Free Paradise Man by Jerome Charyn

sleeps with witches and rides the roofs ... Holden, tell our friend, have you ever seen Huevo?”
    “Not yet.”
    “But he murders my lieutenants, shoots them in the mouth. And he won’t take money from me. He’s not a businessman. He likes blood.”
    The playwright held his chin. “And what would Jeremías do if he found Huevo on the roof?”
    “Scream to Jesus, I suppose ... but we’re boring Holden. He didn’t come to hear me lecture on Huevo. He’d like a girl. Holden, it’s my treat.”
    “I can pay.”
    Edmundo’s lips shrank into his mouth. “Don’t embarrass me in front of an artist. Rex will write about us. We’ll appear in his next play. I’ll become the sissy who can’t capture Big Balls or treat you to a girl.”
    “My apologies, Don Edmundo. I meant no harm.”
    “Ah, Holden’s some politician,” Infante said. “Like his dad. Holden Sr. knew how to apologize with pie in his face.”
    “My father loved pies. He’d always eat something with lemon meringue.”
    “What happened?” Infante asked. “You come home from Paris surly as hell, insult Edmundo and me, barely say hello to Rex. Don’t even ask how Florinda is.”
    “Some monkey wanted to claw my face outside the Luxembourg Gardens. I think he was a Mariel.”
    “Impossible,” Infante said. “Bandidos never ride in planes. They’re religious freaks. Their gods wouldn’t allow it. And most of the Bandidos can’t spell. How would they get to the right gate?”
    “Let him finish,” Edmundo said. “Holden, what makes you sure it was a Bandido?”
    “He had a tattoo inside his mouth ...”
    “Anyone can imitate a tattoo.”
    “I agree, Don Edmundo. Thought of that myself. Only why would someone go through all that trouble?”
    “To bring you into our war and create worse and worse relations between the Bandidos and ourselves.”
    “Who would benefit?”
    Edmundo laughed. “Half the world ... or one of my lieutenants who would like to start his own family. We’re talking ambition, Holden. And I’m surrounded by ambitious men ... take Robert, for instance. He could move his Italian friends into all my boutiques.”
    “Fuck yourself, Edmundo,” Infante said. “I’m a lawyer. I create the peace.”
    “But lawyers bend the language. Tuesday’s peace is Wednesday’s war.”
    “Then find yourself a Cuban witch doctor. Let him write up your articles of intent.”
    “Huevo has all the witch doctors. I’ll hire Rex. He has imagination, eh? ... but I was only citing an example, Robert. Don’t be offended, please. I value you and trust you. We’re friends. My point is that some jíbaro with a tattoo in his mouth isn’t necessarily a Mariel. But Holden still doesn’t have a girl. Mrs. Spencer, find him the thinnest creature in the house. Make her adorable, please. I haven’t forgotten his wife.”
    Muriel whispered into a telephone, then she put her arm around Holden and accompanied him to the door. “The north room, upstairs. Melissa.”
    The name didn’t carry much of a magic song. He wasn’t even curious. He’d have to give her a perfunctory kiss, or she’d feel insulted. But he didn’t climb up to Melissa right away. He went searching for Gottlieb. Holden discovered him in an office behind the stairs. Gottlieb wore a gun this afternoon. Any of the police inspectors who visited with Muriel could have picked the gun off Gottlieb’s chest and buried the little bastard. The boy was seventeen and had almost as many bank accounts as Holden. He was much more sophisticated than a bumper who’d been to France. Gottlieb knew about wines and temperatures for aging cheese. He’d established his own private college near Muriel. He was a nymphomaniac about books. Gottlieb read all the time. He’d been a male hustler when Holden found him on the street, dressed in princely rags at fourteen. He could feel the boy’s intelligence and Holden recruited him as a rat, placed him with Mrs. Spencer. He was a sandwich boy with