As a child in Havana his family had had a chauffeur, and then after fleeing the comunistas and taking refuge in Manhattan, he had depended on subways, buses, and taxicabs for transportation. It wasn’t until he was in the Army, stationed at Fort Bragg with the 82nd Airborne, that he first sat behind the wheel of an automobile, and that had been a buddy’s Pontiac GTO, not an army jeep. “Slow down, goddamn it!” Marvel shouted. “This isn’t Daytona Speedway! I want to get to Recondo School alive.” He hugged his rucksack to his chest and bit his lip as Gonzales veered around a slow-moving Vietnamese armored personnel carrier. The Vietnamese soldiers sitting on top of the APC jeered and flashed the “V” sign, and Gonzales flipped them the bird. “Fuckin’ gooks drive like women,” he growled. Once safely past the APC, he let off the gas and downshifted so suddenly Marvel Kim was forced to reach out and brace himself against the dash to keep from flying forward and smashing the windshield with his forehead.
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