Her name is Eiko. She says she’s from Japan , but I think she’s lying. No accent. Tells me she lost it while in boarding school. Lying again. No proof, but I know it. A little Japanese girl like Eiko is supposed to speak in a high-pitched voice, make giggly noises, and then cover her mouth in embarrassment. She doesn’t do any of those. She keeps asking this question:
“You’re a mercenary?” She’s trying to flirt and she’s awful at it. She always asks me this and I always tell her the same thing.
“No,” I say. “I prefer independent contractor.” Jake just stands behind the bar and watches. He’ll laugh when she starts the conversation and knows to bring the drinks over when I say:
“Can I get you something.” If there were anything else to do here I wouldn’t play along. Anything else -- like darts, or pool, or shooting rats -- I’d do that. But stuck at an outpost in the middle of the jungle, the only thing there is to do is play along.
“You’re a mercenary?” she asks and slides her chair closer to mine.
“No,” I tell her, my voice flat. I’m just delivering the next line. “I prefer independent contractor.”
“Have you ever killed someone?” she is looking at the gun I wear on my waist. I have a machete I carry too but Jake makes me keep that behind the bar.
“Not if I didn’t have to. I don’t just go offing people willy-nilly. There has to be a reason.”
“And have you killed anyone?” She lowered her head and looked out at me from the tops of her eyes. She was trying to look coy. She couldn’t pull off coy.
He paused. “I’ve had reasons.”
“Lots of reasons?”
“I only need one.”
“I mean, have lots of people given you reasons?” She slid her seat away from me. Like always.
“Enough.”
There was the pause. I counted. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi.
“Can I get you something?”
Jake was already headed over. Two warm beers sloshing to the rim of their glasses. A bit of it was dripping down Jake’s hand. He paused about halfway and picked up his head. That’s when I heard it too. An engine, revved high and running hot. Never good. It was coming from the jungle. Even worse. It could only be Shirley. She had left for the outland days ago. Took one of the motorcycles that lays in the pile in front of the bar. The only one with a full tank of gas.
Jake looked at me. I looked at him.
“Too fast?”
“That engine is red-lining from the sound of it,” I told him. “That only means trouble. Or that Shirley can’t drive it.”
“If you had to put something on it?”
“I’d take the first option.”
Jake sat the beers on the closest table and went to the door, really just an opening in the wall about as wide as a garage door. Jake pressed his large frame to the wall and stuck his head around the corner.
I was standing in the middle of the room now. Eiko got up and shuffled her feet across the concrete floor and wrapped her arms around me. Instinctively, I put an arm around her shoulder. I walked her behind the bar and told her to stay on the ground. She handed me my machete, kissing the blade before putting it in my hands.
“For luck,” she said and smiled.
Liar.
Jake was still looking, studying whatever was out there. We could still hear the engine revving high. I had the machete in my right hand and my left was on the butt of my gun.
“Am I going to need either of these?”
Jake turned to me. “Nope. It’s just Shirley.”
That’s when she bounced and wobbled the motorcycle to a stop in front of the bar and let it fall to the ground.
I went and sat back down at the table. Jake went back behind the bar. Eiko stood up. Shirley looked at all three of us.
“I’m fine, thanks.” She sat down at the bar and tapped a finger for service. Jake walked away. Shirley tapped louder. Longer. Jake continued to ignore her. She tapped louder again. Nothing from Jake. She slapped the with an open palm. Nothing.
She huffed then pushed herself up and onto the bar. She leaned over putting her ample figure on display for all of us to see, She grabbed an unmarked bottle of gin and a jar of green olives. With pimento.
Shirley popped an olive in her mouth and took a swig from the unmarked bottle.
“Your map is crap,” she said and looked over at me. “Just awful. I couldn’t make heads or tales of the thing. Crap.” She took another swig of gin.