The Mercenary Menace

In 1998, I made an unplanned trip to Venezuela. I was meant to go to Antigua, but my cheap tickets fell through last-minute, which launched a full 36 hours in the Newark airport bickering with various agencies. Desperation and disgust lead to a ticket on the next available flight south: Caracas it was.

After a few maples weeks spent wandering around the post-bank-collapse capital, I made my way to the coast, and then to Isla Margarita. The island was perfect for me: not yet a major tourist destination for Americans, it was filled with vacationing Venezuelans and the few European ex-pats who lived there. Beaches flanked the blue Caribbean waters and I’d spend my days bobbing in the clear, warm sea. At night, I’d explore Porlamar, checking out restaurants and bars, which was how I came upon the fantastically grimy Amsterdam Café.

Owned by a Dutch man who simply went by “The Duke”, Amsterdam was a haven for seedy Europeans and the local hookers that loved them. Kas, another Dutch man, worked the bar, and his premature crinkles spoke of all he’d seen. Francisco, the Danish foreign legionnaire, would pound hard liquor and threaten any and everyone over nothing at all. Neil, the retired Brit, would laugh at the antics of the others, always maintaining his head. I somehow fell into this fold a little too easily.

One night, I joined a heated poker match between Neil, Francisco, and another drifter. I agreed to deal. After a few hands, a card flipped over mid-deal. I picked it up and shuffled the cards again and kept dealing. Francisco grabbed my wrist. Everyone froze. “Never… NEVER… stop a deal…” I didn’t know what to do. He was very drunk. He was a nasty guy to begin with, but worse when he drank too much. I looked to the other guys for help. Just the night before, Francisco told of how he’d killed men with his hands. Whether it was crap or not was not something I cared to find out. Everyone just stared in silence until Neil got up and gently patted Francisco on the shoulders. “It was an accident,” he said calmly. “She didn’t mean to…” Francisco didn’t quite believe him, but he let go of my wrist. I gulped for air and squeaked out “I think I’m done for the night, boys.” I was losing money anyway.

As a little post-script, I was once telling this story to coworkers and said “I thought he was gonna kill me! It was crazy!” There was a slightly uncomfortable silence until someone piped up with “What I find crazy is that you didn’t find it crazy to play poker with a hired killer to begin with.”

Touche, my friend. Touche.