He walked towards the table and sat next to his father. His father, Fidelis—who went by the name Fidel—sat stoically as everyone was seated, and his wife began serving the men. Mano always noticed the way his mother was careful to disappear. However, she was still the center of attention in any room. She was careful to never look any of the men in the eye, and she had purposely dressed as if going to church rather than entertaining company. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, revealing no lines or voluptuous curves. The colors were drab, and she wore no jewelry or makeup. Even in her attempt to remain in the background, her natural beauty still kept her at the forefront of the men’s hooded eyes. The men snuck glances, but there was no open gawking or dirty talk; none of the visitors wished to be used as compost for the crop of poppies. They knew Fidel would put a bullet between their eyes over the woman he loved, but what they didn’t realize was Fidel had a Glock holstered beneath the table where he sat. Mano knew this because he had helped his father install the contraption. His father also made sure Mano was proficient in his knowledge of firearms and marksmanship. Children of cartel parents knew how to hold a gun before they could clutch a baby rattle. It was an extreme saying but a joke nonetheless among gangsters; it was one that held enough truth to make it funny. Colombia wasn’t just a different part of the world, it was another world, just like Sinaloa Mexico. It was brutal to outsiders, and its brutality only added to the truth of its reality.
The men tore into the food as if ravished by the plane ride. No one said much because they were too busy eating. They would save the conversation for the porch when they talked over aguardiente and cigars. Mano would be an earshot away, listening through an open window in the still of the evening.
It seemed like it took forever for the men to finish dinner and saunter towards the porch with their bellies full and their minds now on business. Mano was shocked when his mother winked at him as he turned from the kitchen to go upstairs. He realized she wanted him to not just be the family’s hands, but their eyes and ears, too. A subtle communication had developed between the family members over the years; it was a necessity when dealing with drug dealers and Sicario. Sometimes lines were made to be crossed, rules to be broken, and manners put on the backburner. Tonight… was all about survival. There would be no predator becoming prey under this roof. His mother was as proficient with a gun as his father was, and tonight she wore a gun in a holster on her thigh; beneath the baggy, drab dress she donned. Meetings were well thought out in this family. They even had a meeting place if gunshots rang out, and things went south. Benjamin Disraeli’s quote: “Prepare for the worst and hope for the best,” was one of his father’s favorites, and it had been drilled into Mano and Avis. This was not a white-picket-fence, suburban family who lived under the false illusions of safety. Shit got real very quickly in this part of the world.
Mano eased the window up and settled in to listen to cartel business. Even though Mano had been discreet pulling the window up, he knew his father was aware he was listening. Mano had oiled the older wooden window to prevent the visitors from realizing he was listening in on their conversation. It was also a way for Mano to watch and ensure his father’s safety. In a moment’s notice, he could warn his mother of trouble, and she would no longer be the demure housewife but a gun-toting cartel wife. It didn’t take long in this part of the world to change a woman’s mindset. Survival could make a killer out of the most innocent of women—even a missionary.
It was Cupid who spoke first, “It isn’t just the opposing cartel we have to be concerned with, it’s the fucking military. They crop dust our poppy fields or, worse yet, burn them down. They’ve begun killing families and burning down homes now. They are as lawless as we are, and yet they have the nerve to say they’re fighting a war on drugs by killing their own people.”
Cupid spat over the porch rail into the yard, an outward show of his disgust with the powers that be. It would be disrespectful to spit on his host’s porch.
Fidel shook his head in agreement, taking a shot of aguardiente and tossing it back then refilling the men’s shot glasses.
Mano wondered how the men would fly the plane if they drank too much aguardiente, a drink literally translated as fire water by some. Some preferred rum, and some loved their tequila. Still, aguardiente was the firewater many cartel craved; it was a drug to wash their worries away.
Mano’s ears perked up when he heard Cupid speak his name, “I’ve never asked you, amigo, what made you name your son Mano?”
Fidel chuckled as the memory of the boy’s birth, flooded back as if no time had passed. “When I looked in his eyes, and he balled his little fists up waving them at his newfound world, I knew he would be a man who had his hands in everything; he would have contacts and businesses that reached far beyond this beautiful land of Colombia and her borders. My son is multifaceted, and it will serve him well.”
The men nodded their heads as if pondering a great truth. Mano’s father had seen into the future as if he possessed a sixth sense or some crystal ball that revealed the boy’s destiny. When it came to his son’s future, perhaps he did, because his son would grow up to be what the Colombians referred to as a fixer.
Mano rubbed his tired eyes and took his father’s words to heart. There wouldn’t be anything Mano couldn’t accomplish with the connections and knowledge he’d possess as the years turned him from a boy to a man.
“There are men who are hiring Sicario to shoot the crop dusters to the ground when they attempt crop-dusting their poppy fields. Perhaps you should hire bodyguards to protect the finca.” The conversation had moved on as easily as if Mano’s name had never been mentioned.
Mano thought it was the man who had given him the unsettling feeling when he looked at him that was speaking now.
“Loco, I see now how you got your nickname. Blowing military planes out of the sky would draw unwanted attention. I’m just a humble farmer.”
This caused all the men to laugh. Fidel was a man who would kill you with no hesitation if you came against his family or business. He was a farmer with a fire in his soul; it had settled to embers as he’d aged, but it only took the right circumstance for those embers to be ignited and turned into a raging inferno.
Loco tossed back a shot of aguardiente and looked at Fidel and said, “If you ever change your mind, contact Cupid, and we’ll ensure you have Sicarios here within a day.”
Cupid stood and smacked his cowboy hat against his leg as if brushing off imaginary dust, “Thank you for your hospitality, mi amigo. Flying at night helps with staying under the radar. Hasta luego.”
The men said their goodbyes, and there was a part of Mano that was glad to see them go, especially the one his father referred to as El Loco.
Once again, he rubbed his tired eyes, but this time he climbed up into his bed to give way to the sleepiness that blanketed his little body. He went to sleep with dreams of the day he would have his hands in various businesses. He would live up to his name in ways even his father couldn’t imagine. Fidel gathered the shot glasses, checked to see if the cigars were extinguished and joined his wife in the bedroom.
“No wonder they call the man El Loco. He wants me to hire Sicarios to shoot military planes out of the sky.” Fidel looked at his wife and studied her features. She was beautiful, but it was her green eyes she’d gifted her son with that always pulled her husband into her web of intrigue. She was as smart as she was beautiful, and her husband never failed to include her in his business decisions. He often wondered why a woman like her would fall for a Colombian farmer. He never came up with an answer; all he knew was he was the luckiest man in the world.