Sleeper's Run

CHAPTER SEVEN

Three months later, I'm driving toward South Beach in my new, sleek, gray Audi R8. All I need is Phil Collins singing "In the Air Tonight" and it'd be the quintessential "Miami Vice" moment. I've kept my commitment to do PTSD therapy and my daily workout routine. As part of my recovery, I wanted to find the guys I injured at the bar to apologize, but I couldn't find them anywhere. I did manage to talk to the bartender and the bouncers, and even offered some kind of compensation, but all they wanted was for me to go away. It wasn't easy to see the aftermath of my gratuitous brutality.

Regardless of that, I feel like a new man. My therapist, Doctor Linares, told me that a man with my military background and intelligence quotient is generally more resistant to suffering from PSTD, and more likely to overcome it successfully. Everything seems to indicate that this is the case, so I even risk buying a new TV. I haven't suffered from any more episodes, although I still have dreams about my time at war. The doctor says this is normal, but has no explanation as to why everyone I kill in my dreams turns into the same familiar dark figure, whom I can't identify. The best theory the doctor can offer is that it probably has to do with my father; but I'm not buying it.

At least now I have the six-figure salary and the cool car; buying an airplane and a spacious house is just a matter of time. I'm still working on the gorgeous wife though. These days, I definitely see the glass half full.

Tonight I'm meeting Tony at a club called Red Square. Even though I've been busy putting my life back on track and logging epic hours at work to catch up on the latest trends in computer security, I've managed to stay in touch with him.

The club is an interesting blend of modern style and Soviet proletarian sensibilities. It's all glass, neon and metal, with cool propaganda posters on the walls. There's a long line of beautiful people outside the red velvet rope. I say hi to the bouncers and walk right in. Not too shabby for someone who doesn't even like clubs. I wonder why anyone would wait, let alone pay, to get into such a packed place. I squeeze my way to the VIP room where things are more comfortable.

As usual, Tony holds court with a dozen of his friends. I've limited my drinking to social occasions, so I stop at the bar to get a Jack and Coke before I flag him down.

"Hey bro, when did you get here?" Tony says as he sees me.

"Just now, what's up?"

"You remember Ilich, don't you?" Tony says pointing at the scary guy sitting next to him.

"Sure," I say, shaking his large, tattooed hand.

"Hello," he says with a thick Russian accent. He has an old boxer's face and miner's eyes. Thanks to a TV documentary, I recognize the ink on Ilich's hands as markings from the Russian mob. Lucky for me, Ilich never seems to remember me. "If you'll excuse me, I have a club to run," He says, standing up. "Please, enjoy yourselves."

I take Ilich's seat as he walks away. Mobster aside, Tony's friends are usually spoiled rich kids, wannabe actors and models, and the occasional Latino celebrity. The only thing I have in common with most of them is our mutual disdain.

"How's work?" Tony asks.

"I'm leaving for Caracas," I say, and take a sip of my drink waiting for his reaction.

"What? When?"

"Next week. They just told me today," I say. "Apparently, they've had some security problems, so they want me to investigate and beef things up over there."

"How long are you staying?" Tony says searching his pockets. "Give me a cigarette, will you?"

"I quit, remember?"

"Right," he says, rolling his eyes. He asks one of his friends for a smoke.

"That's the stickler; they say at least six months," I say, as I light him up with my trench lighter, which maintains its status as a family heirloom despite its lack of use. Besides, I kind of feel naked without it.

"Well, you knew there was traveling involved when you took on the job," he says. "And you are their resident half-Venezuelan geek."

"It's just that I never thought I would be going back to Venezuela," I say. "I have nothing there to go back to, you know?"

"What can I say? Blood calls," Tony says. "Besides, you have to pay your dues."

"It's going to be strange to be there again after all these years," I say.

"Violent crime is still the rage and the economy is fucked up, but you can still party like there's no tomorrow and the women are sizzling hot," he says.

"Very poetic," I chuckle. "I guess it hasn't changed much."

Tony sits back while blowing out smoke. "If you ask me, it'sactually worse."