Chapter 6 How to Make Friends and Influence Brothers
“Gentlemen, how can I help you?” My little brother is blissfully chatting with a heavy-set guy about game design as they splash in the shallows. I have to negotiate with a hostile force of teenagers who look like they would just as soon mug me as talk to me. Yay for older brother responsibilities!
"I don't think anybody's ever called me a gentleman, Ese.” The leader puts his feet up on the table and leans back in his chair with arms behind his head. One of his cronies adjusts the table’s umbrella to cover him without any prompting. The leader oozes wannabe gangster.
“What should I call you?”
“Pablo will do.” Pablo closes his eyes and appears perfectly comfortable in his plastic beach chair. There aren’t any wooden ones left after years of decay and shifting sands.
I can’t afford to show weakness here. Or else Lee and I could end up like that rotten wood washed out to sea. Dead and decaying. It’s times like these I wonder what my landlubber friends would do. Like Juan. It’s been years since I last saw him. He lived nearby. Sojourn’s weather reports didn’t forecast the locals needing any help, so we stayed away. Juan would probably turn these guys into friends or amigos. Somehow. Me, I keep making observations. Scanning the environment. Thankfully, I don’t see the thugs hiding any antique firearms under shoulders or behind belts.
These old North American territories have more guns than people. Or had. After World War III their government had become a little more security conscious and a little less freedom-loving when the Eastern Bloc tried to start a civil war in their backyard. Guns still show up on our salvage missions occasionally, but most are useless after forty years of rust. But all it takes is one cleaned up gun to end a team’s time under the sun.
It’s one reason why our foraging parties wear armor, carry radios, and make sure everyone has a partner. Call-ins are supposed to happen every 4 hours. To the ink hub Lee and I control. We send quick signals back to prevent Malo attacks or hostile forces triangulating on us. The remaining teams then know something is wrong if a team fails to check-in. Procedure is to retreat and regroup in Sojourn. It’s always better to negotiate by radio, keep our enemies guessing, until Sojourn ends the negotiations. Sojourn has plenty to negotiate with. If that fails, the science department ensures the security department is well-equipped with fun and explosive toys to extract hostages. Or permanently end negotiations.
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Right now, I’m way more scared of Pablo and his gang carrying knives. Knives are everywhere. Which makes them easy to overlook. Knives are harder to detect, faster in close quarters, and can kill just as easily as a gun without wasting ammo. And knives can still mess you up when rusted.
“Pablo, tell me what I can do for you.” I slouch against the cabana. If this guy doesn’t think I can do anything for him…
“Amigo, relax.” Pablo spreads his arms wide with an easy grin revealing pointy white teeth. Reminds me of the sharks I’ve swum with. Only more malicious. Sharks don’t eat you unless they’re hungry. “It’s a beautiful day. Me and the boys noticed a lot of new faces walking around. Maybe you could tell me about them?”
“I doubt I know every new face in town. My brother and I just got here. We came from the floating city.” Everybody perked up at that. I counted five astonished faces staring at me as if I’d just turned green. Pablo tried to hide his reaction quickly. He nearly flipped the table in the process of flailing his arms to regain his balance.
“Jefe, think of what they got in their bags!” The gangliest wannabe gangster exclaimed.
“Quiete, Arturo!” Pablo glares and gangly Arturo backs up a step. “Why not show us what’s in your bag, eh, amigo?” I hear sand shift beneath five pairs of shoes. This was a command, not a request. The hourglass for this ‘negotiation’ was cracking.
I reply, “No problem, amigo.” Pablo’s shark-like grin reappears as I pull my bag off my shoulders. As part of the motion, I look out to see where Lee is. The oblivious child has taken off his shoes and socks, splashing in the surf. The fat guy is sitting in the sand, starting on a sandcastle. Not keeping a close eye on Lee. It isn’t time yet.
“Hey, everybody,” I hear my little brother’s voice call out, “look at that!” I watch as the gangsters all turn to look towards the ocean. Now!
I push the table into Pablo, swing my bag into Arturo’s weaselly face, and whistle like crazy.
