Pool_2

spike - you know, the Cuban, Prado, he's disappeared?" "Yes." "The shovel brothers?" A flip into the air hand gesture added them to the missing. B.J. stood silent squinting. He had heard tales similar to this from failed compatriots engaged in other ventures in that region. He only mumbled Martians something which one short lived teller of this very same kind of story had described as his own cause of blameless failure. Martians was echoing as it passed listener to listener like a wave along both table edges. One fellow, midway along the right table side, unthinkingly asked, "Did you report the men as missing to the police?" to a hail of Jesus and "Oh yeah right!"s. One man mocked, "Hello? Police? I want to report, what, thirty one? Thirty one goons missing. Yes sir. No they don't have actual names, just pet names like Death and Slaughter. No. They aren't actually citizens..." The once timid speaker finally lifted his courage further, as that clatter died down, to suggest a daring, in its cowardice, suggestion. "It is just dollars and cents, sirs, just that, nothing more. It isn't my place to advise your investments, but in just terms of resources, so many dollars invested to quarterly return and effort.." "SAY IT!" "Move us. Somewhere else." Mechanically, repetitiously, slicking back his own hair with his left hand while leaning forward on the table with the right, B.J. was whispering his formulation into the chair's ear, who spoke, "We WILL take that under advisement...." "Sir?"