“No, Padre.”
“It seems several cartels have been losing shipments after they cross the border in that area. They’re both very upset.”
“I can imagine.”
“Some of their leaders seem to think we could be involved. I’d hate to think someone in my employment would operate behind my back.”
“No one would be that crazy, Padre.”
“No, not crazy. It would take someone with no fear. Hey!” the Padre said, laughing. “Maybe it’s that white-necked rooster of Raul’s!” The Padre roared in laughter as he pounded El Barquero on the back again. “That stupid double-crossing bird! I’ll have his head!” He laughed until they reached the porch of the farmhouse before calming down. “Seriously, though, Barquero,” the Padre said as he turned to look the big man in his eyes. “If you hear of anything, you let me know. Nothing a thief despises more than another thief. We have enough problems without the other cartels coming after us because they lost a few bundles of product in the desert.”
“Sí, Padre.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Spherical Bastards
To: International Board of Directors
Mensa International Limited
Dear Losers:
Upon hearing that I have been denied acceptance into your pathetic little club, I’m writing to inform you that none of you are smarter than me. I aced the test. There is absolutely, positively, no conceivably possible way I didn’t smoke that ridiculous quiz. According to Occam’s razor, which I’m sure you’re not familiar with, look it up, my test scores must have been manipulated, most likely by jealous Mensa members who don’t want me to make them look bad at your Annual Gathering. Positing a preposterous assumption like I couldn’t achieve a qualifying score is ridiculous in that it adds no explanatory power to your argument. Replacing it for the simple truth that your resentful gatekeepers cheated me clearly violates the law of parsimony. You’re nothing but little spherical bastards. Spherical because when viewed from any angle, you’re still bastards! In response to your vindictive decision, I have decided to create my own organization. It’s an organization exclusively for the “Uber-Intelligent,” a phrase I plan to copyright for my club’s jackets, although I’m also considering “Ninja-Uber-Intelligent,” so don’t try to steal that one, either. My organization for the super smart will be known as STEAM. It stands for “Smarter than Everyone at Mensa.” That makes it an acronym, in case you were wondering about the coincidence of how the first letter of each word in “Smarter than Everyone at Mensa” spells STEAM. Since your petty little club allows admission to any riffraff who can score in the top two percent of the population in intelligence, my standards will be much more restrictive. Acceptance for STEAM will require intelligence in the top two percent of the top two percent. Ninety-eight percent of your members won’t be eligible to join STEAM. Please send me the contact information for the most intelligent two percent of your envious clique; I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic to hang out with colleagues who’re actually brilliant. Of course, they’ll have to pass the entrance examination first. Acceptance into STEAM will consist of a two-hour oral assessment of overall intelligence. Assessments will be held in my office in Austin, Texas, on the first day of every third month, beginning in February. Assessments will not begin until after three o’clock in the afternoon. Smart people are too smart to get up early if they don’t have to. Candidates are required to bring two forms of picture identification and four two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew with them to the assessment, no Diet and no Code Red. If the candidate sitting for the exam can convince me of their intelligence in the allotted time, they will be granted admission and receive their club jacket once their annual dues of one thousand U.S. dollars have been paid. STEAM’s annual conference will be held in Rio de Janeiro. Jealous? Of course you are. I fully expect STEAM to be contracted by think tanks, governments, universities, and powerful and wealthy Washington lobbyists to develop whitepapers and research documents for topics of critical concern. Sorry, losers, my club is cooler.
Kip laughed to himself as he thought about the old days with Jackie as his long stride carried him away from the bingo parlor and through the streets of downtown Austin to meet her. Kip had known Jackie since kindergarten. By the time they were in high school, everyone thought the two were dating, including their parents, but they were just great friends.
The two enjoyed going to movies, usually obscure, subtitled foreign films in rickety, old, out-of-the-way theaters, the kind that still had velvet curtains lining the walls and a separate upstairs balcony. The two would sit in the back of the upper balcony, away from the other patrons, and take turns making up their own ridiculous dialogue for the foreign actors.
“My succulent lotus flower,” Kip said in a silly Japanese voice while they watched the black and white Kurosawa film on the screen. “You must take my sack of eels and protect them from the ninjas while I travel to Kyoto to cash this winning scratch-off lottery ticket.”
“No, my powerful love gorilla,” Jackie replied in an equally awful Asian accent, as the female character projected on the screen knelt at the feet of the stoic samurai. “Without your eels, how will you protect yourself from the Emperor’s flaming pigs?” she said while they both tried in vain to keep from giggling loud enough to draw attention from the usher. They had been kicked out of another theater the previous week for using cartoon character voices to create dialogue for the 1920s silent film Metropolis. Jackie’s Olive Oyl impersonation had gotten way out of hand.
At the end of their senior year, they went to the prom together. Kip never really asked her; they just both knew they would. It felt a little awkward as they slow danced with the band, but not as awkward as when he dropped her off following the after-parties and stole a timid kiss as they said goodnight on her parent’s front steps. Things could have been different between them, but they both knew they were going off in separate directions for college. They stayed in touch while in school and saw each other over the holiday breaks. Unfortunately, each time they got together, she was dating someone and he wasn’t, or vice versa.
After graduating from college, Kip accepted a job as a runner in a New York bond house that the father of one of his fraternity brothers helped him land. It didn’t take long before he climbed the ranks and became a full-time fixed-income trader. He loved the frantic pace and excitement of the trading floor, and the streets of New York were so different from the town he grew up in.
Once Jackie graduated, she didn’t really know what she wanted to do. Eventually, she decided to move to Colorado to try her hand at being a ski bum. Ultimately, she landed in Vail. Of course, the only problem with being a twenty-two-year-old ski bum in Vail with no practical work experience save waiting a few tables in high school was actually making a living so you could afford rent and lift tickets.
For almost three weeks, she went door to door looking for work. She was willing to do any job, but so was just about every other twenty-something looking to put off the real world for a few years who filled the village. Finally, she found work in one of the large hotels in Beaver Creek. She started in the kitchen, delivering room service. Pretty soon she suspected the kitchen was only giving her orders requested by gross old men just out of the shower. She remembered how embarrassing it was to sit and wait for lecherous-looking old men in half-closed bathrobes struggle to fill out a room service bill because they were too busy trying to check her out without her noticing and without completely exposing themselves. Seriously, Father Time, slap fifteen percent on it and sign the damn thing, she would think. I need to go vomit.