She enters the bar in a long, flowing dress and a jacket that shimmers with light. She moves towards the top of the stairs and stops. She looks around with a cool gaze and an elegant twist of her head before descending, her dress fluttering around her legs as she walks. A waiter approaches her, he leads her forwards and as the camera pans over, Bogart comes into the shot. He's standing at the bar. Dark suit, white shirt, black tie and a white handkerchief that pokes out from his top pocket. Their eyes meet. They greet each other with some nonchalant banter before turning to walk to a table. He pulls out her chair then he sits down himself. They talk. They talk for awhile. Then she stops. She lowers her hand, reaches into her bag and pulls out a cigarette. As she leans towards him, he pulls out a match, strikes it and cupping her hand around his, draws languidly on the other end. He shakes out the match and throws it into the ashtray. They talk some more. She laughs. He smiles. Then something changes. She's shaking her head. She's shaking all over. She's stubbing the cigarette out angrily in the ashtray. She's standing up.
Pepito leans back in the chair with his gun dismantled on the table before him. He smiles as Bogart rises from the table with a stiff swagger directing his step. He's watched this scene a thousand times and still his heart swells up as the match flares to life in Bogart's hand and Lauren Bacall leans over. Pepito leans forwards and picks up the barrel of his fathers old Astra between finger and thumb. Holding it at eye level he squints down one end, then lowers it to his mouth and blows gently through the opening with a hot cloud of breath. Dust motes pepper the air. He lifts a rag from the table and starts to buff the aged metal with diligent little strokes, his eyes flicking up to the screen from time to time to check on Bogart's progress. But Bogart's doing fine. Placing the shining barrel on the table he picks up the barrel bushing and the barrel bushing lock and twists them together. Then he picks up the slide and pushes the recoil spring into place, making sure that the spring is held tightly while he pushes the barrel down the length of the spring and twists the barrel bushing onto the slide. He turns it over in his hands. Feels the weight pressing down on his palms like a hand enclosed in his. Slowly, his finger curls around the trigger and squeezes, just enough, so that the click of the empty chamber echoes sharply around the room. He places the gun back on the table and picks up the magazine with one hand and counts out eight, 9mm cartridges with the other. Methodically, he slots the cartridges into the magazine chamber then picks up the gun and slides the magazine back up through the grip. Holding it in his hands he imagines his father, over fifty years ago, a younger man than his son is now, curl his fingers around the grip, raise the barrel to his puckered lips and blow with the same precision of tightly compressed air.
6.15pm and Pepito awakes with a start. Somewhere in the depths of the room a phone is ringing. Ringing insistently. Ringing endlessly. He runs a flattened palm from his forehead over the back of his head and stands up. Swaying slightly, he lurches forwards to grab the phone and jams his toe on something sharp. He curses, loudly. He stumbles forwards. He reaches the phone and lifts the receiver. It's Raphael.
"This better be good." He growls as he rubs his toe on the back of his leg.
But it's better that that.
Pepito leans back in the chair with his gun dismantled on the table before him. He smiles as Bogart rises from the table with a stiff swagger directing his step. He's watched this scene a thousand times and still his heart swells up as the match flares to life in Bogart's hand and Lauren Bacall leans over. Pepito leans forwards and picks up the barrel of his fathers old Astra between finger and thumb. Holding it at eye level he squints down one end, then lowers it to his mouth and blows gently through the opening with a hot cloud of breath. Dust motes pepper the air. He lifts a rag from the table and starts to buff the aged metal with diligent little strokes, his eyes flicking up to the screen from time to time to check on Bogart's progress. But Bogart's doing fine. Placing the shining barrel on the table he picks up the barrel bushing and the barrel bushing lock and twists them together. Then he picks up the slide and pushes the recoil spring into place, making sure that the spring is held tightly while he pushes the barrel down the length of the spring and twists the barrel bushing onto the slide. He turns it over in his hands. Feels the weight pressing down on his palms like a hand enclosed in his. Slowly, his finger curls around the trigger and squeezes, just enough, so that the click of the empty chamber echoes sharply around the room. He places the gun back on the table and picks up the magazine with one hand and counts out eight, 9mm cartridges with the other. Methodically, he slots the cartridges into the magazine chamber then picks up the gun and slides the magazine back up through the grip. Holding it in his hands he imagines his father, over fifty years ago, a younger man than his son is now, curl his fingers around the grip, raise the barrel to his puckered lips and blow with the same precision of tightly compressed air.
6.15pm and Pepito awakes with a start. Somewhere in the depths of the room a phone is ringing. Ringing insistently. Ringing endlessly. He runs a flattened palm from his forehead over the back of his head and stands up. Swaying slightly, he lurches forwards to grab the phone and jams his toe on something sharp. He curses, loudly. He stumbles forwards. He reaches the phone and lifts the receiver. It's Raphael.
"This better be good." He growls as he rubs his toe on the back of his leg.
But it's better that that.
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