CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
2001 – Bro Hang
The two weeks spent with Mundo were a homecoming and a revelation. I hadn’t seen him since he left Brooklyn a year earlier, on Boxing Day.
He’d gained a significant amount of weight since then and had grown his thick, wavy hair out. It was unparted and lightly slicked back.
“Yo, papito,” I teased him, “you are definitely embracing your cacique heritage. All you need is a fresh guyabera and an unlit cigar.”
“Ha ha, very funny motherfucker,” he replied. “You look the same. A little skinny and bald, but still the same asshole Cabrón I know and love.”
Doe wasn’t wrong in his assessment. I’d lost a ton of weight and muscle tone in the past six months- studying for the GRE and running around town conducting my many faceman duties had left little time for me to hit the gym. And I’d shaved my head nearly down to the scalp, to get rid of my waves. I was trying to be as lowkey and/or unmemorable as possible. A ghost.
I needed to get past my current non-civilian status and into my next, one hundred percent legitimate phase. And I know Mundo was very aware of the internal conflict that had me waking up in the middle of the night, wondering who the fuck I really was.
This discussion took place while we were having lunch at the El Panama Hotel’s courtyard restaurant, surrounded by the cream of the city’s casual power-broker elite. Mundo had organized his schedule so we could spend a few days hanging out at the beginning of my trip and a few days at the end, without any work distractions pulling him away. Regardless, people kept stopping by to say hello, ask after Tío Bolo, check to see if Mundo would be attending whatever must-attend social event was on the calendar for that week. Doe was in his element. And I was chilling. Playing back. Observing. Because in the back of my mind, I knew that Mr. Henriques had sent me down here for a reason, and I think it was to give me a chance to see if this was a place where I could make a home for myself. Like Mundo apparently had done.
“How’s it going here, Doe?” I asked, as we drank Hemingway Daquiris and ate cold poached shrimp. “Do you like working so closely with Bolo? Do you like what he has you doing?”
Mundo, mid-bite, shrugged and pulled a face.
“I mean, I know you can’t miss Brooklyn that much if you haven’t bothered to come back at all in the past two years,” I finished.
Mundo put his fork down.
“Eh,” he shrugged again. “It’s okay. Kinda monotonous.”
“Are you still supervising his construction partners?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he replied. “It’s alright, but I just get so tired having to constantly have my foot up people’s asses 24 hours a day. I don’t mind talking to people and telling them what to do, but I haaaaaate having to read blueprints and project plans and review budgets to make sure we’re not getting robbed…”
He trailed off at this point, downed the remainder of his cocktail and signaled a waiter for another round.
“So, what you’re saying is, it’s too much work to have to do the work,” I laughed.
“Pretty much,” he agreed. “And Bolo is getting old. Slow.”
“Well, I mean, isn’t he, like, pushing seventy now?” I asked.
“Mid-sixties I think,” Doe replied. “He just doesn’t want to be bothered with anything, but he refuses to retire.”
So, the Heir was ready to inherit the kingdom but Bolo refused to budge. I wondered if Mr. Henriques was aware of this- if this was a problem that I was sent down to assess.
I changed the subject to girls. I asked if there was anyone serious.
“I’m dating a bunch of different girls, but no one serious,” he said. “I’m not trying to get locked down anytime soon. She’d have to a supermodel with a medical degree.”
I laughed.
“And before you ask again,” he continued, “no, I am not planning on going to back to Brooklyn, any time soon.”
It didn’t surprise me that Mundo felt so strongly about staying away. There was a dark vibe hanging over our hometown and I’d be out of there, too- if I could find a good enough excuse to bail.
