XOTIC animal heads, dead trinkets, trophies of beasts from fardistant jungles-slaughtered, mounted on finely-carved wooden plaques, dates and countries scrolled on brass tags beneath the great hunter’s name; glass eyes staring down at fine, hand-carved furniture and costly souvenirs. It was a home that belonged to someone with money—lots of money.
Two men sat alone in the darkened room, ringed by the silhouettes of the slain beasts. They conversed in heated voices.
“You’re screwing things up, Peck,” the smaller of the two spat. “I’ve worked hard here, and I’m not about to tolerate your insubordinate attitude.” His arm rose as if to give his words emphasis. “I talked my butt off for you this time, and—”
“To hell with you!” Peck growled. “I’m fed up with this little town.”
The others’ voice turned mean. “You get your act together and keep it that way ‘til we’re finished, or I’ll put a bullet between your eyes and mount your fat, bloody head on my wall with all the other brainless animals.”
“You—! You’re trying to tell me how to keep it together, after the Mexican girl?”
The conversation had turned more than nasty; they were getting nowhere, and, besides, they’d gone over it all before. Both knew the nature of the sordid craft that fed their extravagant lifestyle. And both knew they couldn’t last much longer in the small town.
Peck leaned back in his chair, crossed his massive legs at the ankles and pulled his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He slapped the pack against the palm of his hand and shook out a single smoke. Then, putting it to his lips, he asked, “So when do we move?”
The smaller man stood. “You and the men report to General Abdusala at Ijaw in five weeks. Seems Sawa’s son is making trouble for the government. Take the pen; you won’t be back.” He pulled an ash tray from the coffee table drawer, slid it across the polished hardwood, and returned to his seat.
“And you?” Peck flicked his lighter and drew the flame to his face. As he lit his cigarette, the warm light bounced from his stone cold eyes—eyes, like those mirrored in the dead beasts overhead.
“Haven’t decided yet. You’ll stop in Barbados a week, pick up your orders, get your papers clean, then enter the country through Niger. That bimbo of yours can wait there ‘til you’re finished. Don’t turn young Sawa into a martyr this time.”
Peck forced the smoke downward from his flared nostrils like an angry bull pawing at the dirt, anxious to enter the ring and stamp the matador to death. But it was all allusion; no matador awaited—only lambs, awaiting slaughter by the ravenous wolves of a brutal military regime.