Summer in Brooklyn. The boys sat outside the clubhouse talking baseball. Netflix. Too hot for any work. The only thing they’d murder today was a chopped cheese or two. Business was precarious anyway. Trouble with an out-of-town supplier. Rumors of an all-out war. The call came in from the source of the irritation. Proposing a smooth-over. “Come see me. Get out of the city. Cool off,” proposed Manu. “We’ll talk it over.” Sensing hesitation, he offered assurances. “I give you my solemn promise as a gentleman. Truce. No violence ‘til winter.” Manu was known as a man of his word.
Aldo stepped off the plane the next day. He was not a worldly man. Had not done a lot of travel that did not involve Jersey Turnpike exits. He barrelled through the airport and exited the big sliding doors at the curb. Saw Manu in the back seat of a waiting car. Aldo filled his lungs, imbibing deep draughts of the cool Argentinian air.
As he slid into the back seat, his host wasted no time zip-tying Aldo’s wrists and covering his head with a burlap sack. Then delivered a sharp uppercut to the traveller’s rib cage.
Aldo’s voice showed the confusion and betrayal, even more than any physical discomfort. “The truce? You promised.”
Manu was more than happy to educate another presumptuous, dumb Americano.
“I didn’t say whose winter. Mine is now.”
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