly, he didn’t really need to hear the answer. He knew it well himself.

“Something about you today seems off,” Ray admitted, sighing. “And your temper under emotional rage isn’t the best of them all. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Emotional rage?” He snorted. “You sound like Buck.”

“Comparing me to your brother now?”

“It’s no news for you, Raymond.” And with that, he walked over to the bar’s entrance. It was a quilted leather door, a small, squared window in the middle that, sadly, didn’t show enough of the inside space for him to observe around. From what he could gather, to his right, there was a pool table—no one near it—and to his left, the bartender appeared to be counting the register’s cash. They’re closing up.

It didn’t require rocket science to know one thing: business was definitely slow. He now understood why García required gambling to keep this place going.

Apart from the bartender, though, there seemed to be nobody else, and so he didn’t wait to step inside. Calm and collected. The guy’s brown eyes shot up, meeting his. “Buenas noches.”

“Good night,” he replied, unwilling to even try putting his Spanish skills to work.

“Oh, American,” the guy said in a nervous giggle. “Well, I’m sorry, but we’re already closing for tonight, Sir.”

“That’s not a problem,” he said, taking his hat off, leaving it over a stool, and softening his voice in hopes that the guy wouldn’t feel threatened. He was still young, and young people were easily suspicious. Plus, it came across as obvious that the only reason this kid worked here was for extra money, because he clearly didn’t know the first thing on cleaning glasses correctly. “I’m actually here to speak with Santiago García. He told me to swing by around this time.”

“Mr. García? Yeah…he’s in the back,” the guy said, his accent thick with a hint of doubt. “But he’s kinda busy right now.”

“Busy?” he asked, and a voice in his head told him the only thing he didn’t want to hear. And then you’re complaining about her sleeping with other men. Goddamn Raymond and those stupid assumptions.

The guy looked down, his hand running through the blackness of his hair before formulating an answer. “He went inside with a pretty woman just about fifteen minutes ago…. I’ve heard noises.”

Of course. He felt his fists balling, his blood boiling, and a reasonable amount of rage being pumped through his veins. “You see,” he began, doing the biggest effort not to sound as infuriated as he truly was. “I really have to see him.”

The guy fumbled for a second, placing the glass on the bar and the old cloth over his shoulder. “I guess you can go inside and see if he’s not…doing anything.” Such a prude.

“Will do, young man.”

“Lorenzo,” they guy said in a hurry, smiling. “My name’s Lorenzo.”

“Muchas gracias, Lorenzo,” he said, finally succumbing into the temptation of using his foreign language skills. He’d learned enough in high school before dropping out. But that was the least important thought in his mind, because the mere fact that he would go through the other door in less than ten seconds gave him a horrible feeling.

He did know that it was more than necessary to make certain things in order for their acting to be credible. After all, she was playing the new-girl-in-town roll with García in order to get close to him, but would she go as far as to sleeping with the guy? Probably. No.

Why was he thinking like that? It’s Raymond’s fault.

And like that, he pushed the second door and took a deep breath, letting his eyes scan the tight room. Backing up his worst fears, he found the old guy, whose giant hands were holding her over him—one of them around her back and the other up her skirt—sticking his tongue down his girlfriend’s throat.

He felt like vomiting, his stomach turning with something bigger—potentially deadlier—than rage. How dared he touch her?

Santiago stopped the kiss abruptly, his mustache horribly disheveled and its tips wet with saliva. He heard her pleads hush as soon as she became aware of his presence in the room, too, and it didn’t take her eyes long to widen with surprise.

“Who the hell are you?” García asked in Spanish, and he saw him put her to one side in order to get closer. He noticed his shirt was half open, and the bulge in his pants triggered the one thing he’d been trying to maintain: control.

Before he could measure his actions, he connected his fist against Santiago’s cheek, letting the other one plunge into his stomach. García took the blows better than he wanted him to, returning them with swift movements. He was the one who fell on his knees and whose tongue soaked with the taste of blood.

“Santiago!” he heard her say, panicking, but nothing could be done.

He saw García’s knife before he got too close and acted out quickly. As fast as he’d fallen down, he was up on his feet, gun drawn out. “I would throw that to the floor if I were you,” he told him, pressing the barrel against the old man’s sweaty forehead. Santiago didn’t hesitate, fear replacing the courage he’d had just a second ago. But before anyone could say another word, a voice entered the room.

“Señor García?” Lorenzo.

Looking back, he found the kid staring dumbfounded at the sight of a half-naked girl and a gun being held against his boss’s head. The tanned-like color skin was now replaced by a paler version, and he knew that the situation had to be taken carefully.

“Leave, Lorenzo,” he ordered. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Llama a la policía, mijo,” García said, causing him to press the hammer down.

“No one’s calling the cops,” he growled, glaring at Santiago for a second before looking back at Lorenzo. “Please, just leave. You don’t have to get hurt…. I don’t want to hurt you, kid.”

Lorenzo nodded, his eyes shifting from them to her. “Go,” she said softly, and that was all it took to get the kid to sprint out of there.

“Stupid teenager,” García spat. “You pay them and they turn their backs on you.”

“Open the safe,” he demanded.

“Not before you let her go, too.”

He got closer to Santiago’s ear, enjoying how the words tasted in his mouth. “That won’t be necessary. She’s with me.”

García’s eyes grew in size quickly, narrowing when they met hers. “What? But…Penelope—”

He couldn’t finish the phrase before he received another blow to the cheek, this one finally causing some blood to ooze out, and she gasped. “Her name’s Bonnie.” Not allowing him to fall on his knees, he yanked Santiago by the shirt and pushed him closer to the desk. “Now open the safe!”

“No,” García said, holding the weight of his body against his chair.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked, the gun aiming steadily at Santiago’s head still.

He smiled at him with blood covering his yellow teeth and damping the overly grown beard. “Let me guess. You’re that Barrow guy.”

“Good,” he said. “Word travels fast. At least you know I’m not one to wait long for people to do what they’re told, so I really suggest you start opening that safe.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Oh, I’d love to show you what will happen. Trust me.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

He didn’t think too much before lowering the gun’s aim and shooting one single bullet at the guy’s foot. It was risky—the noise would definitely alert people—but rage acted over him. “You should be.”

García fell down this time, whining and cursing words he didn’t even bother translating. Instead, he moved behind the desk himself and took the safe from where she’d told him it would be. Taking it, he put it down next to Santiago, crouching.

“Do I have to ask again?”

He seemed too shocked by the pain to argue any further, which was good considering the fact that he calculated the cops to arrive in four and a half minutes if someone had already rang them. Without resistance and in the middle of cries and complaints, he began pressing the numbers on the box.

“Eres un demonio,” García said under a breath, and he felt a smile curving his lips.

“Oh, buddy, I’m no demon.” He heard the safe’s beep, and it opened not two seconds later. “I’m the Devil himself.”

He heard the sound of Bonnie’s heels walking next to them, and she handed him a black bag. Avoiding any eye contact—anger still overpowering him—he shoved every single bill stack inside and zipped it back before standing up.

“Let’s go,” he said, finally looking back at her. She had buttoned her shirt and pushed down the skirt, but the shame and guilt were still plastered all over her face.

She looked down at García, who still appeared to be insulted by it all. “Sorry,” Bonnie murmured, and that just made him feel like there was another knife being plunged into his chest.

“That’s okay, mami,” Santiago said, but before he could try to ignore it, he started licking his fingers, smirking. “You still tasted amazing.”

“All right, now you’re dead.” Without the need of a conscious command, his fingers pressed down on the trigger, but Bonnie’s hands were faster and diverted the aim to one inch next to what would’ve been his head. “What are you doing?!”

“We don’t kill people, Clyde!” She let out, frustrated, tears in her eyes.

There was just so much anger he could take, but the limit had been surpassed a long time ago. “We don’t fuck them, either.” He saw her lower lip quivering, and it killed him, but there was no way he would let tonight go by just like that. Like it didn’t matter.

And before she could say anything, from the south end of the street outside, cops’ sirens began echoing. Great. “Ms. Parker,” Clyde said, his voice as tough as she’d ever heard it. “I suggest you start walking if you don’t want to sleep in a jail cell tonight.”

Bonnie’s head bowed, and no further indications were required since she was already walking out the office in a fairly quick pace. He followed closely behind, leaving García cradling himself with his own arms back there and picking up his hat in the way.

He didn’t want to be angry at her, but he was. How could he not be? The same girl he met when he went back home to check on his sister, who’d broken her arm, had allowed that disgusting pig to get inside of her. The same girl he found making hot chocolate for her friend and who spent the whole afternoon chatting with him about such passionate subjects that she so cherished had betrayed him just like that.

Maybe she had done it merely for the act, for credibility, but the pleasure he’d seen back at the room indicated otherwise. Was he not good enough anymore? Was this not the lifestyle she wanted and that’s the reason why she prolonged their stay here?

He couldn’t think about that.

Not now.

With the sirens getting closer and closer, they reached the Mercedes, which Raymond had already started and was now sitting expectantly on the driver’s seat. “The hell happened in there?”

“Just drive,” Clyde said, hopping into the passenger’s seat after making sure Bonnie had climbed into the back.

“And where exactly should I take us, huh?”

“Ivan wants to meet up with us,” Bonnie said shyly before Clyde could answer. “He gave me a call today in the morning….”

Raymond looked at Clyde, almost as if asking for confirmation. He could feel his girlfriend’s eyes on him through the back, but refused to acknowledge them. “If she says Buck called her, then sure, whatever.”

Ray sighed, pressing on the gas and driving off to the road in the right of the bar, avoiding any possible cops. “Very well, to Huston we go then. You got till sunrise to come up with our new identities before we get to the boarder.”

“I’ll think about that later, Raymond,” Clyde said, leaning back on the seat after putting the bag on the floor and letting the gun fall next to it. “Gonna sleep, if you don’t mind.”

“Clyde,” he heard Bonnie whisper in his ear, and he felt her leaning closer. “What you saw inside there…I—”

“Not now, Bonnie.” Regardless of how awful he felt about ignoring her, he felt even worse after what he’d seen. Because Raymond was right.

Bonnie Parker, the woman whom he loved, was still married to someone who wasn’t him. She wasn’t truly his.

With his eyes closed, he couldn’t think of anything else other than the fact that people always wondered what love makes you capable of doing, of how far it pushes you. And looking at their situation now, feeling that gun next to his left foot, Clyde realized that he couldn’t be pushed any further.

He was already down at the bottom of the pit, and she was with him.

It would always be like that: Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow. It would never be Bonnie and Clyde Barrow.

He knew that now.