Inches Nitely and the Lizard’s Id by Tim Rocks
Actually it had not been that hard to track down Oscar. Guy had a little mini cult of personality going down there on those sun-drenched islands. The first native Bobby showed his picture to grinned broadly and said “Oh yes, Senor! I know this man… He no ‘Oscar’ though . . . He Papa Gordo! Have island spirit big time, si Senor . . .” and pointed across the beach towards a distant outdoor bar.
As Bobby approached, grumbling about the sand filling his imitation Versace loafers, the bongo drums grew louder and the tiny specks turned into people milling around a weathered outdoor bar. Oscar wasn’t fat really, but he was a big guy with a respectable gut, and clearly the “Papa” to these island honeys, plus a ragtag assortment of Western expats of various nationalities.
Bobby had waited around, drinking lightly, brushing off most of the prostitutes except for one, just to get it out of his system, until nightfall. He watched them help a staggering Oscar to a nearby straw hut, then phoned some associates he had down there, part of a cartel loosely connected to El Racha’s stateside operations. They showed up in a dune buggy and laid Oscar on the backseat like a big ocean catch of some kind. Flew him out in a drug-running plane. When he woke from his hangover the next day he wouldn’t act reasonable, so Bobby tapped him out again and threw him in the trunk of his rental car.
Inches calling to say Meet him at the cartoonist’s house, and did he have Oscar?
Well yes, he did . . . In a manner of speaking…
Great! He’d see him there.
Bobby looking back over his shoulder, towards the dull thuds of a confused,
supremely disoriented man banging the inside of the trunk at distant intervals. His muffled voice growling threats and incoherent rambling.
“So you’ll be there? Bobby?”
Bobby said yes he’d be there.