Sons of War: Firefly
One shiny black alligator skin shoe touched the loose gravel of the parking lot as the man stepped
out of his silver BMW 645Ci Convertible. Dark grey slacks fell over the shoe and black sock as he stood straight and set his
other foot on the ground. Holding up the pants was a black belt that matched the alligator leather of the dress shoes. The
shirt he wore beneath his grey blazer was a dark green like the forest at dusk and the tie was black, hanging almost down
to the belt.
A light breeze brought the night air to the man’s nostrils as he closed the car door behind
him. The air was brisk; nothing like the blistering heat of the day only hours before, the kind of dry heat that caused the
air to shimmer over the asphalt. Desert air. It brought with it the scent of dust and rock, dead things that buzzards picked
off of down the road. But with the musty scent came that of food. Southwestern style, more Mexican than American. And sweat.
Bodies in motion. Dancing. Skin to skin.
The music blared from the club so loudly it seemed to almost reverberate from the distant mountain
walls. But the echo was illusion. You couldn’t hear the music a mile down the road. Still, it did its work in drowning
out the true beauty of the desert night: the silence, broken only by the occasional yip and howl of a hunting coyote or hoot
of an owl. The lights too effectively obscured the desert night’s other beauty, its endless starry sky, outmatched only
by the night sky over the ocean.
Crunching his way over the gravel, the man made his way to the double doors at the front of
the club. There was no doorman or long line for him to push his way through. This wasn’t a club in the middle of the
city, after all. You had to drive ten minutes from the edge of town just to get here. There was a cover charge, though. Ten
dollars. But it was all worth it.
Every weekend the place had a live band and a trendy DJ to play between sets. Tonight the band
was a local group. Apparently they were popular, too, because the tip jar was already full and they were barely thirty minutes
into their performance. The dance floor was packed.
The man found a seat a few tables back from the dance floor, not close enough to it to be crowded
every time a song started and the same people who were just on it rushed back to dance again. They were a tireless group of
people, dancers. The band played country music and tejano, with a little cumbia thrown in sometimes. It wasn’t his type
of music, but the man sat back and enjoyed it all the same.
As he bent forward to light a cigarette, his eyes scanned the room for the woman he came there
for. He found her leaning at the bar with her friends.
She was a perfect example of gorgeous. The woman in red. Three-inch red heels met with black
stockings riding up smooth legs that went from here to forever. The hem of the blood-red skirt stopped just below the area
where the buttock met the thigh. The skin of her arms and face was a smooth creamy light brown color; the result of White
and Latino breeding. Her hair fell in gleaming black waves down just past her shoulder blades. It framed a face that could
have been on the cover of any Hollywood
magazine; a face with rich brown eyes, trimmed brows and long, curved lashes, a dainty nose, and full, kissable lips. The
lipstick that graced those sultry lips was a red that matched that of her dress and shoes like white on rice. Or red on blood,
as it were.
She laughed, and though he couldn’t hear it the man knew it was a good laugh. He could
tell by the way the men near her reacted to the laugh. She opened her mouth when she laughed; opening it as if to display
her perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. It was an infectious laugh, he could tell. The kind of laugh that made the
men around her want to know what was so funny, made them want to be in on the joke. In on it just to be a little closer to
her.
He continued to watch her, studying her mannerisms. The way she stirred her drink with the straw
and held it close to her as she listened to her friends talk, as if she were just about take a drink but wasn’t quite
ready yet. The way she looked into her friend’s eyes as they talked, with a bit of attraction that they both shared
but would never do anything about unless both were completely drunk. He watched her until a waitress came up to him and asked
him if he’d like a drink.
“Yes, I believe I will,” he said, and put out his cigarette in an ashtray.
“Okay, what will you have?”
“I’ll have what she’s having,” he replied, pointing to the woman in
the red dress.
The waitress glanced over and knew right away who he was talking about. “A Long
Island Iced Tea?” she clarified.
“Yes, that’ll do. How many has she had already?”
She looked back again and seemed to think about it for a moment before answer-ing, “I
believe that is her second.”
“Thank you,” he said, flashing her a winning smile.
She smiled back and moved away to get his drink. His attention turned back to the woman in red.
He would have to introduce himself soon, before some other guy tried to move in. He could see
them watching her. Most of the men there came with their girlfriends or wives. But the ones who came alone were too shy to
ask her. They came to the club for a good time, but would wait in their corners hoping for some hot chick to come up and ask
them to dance, pretend they were just there to play pool. They would shake their heads and say they couldn’t dance and
the girl would force them too. Romance would bloom. Or so they hoped. It almost never happened that way, though. Some would
get up the courage, or give up and go home alone well before the music stopped playing.
The problem with Red was that, to these guys, she seemed inaccessible. She was gorgeous and
accompanied by a small number of equally pretty friends. It was an intimi-dating sight, to say the least. The shy guys had
only two options with her if they asked her to dance. Either she’d be impressed with their confidence or pity their
shyness and say yes, or she and her friends would shoot them down.
Yes, he would have to introduce himself soon, before they took his approach as that of a man
getting his courage only after another did it first. But he couldn’t truly introduce himself, because there was a problem
with that. He wasn’t himself.
He was a shapeshifter. He could make himself appear as pleasing to the eye as he wanted, or
as hideous. Sure, everything on him belonged to him, except for what counted: his face. The
face was that of the man whose wallet and car he had stolen to get here. Short, light brown hair, a strong jaw line, and blue
eyes. Marvin Wailer. Marv. That was who he would introduce himself as.
The waitress brought him his drink. He took a sip and stood from his chair. Making his way to
the woman in red he could almost feel the gazes fall on him as he approached her, and the agony each man felt as they realized
their chance with her, if there ever had been one, was about to disappear.
Moments drifted by slowly as he moved toward her. He was in no hurry. He weaved through the
tables, looking around as if he were trying to find someone, anyone worth his time. The men watching found hope in his eratic
pattern, until he inevitably turned back to the woman. It was a waste of their time to get up now. They had no chance. He
was suave. They were ungainly, at best. There he was in his stylish three-piece suit, like a businessman out for a night on
the town, while they sat in their best from Sears and J.C. Penny. Their outfits cost them a good $150 to $200. Several hours
of wages to look nice. And what had his cost him? Ten times as much? At least.
Finally he made it to the woman, and finally the men stopped watching. One or two even got up
to leave. She was facing her friends when he got there, so he leaned beside her and placed his drink on the bar. He watched
her as she talked to them, looked her up and down with open admiration. Her two friends didn’t notice at first. The
one directly in front of her was a blonde with blue eyes. She didn’t seem to fit with the trio, as the other was Latino
as well. Full-blooded. With richer brown skin and darker eyes than Red, but the same raven-black hair falling just to her
shoulders.
They caught him admiring their girlfriend. He winked at them. The Latina
smiled back, almost unwillingly, as if she had been trying to resist the charm but found she couldn’t. The blonde smiled
back happily and nodded to her friend in red. She turned around with a confused look on her face.
“May I buy you and your friends another drink?” he asked, leaning in to speak over
the music, close enough that she could smell his aftershave, but not too close to make her uncomfortable.
She looked down at her glass after a brief moment of being dazed by the faint spicy odor. Just
a little more than half remained. “I’m good,” she said, glancing back up at him.
He leaned in a little closer, stretching that invisible line of comfort. “I can have them
put one on ice for you, then, if you’d like.”
She shook her head and smiled. “Oh no, I probably shouldn’t. This is only my second
and I’m already starting to feel it.”
“How about your friends; can I get them something?”
“I’ll take anything you can give me, big boy!” the blonde said playfully.
“Tina!” Red exclaimed, astounded as she glanced back at her friend. She glanced
back at him apologetically. “Sorry, this is my friend, Tina. She’s a little crazy.”
He smiled gamely and extended a hand to Tina. “Good to meet you, Tina,” he said.
“My name’s Marv.”
“And this is my other friend, Rosa.”
He nodded with a smile to the woman behind Tina and extended his hand to her as well. She gave
him a faint smile in return, but shook his hand firmly. “You must be the talkative one of the group,” he teased.
“I’m Marv.”
“Nice to meet you, Marv,” she said insincerely.
“And I’m Maria,” the woman in red finished. She rolled the ‘r’
in her name. The Spanish side of her peaking out, mixing with the more colorless part of her accent.
He knew her name already, though. Maria Canton. Born July
18th, 1977; in an inner-city hospital. Her father was the White parent; it showed in her name. He hadn’t
even had to read the rest of her file to see that. He took her hand and placed a light kiss on her knuckles.
Maria gazed back at her friends for a space of moments. Tina got the meaning of the look right
away. Rosa did too, but she wasn’t quite as ready to comply.
“Come on Rosa,” Tina said. “Let’s go…powder
our noses or something.”
She gave Marv a wink before turning to leave and taking Rosa’s
arm to follow. He could tell they didn’t get along that well. Two friends from different sides of the tracks. Mexican
and Caucasian. Maria had apparently found it difficult reconciling the two halves of her whole. She had mingled with each
group, taking what she liked from both and leaving the rest behind. A best friend from each race. They got along for her sake,
but for nothing else.
“So...your name’s Marv?” Maria asked once they were gone.
His smile widened at the look on her face. She was amused by his name. “Yes, I know,”
he said. “My parents didn’t have a knack for naming. Starvin’ Marvin, they used to call me.” He shook
his head, getting into the story. “I was so skinny when I was a kid, but I ate like a pig. I still do, and look at me!”
“Oh I am,” she replied flirtingly, her gaze traveling up and down his body, just
as his had before with her. “You’ve obviously filled out nicely since then, though.”
“Well thanks. You don’t look so bad yourself.”
They continued flirting and telling each other about themselves until Marv finally asked her
to dance. While they were dancing Rosa and Tina returned to the bar to find new drinks in place of their old ones, courtesy
of Marv. The song ended and the two dancing returned to the bar. Marv talked to the two other girls, letting them in on the
conversation between him and Maria. He spoke to all three of them like they were his equals, never once inserting a chauvinistic
remark or a dirty joke. He told clean jokes, or at least dirty jokes that women would appreciate as well. The girlfriends
gave Maria their silent approval of him.
The night went on in much the same way. They continued to talk and laugh as they told stories
and jokes. The conversation only broke so Marv and Maria could go back out onto the dance floor. Marv was even able to use
a brief pause on his way to the bathroom to talk one of the shy guys into asking Rosa to dance. It
didn’t take long for another to follow suit and ask Tina.
Now Maria’s girlfriends were even happier with how the night was going. They joined the
two on the dance floor with their dates. Occasionally they traded dancers, until Maria decided she would rather stick with
Marv. After a couple of songs they all returned to the bar. Three men laughed and told stories with three women equally participating.
The drinks continued to come. Maria even took Marv’s initial offer, having a third and even a fourth Long Island Iced
Tea.
With each dance the two moved closer to one another, until during the last few songs their bodies
touched and they could feel every curve between them. She could tell as they danced how ready Marv was to get out of there.
But she held her ground, letting up only a bit at a time.
They moved closer as they spoke, too, saying little things to each other as the others told
their stories. They talked to one another as if they were the only ones in the room, speaking over a loud din coming from
unseen places. They came back from the dance floor once and Tina’s date continued a story from where he had left off
before. Marv leaned in to comment on the unlikely details of the man’s story, and Maria’s answer to his comment
was a kiss on the lips.
From that point on they were the only ones in the
room. They continued to kiss, their hands roving over each other’s bodies but never straying too far. The story was
drowned out, forgotten like some long lost legend. It did not exist. The man telling it did not exist. Maria’s friends
did not exist. None of it did.
A song rose up through the nothingness and drove their loins back to the floor. They danced
so close together they could have passed through each other and come out on the other side if not for the flesh and bone holding
them back. They kissed while they danced, and the world was no longer nothing around them. It was them and the music. And
that was it. There wasn’t even a floor beneath their feet. They simply floated.
It was turning out to be the best night of Maria’s troubled life.
All too soon, however, it came to a close. Last call came and it seemed they had barely started
drinking. They all begged the bartender to keep the bar open, but their pleas fell on deaf ears. The band had already packed
their equipment and was heading out the door, and it seemed the D.J. was about to do the same. The three couples decided they
would go ahead and leave before they were kicked out.
Tina went home with the man she had picked up after handing her car keys to Rosa.
Rosa, on the other hand, gave her date her phone number and drove home alone in Tina’s car. Marv
and Maria stayed in the parking lot after the others were gone. He leaned back against her car and she leaned against him,
resting her head on his chest. She wanted to take him right there in that parking lot.
“How ‘bout I follow you home?” he recommended instead, brushing her cheek
with his fingertips.
“That sounds good,” she said, and rubbed her body against him suggestively.
Then she stepped back so he could go to his car. Her grip on his fingers lingered until their
reach ended and she let go. She watched him walk to his car, watched even when he turned around and waved back at her. It
wasn’t until he hopped into the convertible that she finally got into her own car. Then it was his turn to watch as
she slid into the seat and adjusted her mirror.
She inserted the key into the ignition and turned.
That simple movement triggered a mechanism attached to the starter and activated the black box-like
device on the vehicle’s gas tank. The ball of fire that followed lifted the car straight up ten feet off the ground
and burst inside to engulf the interior, in-cinerating its only passenger.
Marv made his way out of the parking lot just as the club workers were coming out to see what
had caused the loud noise. Then he drove down the road as if nothing had happened. As he drove, grey-green eyes replaced the
blue, black hair replaced the brown, and his face became more slender, younger-looking. He was Bryce Bevan again, the rich
surfer-boy alter-ego of an infamous assassin known simply as Firefly.
He would return the car to Marvin Wailer’s home at the other side of town and leave the
wallet on the driver’s seat. In the morning ol’ Marv would get a rude awaking when the cops came pounding on his
door to ask him some questions regarding the death of someone he had never even met. They would try to accuse him of murder.
He would then vehemently deny the charges, saying he was asleep that entire night and anyone who said otherwise was a liar.
Then they would show him the tapes. After putting up more of an argument he’d finally give in and say he must have gotten
too drunk to remember.
In the end they still wouldn’t have enough proof to convict him, though. His fingerprints
were no where on the car. For all the prosecutors knew he was just another innocent bystander. All charges against Marv would
be dropped. The case would go unsolved, like so many others just like it.
Tomorrow the other half of Firefly’s payment would be transferred into his Swiss account.
Some of it would go untraceably to Bryce Bevan in his Malibu bank. And Maria Canton would never be able to testify against
the Mexican crime lords who had paid him to silence her.
But she would never forget her last night on Earth.