The Blind Pig by Jon A. Jackson Page A

Mulheisen was suddenly very happy, and he hummed along under his breath.
    A half-hour later, without warning, Mulheisen felt exhausted. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose, yawning into his palm. His eyes felt gritty and the beer was gaseous. He wanted to break wind, but didn't. “Aagh!” he moaned quietly.
    “What's the matter, man?” Benny asked.
    “I don't know,” Mulheisen talked through a partially suppressed yawn. “I've had it. I've got to get the hell out of here, get some sleep.” He got up and paced a few steps into the next room. A couple of young men sat in easy chairs talking spiritedly about “. . . marijuana laws, then all the big tobacco companies will. . . .” They fell silent when they saw him.
    He drifted aimlessly through the room and into a hallway that ought to lead to a bathroom. As he passed what must have once been a bedroom, he heard Spanish being spoken excitedly. He did not hesitate but went on to the men's room.
    When he came out of the men's room, he saw a young woman standing outside the room where he'd heard the Spanish. She wore a fuzzy jacket and tall boots and she had brilliant red hair. She smiled as he approached.
    “Hi,” Mandy Cecil said.

Eight
    “The last time I saw you,” Mulheisen said, “you were counting quarters. Where's Tall-Dark-and-Handsome?”
    Mandy Cecil shrugged.
    “You mean you're here alone?” Mulheisen was aghast. Brandywine's was not exactly the place for an unaccompanied beautiful redhead, unless she happened to be a prostitute. It wasn't so much that she would be bothered by the customers, although she would certainly have no deficiency of lewd offers, but that when she left, the neighborhood was extremely dangerous.
    “I'm not exactly alone,” she said. She nodded toward the room outside which they were standing. The Spanish voices were as voluble as ever.
    “Friends of yours?” Mulheisen asked.
    “Sort of,” she said diffidently. “But I spotted you passing by, so I—”
    “Why don't you introduce us?” Mulheisen said. He pushed the door further ajar and stepped past her into the room. The talking stopped. There were about a dozen men in the room, most of them fairly young, sitting around a largepoker table. They were not playing poker, however. It looked like an informal meeting of some sort. They were all drinking beer. All of the men turned to look at Mulheisen.
    Mulheisen bared his fangs in a more or less friendly fashion and gazed back at them. Mandy rushed to fill the silence.
    She spoke in Spanish, at first, something about" muy bueno amigo, Señor Mulheisen.” She took Mulheisen by the arm and led him forward, gesturing toward an extremely handsome young man in his late twenties. “Mul, this is Angel. And this"—she turned to a middle-aged man with a somber expression—"is Francisco.” She went around the table, naming each man by his first name only. Each man stood and nodded slightly with a smile.
    Angel grinned broadly, displaying gleaming white teeth under a thick mustache. “I am so happy to meet Mahn-dee's frans, señor. Weel you have a cerveza? ” He gestured with a beer bottle. “Or tequila, perhaps.” There was a bottle on the table.
    “No, thanks,” Mulheisen said. “I just bumped into Mandy in the hall. Sounded like you were having a party, but it doesn't look like it.” He looked around innocently. “Business, is it?”
    Angel laughed delightedly. “Oh, no, señor. It is much too late for business. We are indulging in that time-honored pastime of the exile—plotting revolución! ”
    The others laughed—uneasily, Mulheisen thought. The dour old man growled," Bufón. ”
    “Don't be so groucho, Francisco,” Angel said gaily. “These Yanquis are well aware that we only plot. Only the CIA can make revolución, eh? But we have the luxury of talking about it.”
    “Where is this revolution taking place?” Mulheisen asked.
    “Nowhere!” said Angel. “Only in our cabezas. Ha ha! But if the CIA