deadknockers

        Reuben was beloved by everyone as "Angel Eyes."
        His obsidean orbs blazed like hellfire. Like a six-winged seraphim he possessed a severe androgynous beauty that caused many a heart to flutter. He was able to bed anyone he desired. When ever he cast a gaze into the stadium bleachers women swooned and men licked their lips. His smile out-dazzled the sun.
        His prowess on the field rivaled that of Mango.
        Always the gentleman, he played with high drama and finesse. His boldly won matches were uncanny.
        Belonging to a lesser league, Mango never faced Reuben man to man.
        This day Mango and Jimmy-Scamp sat on the highest bleacher, drinking palm wine from a miniature amphora. They heckled Reuben to the dismay of adoring fans.
        A yellow-skinned woman the size of a Hummer hollered at them: "Shut your filthy mouths! You sons of black whores!"
        Another Afro-Asian woman, smaller but no less vocal, barked: "Worthless borachos, go to hell!"
        The punks looked at each other, amazed with their effect upon the crowd.
        They shrugged and then directed abuse toward the two women.
        "Hey-yo, Mama Zitas! Go home and wash your stinking pussies!"
        Reuben looked up into the crowd and locked eyes with Mango. Behave yourselves. Or there will be blood.
        Jimmy-Scamp nudged Mango. "We better pipe down."


                                                                                           *


        The public address system rattled like a man dying of emphysema. Music from a recorded Wurlitzer organ hissed and popped. The crowd cheered as their heros positioned themselves to receive the ball. It crossed the field several times amid bitter strife. As the clock ticked down, the ball was marshalled violently toward Reuben. He took it and turned to launch it point blank for a guaranteed goal.
         Then like Pallas Athena on the plains of Troy, Fate laid her terrible hand upon Reuben's play. He sliced the ball wide and the game was lost. His mates fell to their knees upon the hushed field and wept.
        Shock and disappointment reigned in the home bleachers.
        Even Mango and Jimmy-Scamp sat stunned and speechless.
        A boozy Cayman man shouted: "Goddamn Spanish Jew. He cost me fifty pounds!"
        Mango stood up and said to Jimmy-Scamp, "Let's get out of here."


                                                                                    *


        Fans of the victorious team paraded through Old Town's grand colonial bars and hotels, some with balconied iron filigree. Soon the avenue was clogged with rowdies tossing beer bottles at cars. Reuben drove his Jeep Wrangler in the opposite direction and found himself in Spanish Town. He desired anonymity, but there was none to be had, and his hellbent quest led him onto the meanest of streets.
        Everyone in the smoke-filled barroom knew him when he entered.
        Dressed like a canecutter, he was too pretty to be a canecutter.
        Red and black checkerboard flannel shirt and bluejeans with slit knees. Nice try. He looked more like a collegiate Sandinista. When he ordered a beer he spoke in high-toned Old World Spanish.
        Big Jugs called to the barkeep: "Angel Eyes wants a cervay-tha!"
        A man with a pox-scarred face sat at a nearby table. He asked, "Why are you dressed so shabbily, amigo?"
        "I wanted to get away from my people. You can see that."
        "Si."
        Big Jugs added, "You should get away from here."
        "I gather this is not the place."
        "This is not the place."
        Reuben drank his beer as calmly as he could before departing.
        On the sidewalk a drunken man from Alabama cursed him. "Never thought YOU would shave points, son."
         Barrel-chested burgundy Izod knit shirt. Khaki Dockers slacks with a blued snub .38 tucked in the waist like an old fashion belly gun. Pig eyes, set wide apart.
         "Pardon me," Reuben groaned. "I must be going."
         "Well, don't let ME stop you, son."
         The street led away into a fog thick enough to blur neon signs. His Jeep Wrangler was parked at the mouth of an alley. Keys already in hand, he kept thinking: Got to get out of here. Got to get out of here.


                                                                                     *


         Reuben "Angel Eyes" Guzman was not the innocent fool. He knew that island soccer was rife with gambling, most of it on the level of craps and penny-ante poker. There were Haitian racketeers who controlled the serious betting. In hotels, hotsy-totsy joints, even beachside cabanas. They had enforcers
that no one resisted. Zombie Ton Ton.
        He knew you could go online with Las Vegas. VISA, MasterCard and AMEX accepted.
        That said, Reuben "Angel Eyes" Guzman ignored the criminal infestation.
        His game was clean. A joyous sport.


                                                                                   *


        The machete bit into him with a whump.
        Sticky with cane sap, the blade severed half the neck. Collarbone and esophagus were ruined. Flannel folded into the gash. It blotted up arterial blood. Again the awful blade zoomed down, missing the neck, and chopped into the deltoid. The assassin screamed. He had wished to decapitate the soccer player and steal the head. With an angry slash he lopped off the lower jaw.
        There! That should terrorize the children!
        Reuben's vision dimmed. Through the fog a red neon sign blinked: CERVEZA CERVEZA CERVEZA.