But then the next day he’ll jump up and greet the day with his usual Bandito Enthusiasm, forgetting about his brooding sleeplessness. A strange and complicated savage is my eternal friend.
I think I know the cause of José’s Bandito Angst: Tina’s father. In the last two months we’ve sent at least three dozen messages, each one from a few miles north of the last. A line connecting them and extending north on its own (our protracted path, as any child could see) exactly bisects Sausalito. This precise geometric planning was also José’s idea and we went several mountain ranges out of our way to pull it off. And still Tina’s father has been silent.
José’s obsession with Tina’s father finally got us into some serious trouble. He has been insisting we get a copy of each and every International Trib in order to check for responses. As you can imagine, this has not been easy. Generally, we find a small town, lurk in the jungle until dark, bolt in, swipe a paper (we’ve run out of money), then hightail it for the nearest Bandito Stronghold we can locate. We then sit down and peruse the classified section for ads addressed to “Mr. Quark.”
This technique worked out fairly well until we crossed the border into southern Mexico last week.
Actually, our capture and subsequent incarceration was mostly High Pockets’ fault, but he’s been suffering from a slight case of doggy depression since leaving his girlfriend in Costa Rica, so José and I haven’t come down too hard on him.
Anyway, we came across this small border town called Motozintla one afternoon. José and I climbed a tree and settled in, waiting for dark, meanwhile keeping an eye on the pueblo for unusual activity. High Pockets isn’t too adept at climbing trees, so I told him to stay on the ground and keep a low profile.
I must have nodded out at some point because the next thing I knew José was shaking my arm and whispering excitedly for me to wake up.
He was visibly upset and as soon as I looked in the direction he was pointing I understood why: A platoon of federales was chasing High Pockets around the main square of Motozintla.
“Shit,” I said. High Pockets was tearing around in circles, his tongue flapping ridiculously along his left flank. I was impressed by his broken-field style of running but eventually he tired and was caught by two federales with a blanket. They threw it over him like a net, wrestled him to the ground, handcuffed his front and rear paws, then carted him off to the calaboose.
I looked at José. Seeing High Pockets treated unkindly put him right on the brink of a Bandito Temper Flare-Up. He cocked his Thompson, flung it over his shoulder and clambered down the tree. I heard him jump to the ground, then curse. I looked down and immediately realized why: Another platoon of federales had surrounded the tree and had us both dead to rights.
“Shit,” I said. At this point the branch I was sitting on broke. I paid a very brief homage to Sir Isaac Newton and his equations pertaining to falling bodies, then struck the ground and lost consciousness.78
When I came to, José was carrying me through town piggyback-style. Most of the residents had turned out to watch the federales march us to jail. As we entered, I heard a plane roar overhead, its engines misfiring badly.79
We were escorted into a small, bleak room and told to sit. José put me down and helped me to one of two chairs set up in the middle of the room. Three heavily armed federales tied José and me to the chairs.
I heard José curse again. When my eyes regained their ability to focus, I realized what he was pissed about: High Pockets was leashed to a leaky waterpipe, his jaws tied shut by a bandana. He was trying to whine but all that came out was sort of a nasal squeak from his nostrils.
This fat greasy colonel with epaulets and about a kilo of medals hanging from his chest leaned over and grinned at me. He was trying to intimidate me, but succeeded only in making my eyes water from the stench of salsa and tequila on his breath.
I broke the silence by inquiring as to how he had managed to capture us.
My question produced the desired effect: He straightened up and began pacing, thereby getting his fart breath out of my face.
Extrapolating from his explanation, I more or less figured out what had happened. As I mentioned, High Pockets had the doggy blues. He missed his Bandito Bitch from Costa Rica so much that he disobeyed my order to lie low under the tree and instead wandered into town, presumably to find a replacement for his lost love.
He was spotted sniffing behinds by the local constable, who recognized High Pockets from mug shots that had been circulated all over South and Central America. He immediately called the federales.
Colonel Stink Bomb then bragged that he had figured if High Pockets was in the area, it was likely José and I were also.
He didn’t notice the sarcastic edge to my voice when I complimented him on this brilliant deduction.
He nodded, then rambled on. He explained he had his men fan out in the jungle to find us. They probably never would have succeeded (we were high up and well hidden in the tree) if High Pockets hadn’t left one of his patented meat-loaves directly below us.
I looked at High Pockets. He was staring at me apologetically. He knew he’d fucked up.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said in English.
High Pockets tried to whine in response but, again, hardly anything came out.
Colonel Burrito Breath demanded to know who I was talking to and what I had said.
When I told him I was talking to High Pockets and that I had told him not to worry about it, he whipped out a rubber hose and waved it in front of my face, meanwhile cursing me, Johnny Carson, the devaluation of the peso, his fat, lazy wife and, for some reason, the Pacific Ocean.
At this point, José began to sing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” Colonel Tarantula Tonsils stopped in midtirade and squinted at him.
I suppressed a grin. I knew what José was doing: He was attempting to conjure up his Bandito Buddy from the O-Zone, figuring that if anyone could get us out of this mess, it would be a Quantum Bandito.,
The three federales started yelling at José to shut up but he was too busy scouring Alternative Branches of Reality to deal with threats from the Here and Now.
Colonel Trench Mouth had one of his men plug up José’s mouth with a banana. It’s difficult to carry a tune with a banana stuffed in your mouth, but José was on autopilot and continued. “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” now sounded sort of like “Oh, Oh, Oh Er Oat.”
It was obvious that neither José nor High Pockets was in any condition to be interrogated, so Colonel Menendez (he finally introduced himself) turned his full attention on Yours Truly.
He rattled off questions like an AK-47 stuck on full automatic: Who did we come to Mexico to assassinate? How many terrorists did we bring with us? How many Cubans were involved? How do we communicate with the Kremlin? How many nuclear weapons did we have and where were they?
At this point I interrupted Colonel Menendez and told him I would confess everything if he’d shut his trap for a minute.
He grunted in satisfaction, informed one of his men that we weren’t as tough as was rumored, then told me to go ahead.
I started at the beginning, with José’s mugging of Tina’s family. I reviewed the concept of Tina’s nymphomania and how it related to all of our Space-Time Coordinates (I made sure to mention that Colonel Menendez himself was now linked forever to Tina, her nymphomania, the concealed diaphragm and her betrayal of Tom and Gary), and how, more than anyone, Tina’s father was at the bottom of all this.
I then began one of my crash courses on the Underlying Nature of Reality.80
“Silencio!” Colonel Menendez roared at the mention of Schrödinger’s Bandito. He ordered his men to take us outside and have us shot.
Ten minutes later I was tied to a stake in the courtyard. High Pockets was leashed to another stake on my right and José to one on my left. He still had the banana sticking out of his mouth and continued his “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” mantra.
Ten or twelve soldiers were lined up in front o
f us, rifles at the ready. The Captain of the firing squad asked me if I’d like a cigarette. I told him no, I had quit recently, but thanks anyway. He asked if I wanted a blindfold. I said no, give mine to José. The guy looked at José, then remarked that he didn’t think José needed one since his eyes were closed.
A short argument ensued. We were interrupted by Colonel Menendez. He was bellowing from inside the jail to hurry up and get it over with and to make sure the lunatic in the middle (me) got a few extra rounds on general principle.
I yelled back that he probably wasn’t such a big shot in a few Alternative Branches of Reality.
I then realized the men in the firing squad had cocked their pieces and were aiming at High Pockets.
“Wait a fucking second!” I yelled in Spanish. “What about his blindfold!”
Another argument ensued but the Captain finally backed down and fitted both José and High Pockets with blindfolds.
“That’s better,” I mumbled. I looked to my left. José had apparently returned from his travels. He spat out the banana and asked me why he couldn’t see anything. When I told him he was blindfolded, he said, “Ahh,” nodded sagely, then inquired as to what was going on.
When I told him we were all about to be shot, he got pissed off.
The timing was perfect. Just as José erupted in a Full-Blown Bandito Temper Flare-Up, three or four explosions went off, destroying most of the jail. I caught a glimpse of the Edition of Colonel Menendez that occupied this Branch of Reality fly out the window and fall to the ground like a sack of doorknobs.
Automatic-weapons fire from the surrounding jungle scattered the firing squad, most of which beat cheeks down the road without returning fire or looking back.
Meanwhile, José had broken his restraints and untied High Pockets, and he was now freeing me.
José had forgotten to remove High Pockets’ blindfold and muzzle, so it took us a few minutes to chase him down and remove the goddamn things. We then bolted through the chaos to what was left of the jail, grabbed our weapons and José’s sombrero and escaped into the jungle.
For the last five days, or should I say nights, we’ve been continuing our trek north, undaunted by the Motozintla fiasco. We now travel only after dark, and it’s grueling to say the least. Cutting your way through rain forests at night is tricky business, but both José and I agree we’re too hot to show our faces in daylight.
We’ve been careful to make contact only with Banditos whom José is familiar with or who have been recommended by other Trusted Banditos. The bounty on our heads is now over $500,000, so we always have to be on the lookout for Treacherous Banditos. We have managed to continue our literary barrage to Sausalito via José’s Bandito Connections, but we’ve missed one or two issues of the Trib because of the danger involved in getting them. As far as we can tell, Tina’s father is still refusing to deal with us, at least directly.
One thing has been bothering José, High Pockets and me. We all have this weird feeling we’re being followed. Not tracked in the usual Indian sense; we’d have blown away anybody pulling that shit weeks ago. José, with his Bandito Sixth Sense, was the first to feel it, then High Pockets, then myself. It’s almost as if someone has sent out very sensitive feelers, trying to gauge our movements. We don’t think it’s a government either. Saturation strafing and napalm are more their style. No, some bizarre force, some possibly sinister force, is scrutinizing us for some reason. Waiting. Waiting for what? We have no concrete idea, but both José and I suspect it has something to do with Tina’s father.
The concept of entropy dictates that when anything happens, it makes the universe a more disorderly place.
—Michael Talbot
18
Hello Ramon, Good-bye Ramon
Except for his tendency to severely damage his aircraft and injure passengers, Ramon was considered a decent pilot by rural Mexican standards. And he owned his own business, he quickly pointed out to the three gringos. He owed no one. “Nada, fucking nada.” Then he hit them up for a beer.
He had seen these types before. CIA was written all over them. From the license plate of their rental car to the ridiculous clothes the big gringo wore, it was obvious they had just driven up from Mexico City and were ripe for the plucking. The smaller gringo, the one who sounded like he was from Texas, would be the one to talk to about money, since the big gringo was drunk and hostile. The third gringo was an undercover drug agent, Ramon figured. Long red hair, ponytail, always smoking a joint, talking loco. And the dog. Why would these government gringos bring along this crazy dog? No matter, Ramon thought. It was always the same with these stupid Nortes. Always looking for something. If they wanted to find a gringo, a Colombiano and another dog wandering around in the jungle, it would cost them. Muchos pesos. Muchos.
As Ramon was thinking these thoughts, Robert shattered his tequila bottle across Ramon’s forehead.
Ramon woke up, bound and gagged, in his hangar, his old twin-engine Beechcraft missing. He never saw it again.81
As you sit there and read this book, subatomic particles are passing through your body at the rate of several per minute.
—James S. Trefil
19
Bronx Banditos
José, High Pockets and I are a mere hundred or so miles south of the U.S. border now, and we have run out of Bandito Strongholds to hide out in. As a matter of fact, the last few Banditos we’ve run into offended José’s Bandito Sensibilities. I can see his point, to tell you the truth, although I thought I was above such matters. The last so-called Full-Blown Bandito we ran into was supposedly a distant cousin of José’s, but José claims that this couldn’t possibly be true. The guy wore J.C. Penney shoes and spent most of his time listening to Herb Alpert tapes on his Sony Walkman instead of taking care of Bandito Affairs. I had told José that he should expect this kind of thing as we move north into civilization, but he was so agitated by this Phony Bandito that we camped out in the jungle that night.
We didn’t even bother bringing up the New Physics or Cosmology with these, the sleaziest, sorriest-looking Banditos I’ve ever seen. They looked like a gang of Puerto Ricans from the South Bronx, as a matter of fact.
By the way: Yesterday they showed themselves. Whoever’s tracking us, that is. They were in an old twin-engine Beechcraft and they appeared suddenly from the south, whence we’d come. The plane was at treetop level and flying very erratically. José, High Pockets and I hit the dirt, José tackling and covering Pepe. They passed about fifteen feet over our heads, showering us with propeller-shredded vegetation, then kept going.
The sound of the old plane’s engines faded, then increased slowly in volume. They were coming back. José was ready this time. As they passed over our heads again, he opened up with his Thompson. I saw a line of thumbnail-size holes stitch the undercarriage. This time they didn’t come back, but they’re still out there somewhere. José now thinks they’re bounty hunters, but I’m sticking to my original intuition that they somehow have something to do with Tina’s father.
Something happened a couple weeks ago that came as a great psychological relief to José, even though I had told him it would happen all along. Here it is: Tina’s father got in touch. This is the ad we found in the International Herald Tribune: “MR. QUARK: IT APPEARS THAT WE HAVE MUCH IN COMMON.”
Since this first message he has hardly been able to keep his trap shut. Last week:“MR. QUARK: OUR GUEST ROOM IS WAITING.”
And so forth.
José is asleep now, as are High Pockets and Pepe, our little burro. The campfire is dying, the sky is clear and crisp, but I am unable to sleep, although I am still essentially at peace with myself.
Perhaps it is our forthcoming showdown with Tina’s father that has me on edge. I know it is on José’s mind. He is afraid Tina’s father will be angry at him for the mugging incident.
I assured José that as soon as Tina’s father is made aware of all the facts, the mugging will be seen as a necessary—no, inevitable�
� occurrence in a chain of coincidences that lead to all of our individual Space-Time Coordinates and Worldviews.
I have had, however, occasional doubts about my attitude toward Tina’s father, and wonder if my relationship with him is a little strange. Why is it so important that I confront him? Why do I consider him my spiritual father? Why must I have his approval?
Of course, Tina’s father will demand an explanation for the hundreds of cryptic messages I sent (or had sent from various Bandito Strongholds).82
I assume from his recent missives in the Trib that Tina’s father will be all ears. I hope he’s ready. I hope I’m ready. I hope José is ready. I hope Gary, Tom and Tina are ready. This is an awesome responsibility I have taken on.
There is no force of gravity as such. Rather, a celestial body merely pays attention to what it finds in its neighborhood.
—Albert Einstein
20
The High and the Mighty
Jim taped a felt map of South and Central America to the bulkhead just aft of the copilot’s seat. Embedded in the map were dozens of pins with little dated labels. The pins showed an unmistakable pattern: They started in the Sierra Nevadas Mountains in Colombia, then crept slowly north through Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua and on to Mexico. The last pin was dated just a few days before.
Jim squinted at the map, then drew a pencil line along a projected path. “They’ll probably follow this here ridge. José likes to keep to high ground.”
Robert had a healthy belt of mescal. “Flash boy, fire this sucker up, buddy.” He belched, then farted painfully. His diet of tequila, tortillas and salsa had given him a serious case of “ring of fire.”
Cosmic Banditos Page 13
