The Gypsy's Dagger

Chapter Five

Pierre Morales learned how to shoot a gun at age ten, protecting the family property from trespassers, and he'd learned to keep secrets at age nine, protecting his father's from his mother. And even before that, he had learned how to lie, protecting himself.

When he really thought about it, he found a lie was not the opposite of truth, but simply the remaking of it—a state-of-the-art truth, carefully woven and built in fine linguistic architecture. Lies, he found, were powerful things, with the ability to convince people of things that never were, comfort them in ways that could never be.

Besides that, lying was Morales's favorite sport. The way he saw it, the more you practiced, the better you got at it.

However, there were a couple essential factors to weaving the perfect lie; a concrete setting, slightly inaccurate timing, appropriate body language, a tinge of self-deprecation, and added details to liking. Each lie was a personal recipe.

There were also different kinds of lies, Morales believed.

There was the kind you narrated, filled with the afore mentioned factors, and the kind in which you did not even need to say anything—lying by omission, seasoned with body language. His everyday life was filled with this second kind of lie, continuously told by bravado and nonchalant cunning.

In his experience, falsehoods were made to protect fragile truths from the harsh, tough world. Or to protect a fragile world from harsh, tough truths. In Morales's case, he was both.

The events of the previous night played through his mind as he drifted through the day at the Cajon Gris. He clenched his hands and unclenched them, distractedly. His palms felt clammy. He checked himself on keeping his signature grin on his face, all smug.

Lying by omission.

So much for the second night of summer.

He had been in the archives room of the guardhouse last night, doing everything except archiving paperwork and warrants, with the lush companionship of Izan Zuniga, Lieutenant extraordinaire; hands and waists and necks and jaws, crumpled green uniforms and skin.

Morales frowned at the memory, growing bitter as it played through his mind, hands and waists and necks and jaws; an absent hand came to rest over his collarbone, where Zuniga's mouth had left a mark.

He sighed.

A few officers saluted him throughout the morning, but Morales had only halfhearted mumbles to offer in return. His usual bravado found itself buried under pensiveness. Hands and waists and necks and jaws—foolishness and irresponsibility and jeopardy.

A primary thought clung to him, making him ache; said discomfort had a familiar face, all fine lines, and hazel eyes.

Jose had been at the guardhouse.

Jose had been at the guardhouse.

He thought he was going to be sick.

Jose had been at the main office while, a few doors away, Morales was being sacrilegious with Izan. How could he have been so careless?

He took a seat by the entrance's benches—depressing assemblances of wood and stone—usually reserved for detainees, and curled his hands under his chin, restless. His head throbbed. His pulse thundered. He knew Jose had not seen them but what if he had heard something? What was worse, what if he noticed something? He lived with Izan, for God's sake.

Zuniga, that sneaky bastard.

Morales had been trying to spot his ginger head amidst the green uniforms all day, without luck. Had he run into anyone as he was leaving? Had he noticed Jose's presence? Morales chastised himself on his paranoia.

He was thinking too much about it. He knew he was thinking too much about it, being bothered by the wrong reasons, not the hands and waists and necks and jaws. God. Unwinding, he straightened on his seat. A scream from the mess hall announced some big gambling had just ended, cheering and booing; Morales ignored this, too.

Even when finding Jose in the main office had planted a handful of anguish in his mind, he was certain the long-haired soldier wouldn't suspect anything. He was too stiff and boxy to. Besides, he'd been too upset about... something.

'What are you doing here at this hour?' he had asked. And it was this what gnawed at Morales: being caught off-guard.

He should have been able to produce a decent lie right there and then, all bravado and cunning, mastery and expertise. Hell, he should have planned a lie before even starting... whatever this was, with Zuniga. But no, he had faltered, halted, flinched. He had felt his own eyes widen, if only for a millisecond, in absolute terror before saying, "Sometimes the gypsies pass by, at night," hearing his own falseness; witnessing how Jose heard it, too.

"You're incorrigible," Jose had said with a diminishing scoff.

But Morales had lied.

An imperfect lie.

A sorry excuse.

Christ.

He'd lied.

And Jose had known.