S’pense knew about Speck in the same way that a baleen whale knows of krill. He knew that there was a distant faceless mass of willing martyrs and that they were always of some nutritive value to the State. Any kind of further differentiation had to be superfluous. The significances of individual points of doctrine lay only in their effectiveness as levers to be pulled by the boys in the “Frictions” department.
S’pense had, in fact, shared an elevator with the assassin on at least one occasion, but their paths would prove out to be tangent circles, coming to intersection at that single point, then carrying them forever farther, physically, away from each other.
In the luncheonette, a coy Salidan waitress of about 17, handed Speck a steaming cup of coffee. It rattled in his quaking hands and he rushed to set it on the counter in front of him. Not able to look at her, he muttered a feeble: “Garcia,” to her and she smiled, neglecting to pick up his two-peso note.
All throughout the country, but especially in the cities of Buena Salida where political affinities more often came under scrutiny, there had emerged a highly developed system of underground communication. By muttering the familial name of the nation’s most popular martyr in place of the customary gracias, partisans of the cause for national independence, as well as initiates of the Omega Coalition, were able to identify themselves to one another; surreptitiously lend aid and comfort to brothers and sisters in the struggle.
Vallejo’s state police knew this fact, as did the people who employed S’pense; and they often used it to lay traps for conspirators.
With the odor of the fireball still in his nostrils, Speck swallowed the first bitter cup of coffee in a single gulp. He tugged at his collar and ordered another. This sort of business revolted Speck, but he’d come to believe that nothing could be done any other way. He’d seen too many good people shot down for filing the wrong formal complaint.
Speck knew that there is a point in life where one can feel the soul slipping away; that not only was inaction an unconscionable posture, but that it actually cost dear friends their lives. Under such conditions, the Omega Coalition proposed, a truly moral man has no other choice. Speck had to agree.
The second cup of coffee did something to calm his nerves; he got up and moved to the door, leaving the dos pesos as a tip. The relief vehicles were only now pulling into the street, though the sirens had been blaring for what seemed like half-an-hour and Speck thought he could hear the sounds of anguished screaming coming from where the Paraguayan Embassy had been. The girl, only just noticing the tip, called after him: “Gracias, Padre!”
Photo: Cafe – bar – counter by Serge Esteve on Unsplash.