J.D. Trafford - Michael Collins 03 - No Time To Hide

by J. D. Trafford

It took some time to recuperate, but Michael dove again. He knew where he was going this time. He had direction.

  Michael swam toward the white floater. It was an innocent object. If anybody else had seen it, they would have assumed it was a piece of garbage left by an ugly tourist. The white plastic foam rode the subtle underwater movements, but it didn’t stray too far. A weight held it in place, tethering it to the sinkhole’s bottom.

  Michael swam to the foam block, attached the carabiner, and shot to the surface with the long rope in his hand.

  He swam to the edge of the sinkhole and lifted himself out. Then Michel sat down, and started pulling. The rope snagged a few times, but within a minute his prize came to the surface.

  Wise men fish here, he thought as a small waterproof box came to shore. The box had been the weight attached to the end of the rope, tethering the foam to the bottom of the sinkhole.

  Michael examined the box. It was covered with moss, but the inside was going to be dry. And, that was all that mattered.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Michael had to retrieve his bike, get back to the highway, and then ride north to a rough dirt road that led to Punta Allen. With a population of 400, it was the largest village in the area.

  It was dusk by the time Michael made it. He was tired and hungry. The trip had been hotter and more grueling than the last time, probably because he was that much older and more out of shape.

  The actual name of the village was Javier Rojo Gómez, but nearly everybody called it Punta Allen for reasons that Michael never understood. His best guess was that Punta Allen was just easier to say. It also sounded like a village. Javier Rojo Gomez was too long. It sounded more like an actor on one of Mexico’s telenovelas than a place where people live.

  Michael biked into town. He turned left, and then went further south for another three blocks and stopped in front of a dirty, white, one-story building. He set his bike down and walked inside through the open door.

  The bartender looked up at him. It took a moment to register, but then a smile crossed the bartender’s face.

  “Look what the cat dragged in.” He shook his head. “You look old.”

  “I feel old.” Michael walked up to the bar, and then feigned inspection of the place. “Still living off your dubiously obtained disability benefits from the State of Louisiana?”

  “Of course, wouldn’t have it any other way.” The bartender bent over, pulled a Corona out of a cooler and took the bottle cap off. He put the open bottle down in front of Michael.

  “What the hell you been doin’ to yourself?”

  Michael took a drink of the cold beer. It was one of the best beers he had ever tasted. Michael savored it for a moment while also thinking about the question.

  “Now that’s a fair inquiry. You want the truth or something more philosophical?”

  The bartender scratched his stubbled chin.

  “The truth is usually interesting, but philosophy is more useful to me in my day-to-day life.”

  “Nietzsche or Camus?”

  “Nietzsche.” The bartender extracted another Corona from under the bar. He set it on the bar, removed the bottle cap, and then raised the bottle high. “Camus was a pussy,” he declared, then took a sip.

  Michael laughed. “And Nietzsche had a better mustache.”

  “Not fair.” The bartender smiled. “Camus didn’t have a mustache.”

  Michael nodded. “Exactly.” Then the two outcasts clinked their bottles and chugged them down.

  ###

  The bartender, Timmy Driscoll, was another drop-out. He had been a high school guidance counselor for twenty years in New Orleans, twice divorced.

  In middle age, his life had mostly entailed being abused by idiot teenagers during the day and caring for his three-legged dog in the evening. The three-legged dog was named Sparky. He loved that dog and figured that they would grow old together in New Orleans. Then Hurricane Katrina hit. His little house was washed away along with his school and the job.

  He was evacuated by bus to Texas.

  Timmy had snuck Sparky on board in a duffle bag. They made it an hour short of Houston when Sparky was discovered by the bus driver. Timmy and the dog were dropped off at a Greyhound bus station in Beaumont.

  Timmy didn’t have much cash, but he had a credit card. He bought a ticket on the next bus and paid an extra fee for Sparky. From Beaumont, Timmy went to San Antonio, and from there, Timmy and Sparky went to Matamoros on the Texas-Mexico border and then down the coast. They kept going south until he and the dog made a long pit stop at the Sunset Resort, and then eventually moved on to Punta Allen.

  After a few months of living in Punta Allen, Timmy decided to liquidate his 401k and buy the “The Salty Sands” bar.

  Timmy wasn’t a good bartender, but it was the only bar in town. The bedroom in the back of the bar also gave him a place to sleep and the soft pulse of the waves coming to shore gave him a little peace. The sound reminded him of the good parts of living in New Orleans without the bad.

  Michael and Timmy sat across from one another, laughing. They exchanged stories of the most recent attempts by the federales to shake down local businesses with new permit fees as well as the latest travails of tourists who drifted in and out of their lives.

  In the meantime, Sparky, the three-legged dog, searched for stray pieces of popcorn on the floor.

  Michael finished his beer, and Timmy gave him another. Then Timmy started in with the third installment of his trilogy, “The American Gringos and The Salty Sands.”

  “So this blonde chick comes in here from Alabama or someplace like that with her husband, and they’re arguing about the name, ‘Punta Allen’ and how to pronounce it correctly. She wants to be all ethnic, and so she’s pronouncing it like Pawn-twa Al-onge, and her husband is telling her its Punt-a Allen, ‘like your cousin Allen, not Al-onge. Al-onge is like French. It’s Allen, like your cousin.’

  Timmy paused so that Michael could appreciate the mental ability of the blonde and her husband.

  “So eventually this lady comes over to me and says, real slow and loud like I’m cognitively deficient and half deaf, ‘Excuse me. Can you tell me where we are and how you pronounce it?’”

  Timmy laughed in anticipation of the punchline.

  “So I played along. I went all glassy eyed and nodded my head at her without saying a word. And then she says to me, ‘Good. Just pronounce it real slow-like because me and my husband don’t really speak Mexican.’

  “Then she turned to her husband, and says, ‘Earl, you listen up, this man is going to tell us where we are.’ ”

  Timmy picked up a handful of popcorn. He shoved it into his mouth, and then continued after a beat and a swallow.

  “So I did what she asked and I told her where she was real slow, stretching out each syllable so that she got the pronunciation just right. I told her, ‘You….Are….In….A…..Bar.’”

  ###

  When they were done. Timmy led Michael into the back. He pointed out a bathroom with the smallest shower that Michael had ever seen.

  “You’re free to use it, if you can fit in it.” Timmy shook his head. “It was designed by skinny Germans. I have to stand on the outside and just stick one body part in there at a time.”

  After the bathroom tour, they walked out the back door.

  There was a ladder propped up against the building. Timmy pointed to it.

  “There you go, my friend. Just climb up to the penthouse and I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll bring your bike inside and get it locked up. Not much action here at night, but you never know.”

  Michael thanked him. He slung his pack over his shoulder and started to climb.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  On the roof, there was a large white hammock strung from rusted poles cemented into opposite corners of the building. On the ground next to the hammock, there was a stack of bedding, consisting of a thin sheet, pillow and mosquito net.

  Two small kerosene lanterns had al
ready been lit and cast everything in an orange light, but the light from the lanterns didn’t dim the thousands of stars above.

  The setup was beautiful and serene. It was marred only by the sight of Kermit Guillardo smoking a large joint and engaging in one of his new hobbies: naked yoga.

  Kermit took a deep breath.

  He untangled himself from the lotus position and stood.

  “We gotta build one of these rooftop pleasure centers at the Sunset, yo.” Kermit looked up at the stars and stretched, then took a long drag off his joint and released. “My core is totally ripped right now.” Kermit checked out his abs and nodded. “Plus, I’m like centered, like totally centered and ripped at the same time. Just call me Rip Van Centered.”

  Michael looked at Kermit’s abs. They looked a little more like a beer pooch than a six-pack, but he didn’t say anything. He set down his backpack, then he sat on the hammock.

  “It’s a nice spot.”

  “A nice spot to glow.” Kermit reached his arms to the sky, stretching. “Are you catching my glow?”

  “Totally.” Michael laid back in the hammock. “Just being near you has changed the color of my aura.” Michael closed his eyes. “Rip Van Center has engulfed me in a totally mellow magnetic field.”

  Kermit nodded, not catching the sarcasm.

  “It always does, my man. That’s what I done-did-do.”

  ###

  After Kermit explained to Michael how he was grossly overworked and underpaid, he managed to guilt Michael into letting him sleep in the hammock.

  Michael blew up his Therm-A-Rest mattress and laid down on the roof a few feet away.

  “What are you going to tell Andie?” Kermit swung a little bit in the hammock, allowing one of his long legs to dangle over the side. “Gotta tell her something.”

  Michael listened to a pick-up truck bounce by on the street below.

  “I know,” he paused. “She obviously knows what’s going on, but it’s just that …”

  “It’s just that you don’t want the cookie to crumble another time.”

  “Sort of.” Michael rolled onto his back, looking up at the sky. “We’ve been piecing it together slowly, getting to know each other, again. But I just have a bad feeling.”

  “You think she’s a snitch?” Kermit whistled, shaking his head. “No way, mi amigo, not my Andie. She’s a lotta things but she wouldn’t —”

  “I know. I know,” Michael cut him off. “But she almost did before and the timing is off. That’s all. She comes back and now, lo and behold, the indictment follows.”

  Kermit sat up, his expression serious.

  “The government’s had enough evidence to get you for a long time, muchacho. You said it yourself a hundred times. It happened in New York, and then they dropped it. It coulda happened in Miami, and somehow they let you go. The clock just ran out, like you thought it would.”

  Kermit looked up at the sky.

  “Some spy satellites probably peeping down on us right now. Andie’s got nothing to do with it. She just made a couple mistakes.” Kermit paused. “Just like you, man. Just like anybody.”

  Michael rolled over onto his side. “She’s just been acting weird lately, more needy.” Michael closed his eyes. “Something just feels off.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Michael was up at sunrise, a time when the air was cool and the sky was still a muddle of dark blues and oranges.

  He rolled off of his thin air mattress and stood. Michael was sore from the bike ride. Sleeping on concrete didn’t help. His joints creaked as he walked over to the edge of the roof. A gentle breeze came off the water. A cruise ship coasted north in the distance. It was headed toward Cozumel, an island whose sole apparent function was to separate tourists from their money.

  Michael knelt. He glanced back at Kermit, who appeared to still be sleeping, and then picked up his backpack. He unzipped it, removed the waterproof box that he had retrieved from the sinkhole, and set the backpack down.

  The box was roughly the length and size of a shoe box. It was constructed of a hard polycarbonate plastic. It was purportedly crushproof, waterproof, and airtight. We’ll see, Michael thought.

  He unfastened two latches and flipped open the top.

  Black foam lined the interior of the box, and Michael stared at the large plastic zipper-lock bag that was nestled in the base. It was his second lifeline.

  His first lifeline had been at Hoa Bahns in Chinatown. Hoa Bahns was half speakeasy, half unregulated, unlicensed bank. He had used that lifeline when Andie was in trouble and he had been forced to go back to New York and defend her. Now he had this.

  Michael took the bag, unzipped it, and checked the contents: $10,000 in cash; five rolls of fifteen gold South African Krugerrand coins, each coin worth about $1,700 and totaling just under $130,000; a fake Canadian passport; four disposable pre-paid cell phones; and the list.

  The list was a one-page spreadsheet, last updated after the purchase of the Sunset. It identified the names of a dozen off-shore bank accounts where he had stashed money, bank contact information, the account numbers, and passwords. Of course, Michael had used a simple cipher to encrypt the account numbers, just in case somebody discovered the dry box. He would now have to contact each bank, hoping that there were one or two accounts that the government had not found and frozen.

  Michael put two of the cell phones in his pocket. He removed ten one-hundred-dollar bills and put them in his wallet, and then he returned the remaining cash and the rest of the items to the bag.

  “You’re a damn good planner, muchacho.”

  Michael jumped. He turned toward the voice and saw Kermit sitting in the lotus position on his yoga mat, smiling.

  “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

  Kermit laughed. “Doubtful, but Timmy’s famous bacon might clog one or two of your heart highways.”

  “Hungry?” Michael put the zipped bag back in the dry box and latched it shut.

  “Always hungry, yo.” Kermit stood and stretched. “Got the passion of a lion and the metabolism of a hummingbird.”

  “Timmy’s probably not up yet.” Michael put the dry box into his backpack, and then slung the pack over his shoulder. “So let’s go break into his kitchen and get something to eat.”

  “That’s the spirit.” Kermit rubbed his hands together. “Free the bacon.”

  ###

  Timmy came through the back in his boxers and a white T-shirt that was a size too small. Sparky hopped behind him. “Y’all are paying for all that stuff?”

  “I thought it was free for locals, like a neighborhood food-share.” Michael took a bite of his omelet and winked at him.

  Then Kermit turned to Timmy. He was holding a gigantic breakfast burrito a few inches from his face.

  “Your eggs are mighty nice, mi amigo, but your swine is mighty fine.” Kermit put the burrito down on his plate and picked up a piece of bacon. He waved it around. “As always, your bac-o didn’t shrivel in the skizzle. Blows my mind, brother. Out of this world.”

  “It’s all locally sourced, cage-free, free range stuff.” Timmy said. “Chickens and pigs just wander around that garbage dump near the Tamaulipas incinerator eating a steady diet of rancid vegetables and dirty diapers, but what’s a little mercury among friends?”

  “You’re kidding right?” Michael asked.

  Timmy walked the rest of the way into the bar’s dining room. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table with Michael and Kermit.

  “The answer to your question largely depends on whether you’re going to pay me for that stuff.”

  Then Timmy grabbed a piece of bacon off of Kermit’s plate and ate it.

  ###

  After breakfast, Michael loaded his bike into the back bed of Kermit’s El Camino and got into the passenger seat. He put his pack on the floor at his feet, and then leaned back, closing his eyes.

  Kermit turned to him, with the key in the ignition. “Ready for takeoff?” His voice s
ounded concerned.

  “Not quite.” Michael kept his eyes closed. He had been working schemes and angles for so long, he didn’t remember the last time he just enjoyed the moment. He got closest when he was with Andie, and there had been a few moments with Jane in Miami, but the danger was always there. It wouldn’t let him rest.

  Michael opened his eyes and turned to Kermit. “You think I’m doing the right thing?”

  Kermit examined Michael, head bobbling. His graying dreadlocks danced around.

  “What’s the ‘right thing’?” Kermit turned the key and the El Camino roared to life. “Everybody throws those terms around, but nobody ever defines them. What’s right? You have to figure out what you mean by ‘right’ first and then you can answer your own questions.” Kermit paused. “Or we could maybe go smoke some weed and eat some Sour Cream Pringles. Either one would be pretty right by me.” Kermit laughed as he shifted the El Camino into drive and hit the gas.

  “You’re a horrible friend. You know that?” Michael shouted over the roaring engine. “You are truly horrible.”

  “What’s horrible?” Kermit shouted back. “Everybody throws that term around, but nobody ever defines it.”

  Michael raised his hand in resignation. “Please stop. Wherever you’re going with this, please stop now.”

  As they sped out of Punta Allen, Kermit checked the road for potholes and then turned to Michael.

  “Two final words for you, mi amigo: quantum chromodynamics.” Kermit beeped the El Camino’s horn due to his sheer pleasure when saying those words, identifying an obscure branch of theoretical physics. “It’s also known as QCD by those in the biz. That’s what you need to accept in your life.”

  “Does QCD have anything to do with your new naked yoga obsession?”

  Kermit dodged a pothole, jerking the car to the left side of the road and then back.

  “Sort of, it’s got more to do with my hair, yo, like Sampson in the Bible.”

  “I’ll stay tuned for further information.” Michael put on his sunglasses and leaned back in his seat.