Viral Games

Julio looks out at the awful, restless ocean of traffic. Drivers in beaten-up vehicles and motoconchos (motorcycle taxis) cut corners, block intersections to supposedly gain a second, and snarl traffic. Never give anything, never be courteous or you lose, he knows. They’ll laugh at you behind your back, and your boss in the backseat will not think highly of you. “Ever learned to drive a car?” he imagines him saying. “Everybody else is getting ahead, and we’re getting nowhere. We’ll be late again.”

It’s noon on Wednesday in Santa Domingo, and Virgilio is driving a little too courteously, Julio thinks, but he realizes he’s being a gentleman for pretty ladies. Ordinarily, Julio wouldn’t mind that, but today, they can’t afford so much courtesy.

The Malecón was their best bet at noon, he thinks, but it is not much of a deal. Everybody seems to be on the road already, even though it’s much too early for lunch. Avenida Independencia could have been better. Never mind, we gambled and lost, and we’ve to stick with our bet now. Julio chews on a power bar. He will need strength and stamina, and he will have to control his nerves. Why does he have to suffer these lamentable panic episodes? He squeezes and twists a plastic water bottle.

This country is paradise, Julio muses as he looks out of the window at the turquoise water on his right after they leave the city behind and are on the freeway to the airport. Traffic is smoother here, but more dangerous because it is faster. He feels a little better. How good it would be if he could be on a little excursion to Boca Chica just past the airport, or to the beaches of Juan Dolio a bit farther out, where the waves are wild and invigorating. He imagines smelling a heavenly grilled snapper on his plate at one of the restaurants built over the hot Caribbean waters, where one feels the humid and hot air rising up, engulfing the legs first and then the entire body and mind. Heaven must be like that.

He snaps back to reality. They have entered the ramp leading to the arrivals hall. He asks Virgilio to drop him off at the entrance near American Airlines, hesitantly exits the vehicle, and performs a nervous but thorough 360-degree visual inspection. He does not want to be noticed. There are no Cuevas-related people to be seen. He proceeds in a hurry, his cell phone tucked into his pocket. He forces himself to slow down, lest he attract attention with the haste he can barely suppress, and heads for the restroom entrance in the far left corner of the arrival hall. A pleasant whiff of burned beef from the hamburger restaurant on his right across the hall meets and accompanies him for a few seconds. Not this time, Julio.

No one is waiting for him at the entrance of the restrooms, and Julio decides it does not make sense to keep looking for a badge on a tall guy’s chest right now; he is twenty minutes early. He should have stayed in the car longer and circulated a bit, but in his haste he had headed to the meeting point without thinking, hoping to find Marcelo as soon as he and Virgilio had arrived at the terminal.

Julio realizes he should not wait in this open space in front of the restrooms. He figures 50 percent of the people coming to the arrival hall to meet a friend take a quick trip to the john first thing after arriving—nerves or no nerves, small or big bladder. Julio fears that one of Cuevas’s people may come in and decide he happens to be one of those 50 percent. Suddenly fearful, he dives into the restroom area and into one of the toilets. It will be a fifteen-to-twenty-minute wait. Then he will risk emerging carefully from the toilet to find Marcelo.

One twenty-five. Relax the neck, straighten the back, shoulders down and walk out like a man. Marcelo will be there. Cuevas’s gang may be there or not, but Julio has a right to be there too.

Julio walks out of his self-imposed exile and identifies the graying Marcelo from the back—five ten, lots of hair. Julio is jealous. He’s wearing an American Airlines uniform. There is no doubt. He throws a glance at the badge just to make sure. Then his eyes meet Marcelo’s, and Marcelo speaks first.

“Julio, right?” They walk side by side like colleagues. “Let’s go, no fuss, no gestures, just follow me. You’re a regular here. Don’t hesitate at all. I’ll get you to my office. Take your identification out, just in case. There’s no time to lose. The flight came in ten minutes early. To my office. Don’t talk.” He sails Julio through customs to reach the baggage arrival area, his terrain.

“Take a seat. Tell anybody who asks that you are my nephew, and say nothing more. Loose lips sink ships. Say you had to talk to your uncle. Family matter. I’ll get your bag. “

“Thanks, Marcelo. We have to beat the police.”