—Si, si, claro.
And he pulls my passport out of his pocket and hands it to me. We all have a nice chat. It’s a hard chat because there’s no translator this time, but pidgin Spanish and pidgin English win out.
When we’re all done they have assured me that all is well. They are so sorry they have inconvenienced me. I’m starting to relax a little, and Bud comes scampering out from under the bed.
Candito squats down.
—Ay, gato.
He pets Bud, then stands up.
—He is a nice cat for you?
—Yeah.
And I can’t help but notice that Sergeant Candito now has a look in his eye as if he’s just run into someone whose face he should know, but he can’t quite remember why.
LEO COMES by after dark. He sits on my porch and sips Carta Blanca. I smoke and tell him exactly what I need. Leo listens, nods his head when I’m through.
—When?
—Tomorrow?
Leo shakes his head.
—No, man, too soon.
—Day after?
He squints, stares out at the water.
—Yeah, I think so.
—How much?
He shrugs.
—For me, nada. But something for Rolf, some other people . . .
—How much?
—Ten thousand U.S.
I go inside, come back out and hand him twenty thousand.
—And ten for you.
He looks at the money.
—I don’t want that.
—Leo.
—Fuck you, I don’t want it.
—Leo.
He peels off ten grand and tosses the rest back at me. I set it on the porch next to his knee.
—Leo, it’s gonna be dangerous.
—Chinga! What do I fucking do for a living, maricone?
—More dangerous than that, it could get. People, the people who are looking for me might come around. You might have to hide for a little while if they do.
—Hide? Fucking!
He starts spewing Spanish, stuff about me and my mother and pigs and what I can do with my money and what he’d do to anyone who came around and thought they could make him hide. He runs out of steam after a couple minutes, drains the rest of his beer, starts to say something else, stops himself, and throws the empty bottle toward the water. We hear it thunk down in the sand.
I get up and walk over, pick it up and bring it back. I sit down and nudge the money closer to him with my toe.
—If they come. They’ll be killers if they come, Leo. Take the money. I’m a pussy little girl and it will make me feel better if you take the money.
He snorts. I start talking in a high voice.
—Take the money, Leo. You can burn it later. Just let me see you take it. Make me feel better because I’m such a mujer.
He picks up the money and walks into the darkness.
—Be at my brother’s at sunrise, day after tomorrow. And learn fucking Spanish, man. A mujer is a woman. A niña is a little girl.
WHEN PEDRO shows up the next morning I’m already at The Bucket, with the grill fired up and the coffeepot gurgling. I help him unload the ice and a couple cases of beer, then tell him to sit down. He sits on one of the swings.
I heat up some refried beans, throw a couple of the tortillas he brought from home on the grill, and fry two eggs. I smear the beans onto a plate, put the hot tortillas on top, then the eggs, then pour his wife’s salsa over the whole thing. I put it in front of him and pour his coffee in my cup with lots of milk and sugar like he likes it. He looks at the plate of huevos rancheros, and then at me.
—I had breakfast two hours ago.
I SPENT close to a year sitting at Pedro’s bar doing my drunken gringo act. He was pretty patient with me, I have to say. Some of that was because I was a great tipper, but we also hit it off from the start.
I had been in town for a couple weeks and spent most of the time in my room, growing facial hair, drinking, and lying low while news about me had a chance to die down. One night I lurched over to the main drag, Calle Cinco, and ended up getting my first tattoo: a heart wrapped in a banner that said MOM & DAD.
Afterward I started walking toward the darkness at the end of the street. That’s where I found Pedro, working at a little patio restaurant with no one in it. I took a stool and he asked me what I wanted. There was a huge menu of drinks hanging behind the bar.
—Surprise me.
He fills the glass with ice, pours 151 over it and pineapple juice and orange juice and almond syrup and Coco Lopez and grenadine, shakes it, floats some dark rum on top, takes a very long straw from a box on the bar, cuts it in half and sticks both halves into the drink, and puts it in front of me on a little napkin. I pick it up, the napkin sticks to the bottom of the glass. I take a sip.
—Wow. That’s good.
—Mai tai.
—No kidding. You know, I’ve never actually had one before.
I take another sip.
—This is great.
He points at the bandage on my shoulder.
—Tattoo?
—Yeah.
—What?
I set the drink down and peel up the bandage. He reads it.
—Mom and dad.
—I love my mom and dad.
—Bueno.
He lifts the sleeve of his shirt and shows me his shoulder: MAMA y PAPA.
—I love my mom and dad. Mi madre y mi padre. Mama does not like this. She say . . . uh . . . tattoo are for criminals. See.
He turns and lifts the other sleeve. There’s a little homemade tattoo underneath, like the ones my buddies Wade and Steve gave themselves in high school. They’d wrap thread around the shaft of a sewing needle, then dip it in India ink. Ink would drip out of the thread down to the point of the needle while they poked their skin, making tiny anarchy As or spelling out OZZY. This one is a little vertical line, a triangle attached to the top half pointing to my right. He smiles.
—Mama, she beat my ass for this.
I turn my head, look at it again.
—What is it?
He laughs, points at the tattoo.
—P.
Points at himself.
—Pedro.
Ten months later, when nobody had found me and shot me and I had failed to drink myself to death, I started thinking about what might be involved in staying alive and staying hidden. I knew I was going to need some papers, a passport most of all. Pedro was the only person I trusted enough to ask for help. It turned out he trusted me too.
HE TAKES a couple bites of the eggs for politeness’s sake, announces them fit, and tells me to eat the rest. I take the envelope from my back pocket, hand it to him, and start to eat. He opens the envelope and takes out the government leases and all the other legal documents regarding The Bucket and my bungalow.
—I went to the safety deposit box yesterday.
He’s looking at the papers.
—No.
—I signed over both the leases to you.
Shaking his head.
—No.
—Pedro.
—No.
He goes behind the bar and starts banging things around.
—Pedro. If I ever make it back.
—Back. The policia gave you back the passport, yes?
—Yes.
—So no problema, you will come back.
I lift my bottle of seltzer from the bar and trace little lines through the ring of water it leaves behind.
—This is the old trouble, Pedro. My old trouble. The trouble you don’t know about.
He stops banging things. I set my bottle down, look at him.
—Please. I was alone. Yo desamparado. Until you, I had no friends.
He looks at his feet. He picks up the papers, puts them neatly in the envelope and slips it into his pocket. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the bar, palm up. I cover it with my own.
—Amigo.
He squeezes my hand.
—Forever and ever.
THE DAY-TRIPPERS clear out around four, and an hour later Pedro locks up. I take a couple swims, having to unclog my ears with the cigarettes after each. By the time the sun is down the local kids have finished their soccer game, the lovers I watch kissing retire to their palapa, and I have the beach to myself. I go into the bungalow, leaving the door and all the shutters open, light some candles, and start to pack.
Bud rouses himself from a nap and wanders over to see what’s up. He keeps stuffing his head in the pack, getting in the way every time I try to put something inside.
—I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no room for you.
He meows as I push him aside so I can pack the bundle of protein bars I bought at the Chedraui.
—I know we did it last time, but that was then and this is now. Besides, this time I have a place for you to stay.
Now he’s got the entire front half of his body stuck in there, rooting around. I pull him out and toss him on the floor.
—Cool it.
He hops back on the bed. I get everything stowed, close up the old army surplus pack, and put it next to the front door. I dig the money belt out from under my mattress, stick the John Carlyle papers inside along with my ID, and drape it over the pack. I close the front door, blow out all but one of the candles, and lie on the bed. Bud jumps down to the floor and walks to the other side of the room.
—You’ll like it at Pedro’s.
But he’s not buying it. Bud is a bachelor cat who has only lived with bachelor men, first Russ and then me. Pedro’s got the wife and three kids. Bottom line, Bud’s gonna get chased around some and have his tail yanked a few times. Of course the option is for me to try and haul him to the U.S. and infinitely increase the odds of my getting caught.
—It’s just not gonna work this time, guy.
I’m staring up at the ceiling, but I feel it when he jumps back onto the bed. He walks around me a couple times, then flops on my chest. I scratch his head, careful not to touch the scar, because he doesn’t like that. He starts to purr.
Fuck. I’m gonna miss this cat.
THE NIGHTMARE that wakes me up is a new one. I’m at Paul’s Bar the morning of the massacre. Instead of my old friends getting killed, it’s people I know now. Timmy, Mercedes from the Pakmail, Leo, Rolf, the smiling Spanish girl. And I’m the one doing the killing, walking around the bar with a machine gun, murdering all the people. Until they are all dead, all except Pedro and two others. He’s standing in front of the others, shielding them with his body. And I can see them, and it’s my parents.
And I kill Pedro.
And aim the machine gun.
And I wake up.
A half hour later I’m crashing through the jungle, clutching Bud to my chest, with Sergeants Morales and Candito running after me.
THANK GOD for the swimming. Without the swimming I would have collapsed by now. Of course all that wonderful muscle tone isn’t helping out with the searing burn in my lungs. Over thirty years without even trying a cigarette and I had to start. It was quitting the booze that did it. Drop one addiction and pick up another. Fucking idiot.
I trip over a tree root. Which is what I get for not paying attention to where I’m going.
I can’t put my arms out to brace my fall without losing Bud, so I twist my body around and drop hard, the pack absorbing most of the impact. I start to get to my feet and hear Morales and Candito calling out to each other. They’re a ways back there and they’ve stopped running. They’re asking each other where I am. I get to my knees and peek out from behind my tree. But this being a jungle, I can’t see more than a few feet.
What I need to do here is stay cool. Cut out all the crashing around and sneak my way to Pedro’s. Bud twists out of my grasp and streaks off back toward the bungalow. Toward the cops.
There has to be, there simply has to be a statute of limitations on cat-sitting. I run after him. Almost immediately the sergeants hear me and they’re yelling again and coming in my direction. I trip over another root.
And it catches me.
I start to shout, but Leo wraps a hand over my mouth. We make eye contact. I nod. He uncovers my mouth and hands Bud to me. I hear rustling as Morales and Candito creep by on either side of us, trying to zero in on me. The sound dies and Leo puts his mouth right against my ear.
—This way.
He’s holding his arm straight out, pointing in the same direction the cops just went.
—Straight as possible, you’ll come out by Pedro’s.
—Cops.
—Shut up. Rolf will be there.
—What about.
—And hang on to the fucking cat.
He gets up and starts running loudly, and I hear the cops yell and take off after him. I head for Pedro’s.
I POP out of the trees about twenty yards from Pedro’s house, just off the highway. I can see the dune buggy parked out back and Rolf standing in the yard. I sprint over and Rolf catches me as I stumble the last few feet.
—Leo. Gasp. He. He. He. Gasp.
—He find you?
—Yeah. Gasp. He.
—Inside, dude.
We go through the screen door, he leads me to the kitchen.
—We saw them go past on the highway and head for the beach. Leo took off to warn you or whatever.
—He drew them off.
—Cool.
—No, we got to.
—Dude, we got to get you out of here is all we got to do. Leo’s cool. Those guys will never find him in there.
In the kitchen the table is covered with food. Pedro is sipping coffee, listening to ranchera music. He clicks off the radio. His wife, who is usually on her way to town with the kids by now, is at the stove. She turns and gives me a tight-lipped smile.
—Buenos dias.
—Buenos dias, Ofelia.
She gestures to the table.
—Comer.
She’s made a huge breakfast, a farewell. We’re all supposed to sit at the table and have breakfast together, and I’m late. Rolf grabs a tortilla off the table, slaps some beans into it and takes a huge bite.
—Gracias, no, Ofi. We got to split. Andele muchachos big time.
I look at all the wonderful food and smile at her.
—Bonita, bonita. Muy bien. I’m so sorry. Gracias.
She nods.
Rolf is getting ready to grab something else off the table. She pushes him away and starts packing food in a plastic bag for us. Pedro puts down his cup and stands.
—Leo?
Rolf waves his hand.
—He’s goose-chasing the cops, he’ll be fine.
Pedro shakes his head. Ofelia finishes and hands me the bag of food.
—Gracias.
She puts her hands on my shoulders, pulls my face down close to her mestizo features, and kisses me on the cheek. Rolf grabs me and pulls me toward the door. Pedro follows us. We’re halfway out when he puts a hand on my shoulder and points at Bud, still in my arms.
—Amigo.
—Right.
I hold Bud up so I can look at his face.
—OK, Buddy, time to go.
I hand him to Pedro. He curls up in his arms and starts purring. And that’s that.
Pedro reaches into his pocket, takes something out, hands it to me, then turns and walks back into the house. Rolf hustles me to the buggy. I look back. Through the screen door I can see Pedro’s three kids running into the room screaming.
—Ay, gato!
Good luck, cat.
Rolf fires up the buggy and guns it onto the highway as I take the holy medal Pedro gave me and loop it around my neck. Christopher, patron saint of travelers.
WE’RE HEADED down 184, the local highway that cuts across most of the peninsula. Rolf is driving with his knees, both hands in his lap, trying to eke flame from a Bic to light a joint in the roaring wind of the open buggy. He gets the doobie going and takes a hit.
—Voilà!
He offers it to me, I decline and he keeps at it, smoking it like a cigarette.
—Dude, check the bag, man, see if Ofi packed us any breakfast bread.
I dig one of the sugared rolls out of the bag and hand it to him.
—Thanks.
—So, Rolf.
—Yeah?
Crumbs fly from his lips, he’s got the roll in one hand and the joint in the other as he pulls around a slow-moving pickup, passing it before a blind curve on the two-lane road.
—I have this thing about cars and speeding.
—Don’t worry, dude, I’m a good driver.
—Right now you aren’t inspiring much confidence, and seeing as how this jalopy has no seat belts, I was hoping you might slow the fuck down.
—Tranquilo, muchacho. No problem, man.
He decelerates.
—Thanks. So?
—Yeah?
—What’s the plan?
—The plaaaaan. The plan is beautiful. You are going to love the plan.
—And?
—OK, it’s total secret-agent style, the stuff I really love. None of that two-drunk-Cubans-in-a-boat shit. We are on our way to Campeche.
He draws out the last syllable: Campechaaaaaay.
—Actually, before Campeche, we’ll pull off to this place called Bobola.
—What’s there?
—Leo.
—Leo?
—Got to have Leo. He’s the man who knows the people. If I try to deliver you? No go.
—Yeah, but last time I saw him he was getting chased by a couple cops.
—He’ll get rid of the Federales and borrow Pedro’s car. He’s probably at their place right now digging into that food.
Nice thought.
—So where does Leo take us to?
—The Campeche airport. You afraid of flying, too?
—No.
—Good. I’ve seen this plane and you don’t want to be afraid of flying. So this guy with the plane will fly you across the gulf to Veracruz. There, Pedro has a guy, an American with an excursion boat. He’ll take you on, put together crew papers for you and everything, and take you back to his homeport.
Six Bad Things Page 7
