All the characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people, either living or dead, is entirely unintentional.
The story is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any way without the express permission of the author who can be contacted at:
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PJ
D'n'M Part 6
From Chapter 4:
It was hours later, Nico had no idea how many, when Maria Roja pushed open his door to tell him it was time to gather together his few belongings. His Uncle Milo was on his way to collect him. Tomorrow he'd be flying off to his new life. She thought that the silent tears she saw begin to slide down his face were tears of happiness. But what did she know? She wasn't his mum.
Chapter 5:
Lying listlessly on his bed, refusing to get up and imagining over and over every possible negative version of the life he would soon be living, Nico's morning couldn't have been more different from Milo's non-stop round of meetings, form-filling and arrangement-making. If he'd had any idea of his nephew's mental and emotional state, Milo wouldn't have been able to go about his day's busy schedule with so much positivity. But he had no idea, no idea at all.
His first call was at the embassy, a short, morning walk along the Avenue Vincente Lopez, taken deliberately early to make the most of the relatively cool temperature. On one side was the Cementario de la Recoleta with its impressive collection of monuments and memorials, including the one marking the last resting place of Eva Peron. Not that Milo was thinking about long-dead presidential spouses or, in fact, anything other than the need to keep up the momentum towards achieving his one and only objective - getting everything signed and sealed so he could deliver himself and Nico to the airport in time for the next available plane home. Thanks to his late night research, he knew that the ideal flight would be leaving Ezeiza International at 10 the following morning and that it still had seats available. Milo had worked out that, if everything fell neatly into place, and allowing for time zone differences, he and Nico could be back home with D in less than forty-eight hours. How fantastic would that be? So, no, he couldn't give a monkey's armpit for any of Argentina's good, bad or ugly mouldering away in their elaborate tombs and mausoleums, his only wish, as he walked up the steps to the door of the embassy, was for there to be no hiccoughs or hold-ups between now and take-off.
Nico, meanwhile, lying immobile and defeated and feeling like he'd been punched in the gut, was beyond the point of wishing for anything. All his life he'd been a fighter, not because he'd wanted it that way, but because that was simply how it had to be. Sometimes he'd had to fight for himself, to make sure he wasn't taken advantage of or walked over by the bigger boys, but mostly it had been for his mum, to make sure that she wasn't being disrespected or so that she had whatever she needed to make it through to the end of another day. And it hadn't mattered what the odds were - and they'd often been hugely against him -- he'd take on anyone who he felt was not giving him or his mum their due. And he'd been proud of that, of his ability to stand up for what was important to him, of his willingness (more like foolhardiness sometimes) to take on whoever or whatever threatened them harm. Of course he didn't always win, Alvarez and his thugs were good examples of that grim reality, but Nico was like one of those kids' toys with the heavy, rounded base, which can be knocked down but don't stay down, always swinging straight back up again and waiting for the next punch, kick or knife blade. But that had been before, before his mum's final fix, before failing to kill himself, before being held prisoner by the Rojas. And, most of all, before his pervert uncle appeared on the scene. Now he didn't believe that he'd got any fight left.
Milo found that he didn't have to fight, or even make a fuss, to get the first `job done' tick on the day's checklist. Once inside the rather odd-looking embassy building with its clunky mix of early twentieth century elegance and much later brick and concrete Brutalist addition, he made his way across the shiny tiled floor of the lobby. No sooner had he told the embassy receptionist his name, before even having to explain the reason for his visit, she was on the phone to some unseen, inner part of the building. It was almost as if she had been primed to expect him, he thought. It was no more than a couple of minutes later when a petite and smartly-dressed young woman appeared.
"Señor de Beer-Reed?" She spoke English but with a distinct local accent.
Milo nodded.
"My name is Anna Pedraza. It is very nice to meet you. I'd been told to expect you. I work in the Home Liaison department of the embassy and I'm here to help in whatever way I can. Please follow me."
Without saying another word, or giving Milo a chance to speak, she led the way back across the lobby towards a glazed wooden door which she opened using a digital keypad. They hadn't gone far down a long, high-ceilinged corridor before Señora (Señorita?) Pedraza stopped by one of many doors and stood back to allow Milo to enter a small office. The room itself was unremarkable with its one tall window giving a view of a paved inner courtyard and the bare minimum of furniture - desk, three chairs (one behind and two in front), a small twin-seat sofa and, in the corner furthest from the door, a water cooler.
"Please take a seat."
Milo sat at one end of the sofa.
"I understand from the deputy head of mission that you are here today to have some important documentation verified. I hope I have got that correct."
Deputy head of mission?' echoed one half of Milo's mind. Very grand! And way above your pay grade,' it added snipingly.
Milo had to agree, both with his mind and with Anna Pedraza.
"Yes, they concern my nephew who has lived his whole life so far here in Buenos Aires but who I am hoping to take home to live with me and my husband."
At the mention of a husband Anna Pedraza's face immediately took on an expression of shocked surprise but she quickly tapped into her diplomatic training (`More like her poker face,' bitched the same half), and quickly returned it to something more neutral.
Milo ignored his bitchy internal commentator and continued, "Yes, his mother, my sister, was very determined to make sure he had dual citizenship so I have brought in these documents to have them verified." He handed over the folder he'd been carrying ever since he'd left the hotel that morning. It contained every certificate (birth and death), passport (his own, Kate's and Nico's) and document provided by the ministry that he had managed to assemble since arriving in the country. Anna Pedraza quickly flicked through the folder's contents, clearly with a well-practised and professional eye, and declared herself fully satisfied. Milo was surprised by her speed and the absence of detailed scrutiny. It looked like he really was on a winning streak.
"I just need to scan some of these into our system," Anna Pedraza explained, "And then you'll be good to go. So, if you'll excuse me, I'll just go to another department where they deal with this sort of thing. I should only be a few minutes." She gathered up the documents and returned them to the folder before leaving the room. Milo stayed sitting. `Successfully over the first hurdle,' he thought.
`Don't get cocky, son, it's not over till the fat lady sings,' one half piped up.
That's wrong on so many levels,' replied the other. And,' it continued, `Why can't you be positive for once?'
`Why? I'll tell you why. Bitter experience, that's why. However straight the road ahead may seem, there's usually a nasty bend or pothole that's gonna catch you out before you get to the end of the journey.'
`Just this once, try imagining that the glass is half full, not half empty.'
`Half full? From where I'm sitting there's nothing in it at all. In fact, I don't even see the glass!'
`Aaaargh! I could ...'
But before the other half could finish explaining exactly what it would like to do to its twin, the door opened and Anna Pedraza walked back in. She wasn't alone.
"I'm sorry to have taken so long," she began, "But my colleague, here, was keen to speak to you personally."
"Yes, the delay is all my fault," said a tall, very slim woman, aged about fifty Milo guessed, dressed in an immaculately tailored light-weight, pale green skirt and jacket. Around her neck were several gold chains of varying thicknesses and weights. Everything about her demanded attention. "My name is Amanda Forest," she said, holding out her hand, "And I am very pleased to meet you Mr. de Beer-Reed. I hope everything has been taken care of to your satisfaction." The voice was clear, clipped and devoid of accent and obviously belonged to someone used to giving orders. Even if things hadn't, as they had so far, gone according to plan, Milo wasn't sure he'd have had the balls to complain about it to this very impressive and intimidating woman. She strongly reminded him of Violeta Lopez. Before he could reply, or even take the outstretched hand, Anna Pedraza completed the introductions.
"Señora Forest is the deputy head of mission that I mentioned earlier." From the deferential tone of her voice it was clear that Milo's assessment of this woman had been pretty accurate.
"Thank you, yes, Anna, here, has been looking after me very well." The young woman smiled. "I'm hoping that this is the first of several successful calls today."
"Well, I'm glad we've been able to get your day off to a positive start. And am I right in thinking you'll be seeing Violeta Lopez later?"
Milo nodded.
"Please pass on my best wishes." She paused. "And to the minister, too, of course." Her smile could have frozen steam.
That explains it,' snorted one half, We're into serious brown-nosing territory here. She wants to stay on the right side of the big boys.'
`Yeah, what else would you expect? She's a very senior diplomat. I bet they're scratching each other's backs all the time. It's called greasing the wheels.'
`Yeah, and I bet that's not the only thing that gets greased!'
Enough!' barked Milo inside his head. That's enough.' The two halves knew it was time to be silent.
"Let me show you a little of the building before you leave us," Amanda Forest offered. "Unless you're anxious to get to your next appointment?" The question was so obviously lacking in genuineness that Milo almost laughed. He had been dealing with people of importance and in positions of authority long enough in his professional life to know when and how to read between the lines. The offer was, he knew, less than a millimetre thick.
"That's a very kind invitation," he replied, "But I'm trying to get everything complete in time to make bookings for me and Nico on tomorrow's flight home."
"I quite understand. Well, perhaps next time?" They both knew there would be no next time.
Having followed Anna Pedraza back to the front door of the building, Milo left the embassy feeling very pleased to have got all the paperwork validated but also slightly soiled from his encounter with Amanda Forest. If that was the sort of treatment he would get from his own embassy, what sort of reception would it be from the Argentine authorities? Maybe the ever-critical half of his mind was right about the road ahead. Shit!
Of course Nico had no idea that Milo had already made a start on working through the items on his day's schedule or that his list of appointments was already shorter by one. And even if he had known, he'd most likely have shrugged his shoulders or turned up the corners of his mouth to demonstrate his level of indifference.
`Who the fuck cares?' would probably have been what he'd have said, in a tone of voice that might, almost, have been convincing -- almost. Yes, he was trying hard to convince himself that, at fourteen years of age, his life was pretty much over and that, as soon as the plane landed back in the distant country his uncle was about to traffick him to, he'd be nothing more than a body with holes for hire to whoever was willing to stump up enough cash to fill them for an hour or two. That's what every logical, defeated bone in his body was determined to tell him, tell him that resistance was pointless, tell him that he should throw in the towel, tell him that his life and body were no longer his to control. But there was a tiny, stubborn nugget of resistance somewhere deep inside that refused to accept that he no longer had the power, if not to change the way things were going be, then, at least, to influence them. And out of that last remaining seed of defiance an idea was starting to take root and grow.
In the cab on the way to his next destination, the ministry, Milo had the idea to call the airline. He wanted to check that there were still seats available on the next day's flight, but he'd also begun to wonder, given the encouraging way his day had started, whether there might even be a way of setting off for home sooner. He already knew that there was no availability on that day's direct flight, but what about something with transfers? Perhaps there was some other international hub they could fly to and then connect with another departure to take them home. The prospect of getting back to D and introducing Nico to the rest of the family had him really excited and he keyed in the direct booking number with a wide smile on his face. But the smile didn't last long. Yes, there was an alternative flight but, with the added stop-over time, it would actually land back home several hours later than tomorrow's direct flight. And, as if that wasn't enough bad news, the airline operative told him that seats on the direct flight were selling fast and she couldn't guarantee there would be any available if Milo left it much longer to make a booking. What to do?
It's only half way through the morning,' observed one half. Surely the ministry can't hold things up so long that it'll be too late to catch a plane at ten o'clock tomorrow morning.' Milo had to admit that things would have to go seriously pear-shaped if they were going to be delayed for that long.
`Don't you believe it. Remember what I said about bends in the road.' The other half was, as ever, reliably cheerless.
`Well, I still think it'll be okay to go ahead and confirm the booking. The odds against not being able to make the flight must be thousands to one. Trust me, I'm sure I'm right.'
`Yeah, that's because you live in cloud cuckoo land and wear rose-coloured glasses all the time. Get real! If those ministry guys can find a way of doing you over, you can be shit-sure that they'll do it. And there's no way you'll get any money back from the airline if you don't make the flight, whatever the reason.'
`That much I can't argue with,' thought Milo. It looked like he was caught in a Catch-22 situation. D would know what to do. Maybe he should give him a call.
"Señor. Señor?" Milo was brought back to the here and now by the sound of the taxi driver's voice. "Señor. Hemos llegado al ministerio."
Milo looked out of the window. Oh, right, yes, they had, indeed, arrived at the ministry. A decision about the flight would have to wait a little longer. He put away his phone, paid the driver and stepped out of the car. One way or another he'd know, within the hour, whether it would be a safe bet to book those seats.
`Don't count on it.' Milo didn't have to struggle to work out which half of his mind was determined to have the last, downbeat word.
Having decided that his plan was his best and last hope of trying to have some sort of control over his inevitably miserable future, Nico set about doing everything he could to give it the best possible chance of succeeding. He knew from his time at Los Sueños, from watching the increasingly desperate crap players as their confidence waned in direct proportion to their multiplying losses, that this would be his last throw of the dice and if he didn't hit the jackpot, well, as he hadn't got anything left to lose, he'd couldn't and wouldn't be any worse off.
Firstly, he decided it was important to look the part, and for that he needed to take a shower. He stripped off his night-time T and sleep shorts, wrapped a towel around his waist and set off down the hall to the bathroom. When Señor Roja, downstairs in the kitchen and working on his laptop, heard the shower running, he smiled to himself. That, he decided, was a very positive sign. Nico, meanwhile, was standing under the hot water making sure to give himself a thorough soaping. No bodily fold or crease was to be ignored, none. He began with his feet, carefully washing between his toes and then proceeded up his calves and shins (he was still surprised by the feel of the fine hairs that had begun to grow there) to his lean but strong soccer player's thighs. As he started to clean up between his legs he was surprised when his dick began to respond to the gentle massaging of that area. Apart from his reliable, early-every-morning-needing-to-pee boner, he hadn't so much as chubbed-up since his time at Our Lady of Flowers. He certainly hadn't done anything to encourage it, either in his head or with his hands, but here it was, determinedly reminding him that it had needs of its own and that here was an ideal opportunity for them both to get some long-absent relief.
No,' thought Nico, This is not a good time. Later -- maybe.'
And he carried on round to his butt, spreading soap over both cheeks, up and down the crack. His dick didn't think this was at all fair and wasn't yet ready to give up on the idea of making the most of this situation. It continued to grow, but Nico was determined not to be persuaded and moved his hands upwards, washing his flat tummy, his just-starting-to-show-some-definition-pecs, his neck and face. Finally, he lathered up his hair and watched as the bubbles cascaded down his lithe and freshly-scrubbed teenage body.
Would all these preparations, he wondered, be good enough to make a success of his plan?
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