THE DOOR CREAKED as it opened and Major S’pense strode into the room. His entrance was marked by the fluttering of papers and the emission of important sounding, but confused, murmuring. He circled the vestibule once, familiarizing himself with the terrain, then announced his presence to a gum-chewing secretary named Melvin. Melvin postured obsequiously as he murmured into a desktop transponder.
Timid eyes watched the tall American who stood ramrod straight and balanced, like a dancer, on the balls of his feet. S’pense was a man with very privileged access and before a few moments had passed, two massive teak-wood doors dating from Spanish colonial rule separated just enough to allow a wafer-shaped man to slip through. This was Nilla, a half-blood nephew to Vallejo, the President General of Buena Salida. Nilla wiped a gray flannel handkerchief across his oily face and extended his other hand to S’pense. S’pense took the hand and shook it firmly, but deprecatingly. He confirmed with himself the presence of a trace of white crystalline substance at one corner of Nilla’s left nostril. S’pense made no judgments. He merely recorded information.
Vallejo awaited them in the inner office, straddling a vaulting horse. Its sleek leather side creaked as he shifted his bulk back and forth.
“Come in, come in, my friend. Have you eaten?” S’pense made a negative gesture and bent to lick Vallejo on the cheek; a custom among Salidans. “You look fit, today,” Vallejo chortled. “Would you pleasure us with a few maneuvers on this old relic, here?” He slid off the horse and grinned, presenting a full set of gold teeth.
“I didn’t come here for a gymnastics session, El Vallejo,” S’pense began, “I only wanted to bring you up to date on Project Rock’n’Roll.”
Vallejo frowned briefly, as though hurt. Then he drew his Smith & Wesson and put it to Nilla’s head. the nephew shrieked and buried his face in the flannel folds of his hankie and Vallejo, moved with disgust, scolded him:
“Don’t cower, you imbecile. I’m quite sure that our Major S’pense will not let me shoot you won’t you please reconsider, Major S’pense?” Again the Presidente displayed his winning smile as his right thumb dramatically cocked the pistol’s hammer. “We do not often see such a perfect specimen.” His grin became a menacing leer and Nilla appeared to crumble visibly.
S’pense reluctantly removed his street shoes. He took a pommel in each hand and hopped with familiar grace into a Morgenstern dodge. Mechanically, barely managing a sweat, he jerked off a kimmelmann, an Iron betsy, a Roulette and a perfect Quarter-third. He finished with the dismount that had won him the gold at Innsbrück.
“Ave Maria,” gasped Nilla as he felt the gun fall away from his temple. Vallejo let out a wheeze that sounded like a two-ton truck running over a watermelon. S’pense straightened and retucked his shirttails. He noticed Vallejo was sweating and rubbing his hands across an uncomfortable-looking wet stain.
“Admirable! Admirable, Major S’pense.” He crossed. “This machine, my dear Major S’pense. This toy for lithe young athletes—you handled yourself very well, by the way, did I tell you?—Could you guess what kind of atrocity I committed with it not half an hour ago?”
S’pense had seen the bodies on the way in. He had not been shocked. He admired a man with a hobby.
Line art tracing courtesy Wikimedia Commons: Martin Rulsch, Wikimedia Commons, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:2019-06-27_1st_FIG_Artistic_Gymnastics_JWCH_Men%27s_All-around_competition_Subdivision_1_Pommel_horse_(Martin_Rulsch)_138.jpg, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/legalcode