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As Santiago made clear earlier, the Hispanic rider doesn’t seem to be wearing any protective gear.
“You see that? We’re not soft here, Adas. Do you think he’s going to go down the first time and roll on his side, crying for someone to come care for him? No!” he shouts.
“I do see that, but what you must remember is that Americans don’t allow themselves to be tossed from the back of a bull for fun. They would see that as pointless and harmful,” I reply, hesitantly throwing back my sixth shot as the waitress brings it.
It’s clear she just wants my attention and tips, but I can’t refuse a drink in front of Santiago. I’d never hear the end of it.
“Yes, but that’s because you have all gotten too comfortable. You have everything you could ever want. I’m shocked that more of you don’t jump out of airplanes just to feel something once in a while,” he replies, slurring every couple of words.
I can’t argue with him; he’s right. I encounter so many coddled trust-fund kids in the city that I practically need to kick them out of my way when I walk down the street. All of them have this flaccid quality to them, like they’d shatter the second they got punched in a fight or fired a gun.
“What is your point, Santiago?” I ask, growing annoyed at his meandering, pointless comments.
“My point is that you need to understand that we’ll always have your back, but you need to understand exactly what it is you’re asking us to do. We will go to what you would call extreme lengths to protect those we love. So, if ever you needed us to take care of somebody, understand that we will rip him apart at your command,” he replies.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, laughing a bit.
He puts his drink down for the first time in twenty minutes, staring me dead in the eyes. “You must be able to provide the same for me. I know you can, but you need to train your men to be killers as well. Negotiating will only get you fucked. Showing mercy will only get you fucked. In this game, you need to be ready to kill someone over two thousand dollars.”
I know he’s right. I’ve thought hard about how willing I would be to kill a man under dubious circumstances. How little would it take for me to kill someone?
I’ve killed plenty of men. Men who stood in my way, men who threatened the direct safety of my family or my livelihood. But two thousand dollars is a low price for a life.
As I continue to watch the bull rider, I think to myself about how much my life feels like riding an angry, injured bull. I’ve been able to hold on so far, almost letting go at some points. But right now, all I can see is the rider getting thrown off. No matter how long he rides, he will always be thrown in the end. No bull is going to stop to let him off.
Except the rider gets to leave in one piece.
I won’t.
“I know you want to hire my men and me to assist you with this Marat character. Unfortunately, with the way things have been going, I will need to charge you. You know I would never do such a thing unless the circumstances were dire,” he continues, finishing his drink.
“Is this a conversation we should be having here?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Why would you ask that?” he replies defensively, continuing to slur his words.
“Because you’re completely off your face, and we’re in a public area,” I say, feeling more conspicuous as the minutes go by.
I already stick out. Talking about putting a hit out on someone feels like the wrong move.
He scoffs, beckoning the waitress back over to us to ask her something unintelligible.
I wait for him, continuing to watch the bull rider and growing more anxious as the minutes go by.
“Okay, fine. How much do you want? I’m holding you to it, Santiago. Doesn’t matter if you sober up tomorrow and want more. This was your idea,” I say.
“Two hundred thousand. I lost a shipment of product to the fucking DEA. We were caught when the shipment came in at the coast, and two hundred thousand is how much I lost,” he explains.
Two hundred thousand is hardly anything to me, and if Santiago is struggling like that, I’d feel guilty about such a low deal. Maybe he doesn’t realize how many men I need or how long we could be staking out Marat. I need this to be fair.
“Why not five hundred thousand?” I ask. “This shit is going to be a lot harder than you think.”
He stares at me in disbelief. “You think I’m going to let you agree to that when you’re drunk? Come on, man,” he replies, uncertain of whether or not he should be offended by my offer.
“Clearly, you need it, and I know you have too much pride to just tell me what’s going on. If it was a lost shipment? Okay, sure. But I’m asking you to do something that could easily kill you or destabilize you completely,” I reply.
I reach out my hand to shake his and confirm our agreement.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
