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On the lower bunk, a man was sitting, staring out the high and narrow slit window with double-thick bulletproof glass that was flush to the wall and enclosed in a black heavy metal frame. He was admiring the skyline of Miami and the views of Biscayne Bay. He wore a loose-fitting pair of gray athletic shorts that went halfway down his thighs. His top was covered by a thick green US Army shirt with very heavy plastic buttons. Since he was sitting down, one couldn't determine his height precisely, but 5'8" would be a pretty good guess. He had brown straight hair that was starting to thin on top. It was obvious that middle age would bring on baldness.
His body build was slender and his arms and legs were covered with thick black hair. A black digital Timex watch could be seen on his left wrist. White socks and dark brown plastic sandals adorned his feet. His skin was olive, but not dark and swarthy in the Latin way. He had a slender face and average-looking nose. His chin had a strength to it. His lips were average. His nose was thin and supported orange thin-framed eyeglasses with clear lenses.
Some people said that he looked just like Superman's alter ego Clark Kent. Some said that he looked like a very distinguished upper-class British gentleman, perhaps someone with a title of some sort. Some said that he came from Spain and must have descended from some noble family. Some said that he was American. He had the appearance and bearing that could make him any nationality where European people lived. He was truly the new breed of International Man who was born to command and lead.
Despite all the arguments about his nationality, everyone agreed that he looked like Old Money. He had the class, natural grace, and manners of a man who had been born with money and had had it all his life. It was obvious that he had gone to The right kind of schools. Women always described him with words like: interesting, fascinating, worldly, and charming. Men were intimidated by him. They sensed an awesome intellect and seething volcanic violence under his cool, controlled, and urbane exterior.
But his hazel eyes were what you always remembered. No one could forget those eyes after they looked at them. They hardly ever blinked. They always took in everything around them. They were cool, impersonal, and all-knowing. They looked right through you. They frightened you. They put you on the defensive. They could, most likely, read minds. They could also strip a person's soul bare, if he felt that was necessary. They told you that he was someone very exceptional and special.
His eyes made his appearance daunting and intimidating, despite the fact that he wasn't a tall or big man. But when he opened his mouth and started to talk, this whole impression changed. He was very approachable. He seemed to be warm, friendly, and down to earth. Men relaxed and instantly opened up to him. Women literally went crazy over him. They found him charming and irresistible.
When people listened to him speak, they noticed a most interesting accent. When he was speaking Portuguese, he spoke with a soft, melodic, poetic, but not undisciplined accent that was so common to most Brasilians. It was obvious that he wasn't a Cariocha from Rio de Janeiro or a Paulistano from Sao Paulo. When he spoke Spanish, it was with the highly-sophisticated accent and perfect diction of a man from an upper-class Madrid family. When he spoke English, his diction and grammar were perfect American from an upper-class Miami family. But there was a lingering undertone in his accent. One who had lived in Israel for many years would swear that he was a Sabra Jew whose family tree extended back many generations in Israel. Yes, only the very astute and well-traveled people could detect that he was Jewish. His appearance gave no clue to this. It was also hard to tell his age. People could only say that he was thirty something.
On this particular summer day, as was his normal habit, he didn't arise out of bed until well past 11 in the morning. He'd then down his morning cup of coffee and bagel. Afterwards, he'd stare out the narrow slit window at the Miami skyline until lunch was ready. At that time, he'd pull himself out of bed and go to the dining tables in the common area. He'd pick up a food tray, eat it all, go back for seconds, and then ask for left over food from others. (Regardless of how much he ate, he never seemed to gain any weight.) Then he'd get on the phone all day and up to ten in the night. When the door was slammed and locked by guards around 10 PM, he'd voraciously read magazines from all over the world until two or three in the morning.
Standing next to him in the narrow room, leaning on the Formica table was an older man. He was wearing full-length green US Army fatigue pants and a brown "T" shirt. He was somewhere between 6'1" and 6'2" tall. He had large shoulders and a strong-looking build. It was obvious that, at some point in his life, he'd excelled in sports like tennis and the martial arts that required good reflexes and a lot of speed. He also had the appearance of a man who had spent a lot of time in the out of doors. He had naturally long and very thick brown hair. His head was large and round. His forehead was very prominent and high. He had light and clear skin that black people often described as pink. His face was large and round. People often described him as Slavic-looking. He had a slender and prominent British nose, a strong chin, and a very tense jaw. His ears were not large or unusual. His eyes were large and blue. Women described them as innocent and sweet, like Charles Lindbergh's. There was a gentleness and a sweetness about him. Anyone would be surprised to find out that he'd won several medals for his combat experience in Vietnam; having been hit by shrapnel before a motor patrol boat blown out from under him off the coast of North Vietnam. They'd have been even more surprised to learn that he'd survived a cracked skull, acid attack, and a savage police beating in Australia. They would have been floored to learn that he had served 8 years of his life in super-maximum security prisons all over the world.
His body wasn't fat. But he was starting to show a slight middle-aged paunch. He walked with a spring in his step. He usually appeared very cool and detached. This tended to make him seem distant to a lot of women. He had the habit of looking all around as he walked. He always wanted to know what was going around him and to be able to react quickly. This habit was a throwback from growing up on very mean streets in the East End of Houston. He was also a Scorpio and very sexy. He'd often been compared to the British comedian Benny Hill, the American actor Robin Williams, and the American politician Ted Kennedy. When he talked, his accent was very strange. There were parts of Texas, Australia, South Africa, Brasil, Argentina, and Chile mixed in his voice. No one believed that he was an American. A couple of times the American authorities had been ready to deport him; not to mention two other countries that had deported him. He really didn't consider himself an American. He'd been away too many years. He only came back when he was forced at gun point to serve a short jail sentence. He hated it when people mistook him for an Irishman. His deceased German-Czech father would turn over in his grave if he heard his son being called that. His dark and swarthy Spanish-looking mother Juanita would have also gotten very mad to hear him called Irish.
