87, Bogota

“When we parted ways nine months ago after drinking for twenty four hours straight, I had a gut feeling that you’d randomly show up someday on my front porch looking like you just got gang banged by a pack of wooly mammoths.  Looks like I was right.”  The fifty five year old retired American military expatriate solider living in Bogota, Colombia named Dirt grinned from ear to ear.  It was eight in the morning and he’d answered his front door wearing a Hugh Hefner type red robe with bright white slippers that were dazzlingly clean.  “To what do I owe the honor, O’Connor?”  He giggled at his poetry.

“I’m on a vision quest to reconnect with my childhood hedgehog named Harvey.  He was murdered when I was ten.”  Twenty nine year old special agent demolitions expert Dale O’Connor reeked of whiskey and body odor.  “But that’ll have to wait cuz I’m hunting down a Mexican narcotics boss named El Padre.”  With no emotion, O’Connor said, “I need your help.”

“Well you came to the right place, Doc.  Get in here and let’s chat.”  Dirt beckoned his friend to enter his home without any further questions, as if random, sleepless, dirty Americans showing up in Bogota, Columbia at his front door was a regular occurrence.  

O’Connor knew that he was filthy from a week of not showering, and he appreciated that Dirt didn’t question the comment about his vision quest to communicate with a dead rodent.  Instead, Dirt closed the door behind O’Connor and said, “The bathroom is down the hallway on your left and towels are under the sink.  Shower up and I’ll make coffee.”

“Thanks,” O’Connor muttered.  “If you have another robe, I’d wear it if you’d let me borrow your washer and dryer.”

“I’ve got boxes of clothes that’ll fit you, no problem.  I’ve got you covered, amigo,” Dirt said as he disappeared around the corner.

While walking to the bathroom, O’Connor glanced into the living room area.  There were three latino dudes passed out on very long, large couches.  All three of them had six pack abs with shredded physiques, and all of them were sprawled out wearing tight, designer underwear.  There were bottles of half drank rum on the coffee table and the room looked like it was in complete disarray with blankets and couch cushions strewn about all over.

O’Connor thought to himself that he was witnessing the aftermath of an all night party with gay guys, but he didn’t care.  He was just grateful to get to a shower after a week of sleepless nights and international travel.

The hot water slipped over O’Connor’s skin like a never ending stream of kisses from angels.  The bathroom was beautifully decorated and painted, and the shower had various different soaps with powerfully floral fragrances.  He would’ve normally taken a very quick shower, but the mango body scrub was so enticing that O’Connor scrubbed himself down a second time, just to fill his nostrils with its pleasant aroma.

He rinsed well and reluctantly turned the hot water off.  Upon pulling back the shower curtain, he saw a stack of clothes on the counter next to the sink that someone had obviously set there for him while he was showering even though he’d reflexively locked the door before showering, nor did he ever hear anyone come or go.  On top of the stack of clothes was an unopened package of underwear that was identical to the underwear worn by the guys passed out in Dirts living room.

Not questioning anything, O’Connor dried off and put the clothes on.  They fit him snugly and showed off his skinny, ripped physique.  If he weren’t white, he could’ve been mistaken as a gay brother to the three latino dudes in the other room.

As O’Connor opened the bathroom door, the aroma of fresh brewed coffee and cooking bacon wafted into his nostrils.  Instantly his mouth watered.  As he walked towards the smells, he passed by the living room.  It was tidied up and the three passed out dudes had disappeared.  The room was clean, as if it had been wiped down and vacuumed in the twenty minutes that O’Connor had been showering.  Again, not questioning anything, O’Connor walked into the kitchen.

Dirt stood over a stove that had two frying pans, one sizzling with bacon and the other with sausage.  “Doc, if you’re a vegetarian, all I have are bananas for breakfast,” Dirt said with a smile.

“I’m a fan of salted pig, Dirt.  This looks and smells amazing,” O’Connor said with no emotion as Dirt handed him a mug of steaming, fresh coffee.

“Cream is on the top shelf in the fridge and sugar is in the blue Athenian pot by the coffee maker, there,” Dirt said as he pointed.

O’Connor said, “I like my coffee like I like my women.”

“Hot, steamy and full of cream?” Dirt joked with a grin.

“Strong and black,” O’Connor said, quoting a joke from the 80’s comedy movie, Airplane.

“Never heard that one before.  I like it,” Dirt nodded in ignorant appreciation.

“At least I didn’t say ground up and in the freezer,” O’Connor darkly joked.

“To each their own!” Dirt said happily back.  “I made a whole pot.  Drink up!”

O’Connor took note that Dirt had changed from his robe and slippers into slacks and a loose fitting button up shirt.  He had a five o’clock shadow to accompany his perfectly grey mustache but his head was as bald as a baby’s butt.  O’Connor noticed he was barefoot and asked, “Where’d your awesome slippers go?”

Hot bacon fat spitted and hissed as Dirt used tongs to turn the strips over in one of the frying pans.  “I don’t want to get them dirty, in case they get grease on them,” he answered matter of factly.

“Makes sense,” O’Connor replied just as dryly.  He wondered where the underwear guys with six packs were, or if they’d left, but he didn’t ask about them.

Cutting to the chase, Dirt asked, “So what’s the deal with this Mexican narco you’re trying to get, and how can I help?”

O’Connor responded as if this sort of fucked up social situation wasn’t fucked up at all.  “Team Whiskey is hunting a narco out of Mexico City named El Padre.”  

“Never heard of the fella but I already don’t like him.  Do tell.”

O’Connor filled Dirt in about Murdock’s adventures in the casino that El Padre owned, how they trashed it as a team and killed some of his top thugs inside the casino before detonating industrial grade stink bombs, then how they’d randomly been in altercations ever since with bikers that belonged to El Padre’s crime syndicate and how Death and Blacktide had killed several of El Padres bad guys in shootouts.

“Ah yes, Blacktide and Death!” Dirt exclaimed with happiness.  “The last I saw them, I’d stuck them on a plane bound for the Galapagos and drugged them with cannabis chocolates!  They were gonna island hop to Hawaii and then Tokyo, ultimately bound for Russia.  I never heard back from them, so I assumed no news was good news.”

“They made it and they kicked ass, but this last mission in Mexico has had us going back and forth from D.C. to Mexico for the past six months.  El Padre has been impossible to flush out of hiding,” O’Connor said.

“The ladies never mentioned that they want to kill me, did they?” Dirt asked sheepishly as he used tongs to pull bacon out of the frying pan.  “I knew they wouldn’t eat those chocolates if they knew they were hot, so I didn’t tell them,” he said as he added new raw bacon strips to the hot grease.  The pan sizzled and the room smelled amazing.

After taking a long sip of delicious coffee, O’Connor said, “Yup.  Death said she’s gonna strangle you with your own mustache.”

A huge laugh came pouring out of Dirt that rumbled up from the core of his belly.  “If Death wants me dead, I’m fucked!”

“Nah, they were both blown away that you got shit done so quickly and efficiently.  It was insane,” O’Connor said thankfully.

“I’ve got friends in low places, Doc,” Dirt said happily as his laugh subsided.  “Even if their names are agent Death and agent Blacktide.”

Hearing the name Blacktide made O’Connor realize how much he missed her.  O’Connor had pulled one of his classic disappearing acts on the team when she’d brought up Harvey, and although the rest of the crew was used to him going on radio silent walkabouts, this was the first time he’d ever had a steady girlfriend as he disappeared.  “Actually, Blacktide and I have been dating for three months.”  For the first time all morning, O’Connor grinned.

“Nice!” Dirt said.  With no regard for conservative social dialogue when it came to talking about people’s personal lives, he added, “She’s easy on the eyes, and I imagine she’s a vixen in the sack!”

As Dirt smiled from ear to ear while flipping breakfast sausages in the other frying pan, O’Connor found himself smiling just as widely.  Maybe Dirt was straight after all?  He decided to be a bro and talk sex.  “She’s a fucking maniac and I fear for my life every time we jump into bed.”  He took another sip of coffee as he saw Dirt nodding approvingly.  “It’s terrifying and exhilarating.  I can’t get enough of her.”

“Boom!” Dirt said with a laugh.  “That feeling is called love, amigo.  Good old fashioned, love.”  Dirt looked up at a large picture on the wall that had several men and women dressed in their American military best.  “Hold onto love, Doc.  It’s fleeting.”  He looked longingly at the picture, sighed, then went back to his stove top duties.

As Dirt closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his chest in a memory, O’Connor contemplated the word, “love.”  Was that what he was feeling?  He knew he loved his friends on Team Whiskey, and he loved his job, but he realized that he’d never truly loved a woman before, especially not his drunk mother who called him a pussy his whole youth.  “Dang, Dirt.  You think it’s love, huh?”

“I do.  I haven’t felt that feeling for a long time.”

O’Connor was lonely, half drunk, intrigued, and hungry from the amazing smells that filled the kitchen.  He asked Dirt, “Have you ever been in love?”

Dirt sighed.  “Only once with a pilot named Pat.”

O’Connor figured Pat was a guy’s name and he looked up at the picture Dirt had been looking at.  Of the eight soldiers in the pic smiling for the camera, two were in their pilot fatigues, one male, one female.  O’Connor didn’t know if Pat was a guy or a girl and he was too afraid to ask for specifics.  “What happened?” O’Connor asked sheepishly.

“I was young and too full of my own ego.”  Dirt had come back to life from another momentary reverie and resumed flipping sausages and bacon in their respective pans.  “That’s awesome about you and Blacktide, amigo.”  He paused, then added, “Congrats, Doc.  She’s amazing.”

A wave of guilt washed over O’Connor.  “She doesn’t know where I am, and I didn’t take my wrist watch or phone with me when I left Mexico City.”

For the first time all morning, Dirt got judgmental.  “Why in the fuck would you do that?”

“I don’t know, actually.”  O’Connor explained that at least one time a year, he’d pull a disappearing act on the team and go on a walkabout.  Usually it was related to something for a job that the team needed to do, and this was no different, but this was the first time that O’Connor had ever had a steady girlfriend when he’d pulled his vanishing act.

“You’ve got issues, hombre,” Dirt said.  Going back to his normal chill self he added, “I’m not one to judge.  Hell, I ran away from everything I loved back in the States and Panama to try and take down cocaine cartels here in Bogota after I reached retirement.  But I never had a long term steady sweetheart in my life like you.”

The guilt started getting heavier on O’Connor.  “I’ve left her three messages on her work phone cuz the phone number is only one digit different than mine, but I never committed her cell phone number to memory, so I don’t know if she’s heard the messages on her work phone or not.  I’m guessing not since she’s most likely still in Mexico City.  I know she’s shitty at even checking email, let alone the vm’s at her office back in D.C.”  He shook his head.  “I mean, if I can’t memorize a girl’s phone number, can that be love?”

As Dirt continued to rotate sausages and flip bacon, he smiled an easy smile that came from having a few extra decades of life experience over his fellow American.  “Men can memorize their favorite sports statistics but can’t remember birthdays.  It doesn’t mean we don’t love our loved ones, amigo.”

Giving it some thought, O’Connor muttered, “Yeah, I still remember the score to the Rugby World Cup final but I don’t know Lex’s number.  It’s fucked.”

Dirt rubbed his clean, bald head and his grey mustache twitched a little bit.  “We react foolishly to shit when we’re angry and hateful, but in the end, when we’re proactive and want to kick ass, it’s because of love.  It’s why we do what we do.”

Realizing he’d never contemplated the “why” of his life before, O’Connor crinkled his brow.  He wasn’t ready yet to face down the fact that he probably did love his girlfriend.  Years of hurt kept that part of his brain blocked.  “I just took this job because I was recruited and I love blowing shit up.”  He spoke truthfully, but some layer of disbelief crept into what he’d just said.

“You’re a protector, Doc.  Me too.  We’re not afraid.”  Dirt had only said a few words over the sizzling breakfast meat, but they felt like a lot for O’Connor to unpack.

“Protector?  Ya think?”

“You know it!  Let me get breakfast off of the stove top and let’s chat about killing El Padre.  Oh, and I still have Death’s number in my cell, so I’ll text her to get Blacktide’s number later.”

The thought made O’Connor feel partly giddy and partly guilty.  “Thanks, Dirt.”

After a good conversation and healthy breakfast, Dirt said, “A friend of mine is connecting me with another American whom I’m supposed to meet up with in a few hours at a cafe.  It’s in regards about some dark Russian connections here in Columbia.  I’ll throw this business of finding El Padre out there and see if we can’t get some help from this connection too.”

“I’m in for more coffee,” O’Connor said approvingly.

As the two agents left, O’Connor took note of Dirt’s perfectly clean, white shoes.  They were stunning.  Walking to his small car, he took note of the perfectly manicured lawn and copious lawn decorations.  He couldn’t tell if Dirt was gay or not.  Not that it mattered, but not knowing took up some of his brain power.

The drive was casual as the men talked about the city and how things had been since Team Whiskey had found Tiberon and killed him.  Dirt had been keeping tabs on out of town narcos trying to set up shop to fill the vacuum of power, but so far the out of town narcos ended up disappearing before they could get established because Dirt’s connections would conveniently take them out.  O’Connor told Dirt about his unofficial mission of blowing up a warehouse full of drugs, getting fired, hooking up with Blacktide, then getting rehired while General Rice discovered their love affair, then being shipped to Mexico only to be kept on this perpetual wild goose chase to find El Padre.

Half an hour later the two Americans sat at a table in an outdoor cafe.  The ambiance was very relaxing as the radio played orchestral tango music.  There were a few young couples, and O’Connor couldn’t help but notice two different tables of gay men who were flamboyantly laughing while enjoying their caffeinated drinks.  O’Connor said, “Nice place.”

“I love this cafe!” Dirt said with enthusiasm.  “The young people here make me feel young and…” he paused, looking for the word, then said, “spry!”  Dirt was taking in the scenery as he replied, “The brunch here is to die for.”

As he said those words, a small ethnic Colombian woman walked up the sidewalk with a big smile on her face.  “Hola amigo!” she said to Dirt.

The old, bald American looked over and his face lit up.  “Lucía!  Good to see you, amiga!”  He popped up from his chair and gave her a huge hug.  He turned to O’Connor and said, “This is my friend, Doc.”

“Mucho gusto, Doc,” Lucía said politely.  She looked back at Dirt and said, “My American friend texted me that she’ll be here in a few minutes!”

“Perfecto,” Dirt said happily in his decent Spanish accent.

Dirt and Lucía started talking quickly in Spanish.  O’Connor spoke perfect Spanish and understood that they were talking about decorating his kitchen with new blinds.  When she mentioned removing the inset lights and replacing them with track lighting, Dirt’s face lit up with joy.  “Yup,” O’Connor thought to himself: Those clean ass shoes.  Loves brunch.  Has garden gnomes, and now wants to install track lighting.  Dirt’s gotta be gay.  He randomly asked out loud, “Hey Dirt, what do you think of Lady Gaga’s music?”

Dirt’s brow crinkled in confusion from the random question but a smile crept across his face.  “She’s brilliant.  Why do you ask?”

Before O’Connor could answer, a female voice from behind him spoke in midwestern American English with excited sarcasm.  “Well lookie who we have here!”  O’Connor turned around to see the face of Russian based Team Whiskey member Mikayla Doniak.  “Look what the fucking cat dragged in!”

“Good to see you too, Mickey!” O’Connor said with a big grin as he threw his arms around her for a big hug.  They embraced for several seconds with little giggles excentuating their mutual excitement, then as they let go of their hug O’Connor said, “Dirt didn’t tell me you were gonna be here!?”

“And Lucía didn’t tell me you were gonna be here either!” Doniak said.  Her smile turned inquisitive.  “Von Stryker and I got word in Moscow that you and Blacktide have been dating.  Is she here?”

“No, she’s not,” he replied honestly with his typical dry tone.

Not being able to read her friend, Doniak asked, “Are you two still a thing?”

O’Connor’s face lit up again.  “Yes!  Well…. actually, yeah, I think so.”

“Jesus, Doc, what in the fuck is going on?” Doniak asked with concern.

Dirt answered for him.  “He didn’t bring his cell phone or wrist communicator down here, so he hasn’t texted or called her in a week.”

Doniak’s eyes got huge with part surprise, part female judgment.  “What the hell, Doc?!”

O’Connor tried to protest.  “I left her three voicemails on her office phone back in D.C.!”  He dropped his head sheepishly and admitted, “I never memorized her cell number.”

Doniak wanted to start berating her friend but she could see he was actually sad.  Her empathy vibrated deeply with his sadness and she went easy on him.  “Dude, D.C. is only an hour ahead of us.  I’ve got her number in my cell and we can call her right now.”

“She’s actually in Mexico City, or, at least I think she is,” O’Connor admitted sheepishly.  “But that’s only an hour behind us, and I’d really like to leave her a message on her cell to let her know I’m down here.”

“Your girlfriend doesn’t know you’re in fucking Colombia?  What the fuck, Doc?  For real!” Doniak snapped as her empathy dissolved.

Deciding to answer honestly, O’Connor said, “I’m on a walkabout vision quest to try and connect with any cosmic love leftover from my hedgehog, Harvey who died when I was ten.”

Dirt grinned and addressed O’Connor.  “I can help you with that, amigo.  I know a few good mushroom shamans who’ve helped me go to the other side to talk to Jimmy Hendrix.”  The heartbroken demolitions expert’s eyes got huge but Dirt lifted his finger to interrupt O’Connor, “But first, call your girlfriend on her cell, dummy.”  Dirt looked at Lucía and Doniak.  “I’m hoping you two can help us find out which Colombian narcos are selling product into Mexico City so we can get info on a bad guy up there.”

Lucía seemed to be ready to get down to business as she said, “Well let’s order some café and see what we can do, yes?”

Doniak and O’Connor made eye contact as he asked her, “You’re here because of Russian connections to Colombian narcos?”

“Yeah,” Doniak nodded.  “Some greedy fucks who own a shit ton of shady businesses in Russia are trying to get all tied up into the oil industry over in Venezuela and they’re using Colombian drug money to make it all happen.”

“Gotta love shady Russians,” O’Connor said jokingly as he thought of what he was going to say to Blacktide.

“Yeah, and these fuckers are mean.  Their boss is ruthless.  I mean, we’re talking, no fucking good.  His name is Gosavich.”

O’Connor froze at the name as he repeated it.  “Gosavich.”  All thoughts of Blacktide left his mind and they were replaced with his irrational fear.  He sighed.  “Shit.”

In the distance, greedy Russian businessmen met with foreign diplomats sent by the communist government of Venezuela to Colombia in attempts to make deals for international money in exchange for oil from rich oil fields while never knowing that some very emotionally unstable American military freaks were onto their corruption with intentions to fuck them up beyond all recognition.