The Teacher

There was blood on the concrete near his feet. There was always blood somewhere. It was probably from the dogs, but you could never tell. It looked only a day old, but for all he knew, it could have been there for weeks. He looked away to the setting sun as it dropped low behind the distant hills that hemmed in the city. Sighing, he pulled out his last pack of American cigarettes from his jacket pocket and shucked loose a smoke, shoving it into his lips. Just as he was about to light it, that kid showed up.
--Profe! Dame uno de esos. Give me one of those.
The Teacher sighed loudly and shoved the pack of cigarettes back into his pocket.
--I ain't your profe any more, kid. Scram.
The kid didn't move from where he stood in the middle of the street, across from where the Teacher sat perched on the curb. After a minute, he spat.
--When you come back to the liceo?
The Teacher ignored him and lit his cigarette. He took a drag and exhaled the smoke with as much visible indignation as he could muster.
--Profe, cuándo vas a regresar al liceo? When are you coming back to school?
--I said scram, kid. Vete.
He jumped to his feet and yelled.
--Vete!
The kid waved his hand dismissively and turned to leave.
--Ya po!
The Teacher glared at the kid as he slowly, deliberately walked away. Even after the kid had disappeared around a corner, the Teacher stared after him, puffing away on his cigarette.

The sun wasn't quite gone, but the temperature had already dropped near freezing. Desert cold, the kind that cuts right through you and makes your bones ache. He flicked away the remainder of his cigarette and pulled out a pair of gloves. As he was fumbling them onto this hands, his cellphone rang out from his jacket pocket. He paused in the act of pulling on the glove to his right hand and placed it in his teeth to fish out the phone. The name on the screen said the call was from the language institute. He frowned as he answered.
--Allo? He said around a mouthful of glove.
--Hey, it's Charlie. I don't have any clients tonight. Barcelo?
--Yeah, sure. When?
--Are you walking?
--Of course.
--Okay, half an hour.
The phone beeped indicating that the call had ended. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and pulled on the glove. The thumb was wet with saliva and he made a face.

He headed into town along Latorre, which took him right into the center past all the redundant carnecerias, farmacias, and repuestos selling junk that he could never imagine people actually buying. The evening crowds were out and he had to keep stepping out into the street to avoid pedestrians and the dogs. The wind was strong and by the time he ducked inside the bar called Barcelo, the inside of his nostrils and the corners of his eyes were coated with dust.
The camarero was filling up a pitcher of indistinct lager at the bar's only tap. He nodded to the Teacher and pointed with his lips towards the back. He found Charlie sitting alone in the back room shrouded in a thin cloud of smoke. In the low light, the Teacher could make out five or six other people spread out around the smalls tables. Two ancient, faded big screen TV's were playing music videos on mute. He sat down across from Charlie.
--Got a pitcher coming.
--I saw.
Just then the camarero appeared and set down the pitcher and two glasses.
--Gracias, they said in unison. The man just nodded and moved away. Charlie poured.
--It's been two weeks now, hasn't it? Are you going to go back?
--I don't want to talk about it.
Charlie shrugged as he took a sip of his beer.
--They tell me the girl is already at a different school. Not that it really mattered anyway. It's not as big a deal here.
--I told you I don't want to talk about it.
--Fine. You need to go back though. Get over it. You made a mistake. Anyway, it's Calama. Nobody cares.
--I care. I care a hell of a lot.
Charlie smirked.
--Well, it's a shame you've got those morals now.
The Teacher shook his head and downed his entire glass in one quaff. He set his glass down and proceeded to look past Charlie to the table behind him. Charlie cocked an eyebrow.
--What? Are they there?
--Aren't they always?
Charlie craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Behind him were three well dressed men, each leaning in close over the table obviously engaged in discussion. Each one wore a black leather jacket and cradled a cigarette in his hand.
--Better not stare, the Teacher said. Charlie quickly turned back around.
--You'd think they'd find somewhere less conspicuous to do their business.
--Like you said, it's Calama. Nobody cares.
Charlie nodded and raised his glass to his lips. Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder. Charlie started and spit beer all over himself.
--What the...
He looked up from his beer-stained shirt to see the Teacher's eyes riveted on something behind him. He looked up then to see one of the men from the table behind standing over him, smiling.
The man spoke in heavily accented English.
--You speak Inglés, no?
Charlie turned back to look at the Teacher and noticed that the other two men had taken up position behind him, along with a fourth man who had been previously unseen.
--Please, you come with us I think.
Charlie began to protest in Spanish, but the man put a finger to his lips and shook his head.
--You come, now.
The Teacher stood, silent and glaring. The man behind Charlie patted him forcefully on the shoulder and he too finally stood. Hemmed in by the four men, the Teacher and Charlie were shepherded through the room and towards a backdoor. As he walked, the Teacher slowly slid his hand into his jacket, fingering the knife he had hidden there. Charlie shot him an uneasy glance.

The lead man opened the backdoor and Charlie and the Teacher were ushered out into the night.