At the bar Pedro and I watch the boat grind off into the surf.
American policy says that any Cuban who can reach U.S. soil legally or illegally will be granted residency, but they’re sticklers on that “soil” part. Get stopped in the water a foot from dry land, and forget it. And since 9/11, those Coast Guard gauntlets around Florida have become a bit more intense. The average Cuban peasant will still get in his raft and cross his fingers. But if you have a couple bucks, you can get guys like Leo and Rolf to help you out. They’ll shoot out to Cuba, pick you up, and bring you back to Mexico, from where, the thinking goes, it’s a lot easier to get to America. And if you fail, it’s still a hell of a lot nicer than Cuba. The money usually comes from a relative here or in the States, because, let’s face it, nobody in Cuba has a pot to piss in, and if they do, they don’t really need to leave.
Pedro watches until the boat disappears from view, shaking his head. Leo is his younger brother and Pedro worries about him. I could tell him they’ll be fine, but that’s no sure thing. It’s around two hundred miles from here to Cuba, a long haul in open water for a boat like that. And they don’t bring that AK along just for the sharks. Anyway, nothing I can do about it. I push away from the bar.
—Hasta mañana, Pedro.
—Hasta.
And I head off to take my swim.
I LIFT my arms out of the water in a slow backstroke, then roll myself over and start to swim in earnest. I swim long and hard, making sure to look up at the girls’ fire on the beach from time to time so I don’t end up bobbing halfway to Cozumel. When I’m good and tired, I swim in to shore. I can see that the girls are passing around a couple bottles of something and I think I can smell a little hash on the breeze.
Back at the bungalow, Gram Parsons is just starting in on “Hickory Wind.” I peel off my shorts, drape them over the porch rail, grab the towel I left there, wipe most of the sand from my feet and lower legs. Inside, I pull on a pair of cutoff jeans. The music ends and I throw in some Bill Withers. I grab a bottle of water, my book and a lantern, and go back out on the porch. The smiling Spanish girl is standing there in the sand at the foot of the steps, holding an empty two-liter jug.
It takes a couple minutes to fill the jug from my water tank. Through the open door, I can see her reclining sideways in the hammock, her feet dangling over the edge. I should put on a shirt, I should put on a shirt before I go back out there. But I don’t. I bring out the filled jug, set it at her feet on the porch, and sit down on the chair.
—Gracias.
—De nada.
She plays with the jug with her toes, tilting it this way and that, daring it to fall over. I pump up the lantern, light it, and turn it very low. The waves slap lightly and the lantern hisses. Her hair shines black. She’s wearing shorts and has a small scarf tied around her chest. No tan lines on her shoulders. The jug falls over. I lean out of my chair and right it before more than a cup can glug out. She giggles, points at one of my many tattoos, the one on the inside of my left forearm. Six thick, black hash marks. She asks something I don’t understand.
—No comprende.
She asks again.
—Sorry, my Spanish, not very good.
Turns out her English is great.
—American. We thought you were Costa Rican.
—No.
—Yes, because, the color is right. With the German blood, you know? And also your accent, your Spanish, is somewhat like that, and you do not act American.
—Thank God for that.
—Si, gracias a Dios.
She laughs.
—But we like Americans also, but here they are always so drunk.
—I don’t drink.
Her toe grazes the jug.
—Except the water.
—I like the water.
—And you smoke.
—Do you want one?
—No.
She rocks in the hammock.
—Do you want to smoke with us? With me?
She takes a small baggie out of her pocket and shows it to me. I can see papers, a little chunk of hash, a tobacco pouch. I haven’t been high in months, but it’s not like the booze. There’s no rule . . .
—Sure.
She smiles, and wobbles around in the hammock getting herself balanced cross-legged.
—Something flat?
I toss her my book. She looks at the title before putting it in her lap.
—Steinbeck. I read for school, The Grapes of Wrath, about American farm laborers and the Great Depression.
—Good book.
—I liked it.
She takes a rolling paper from the bag and sprinkles tobacco into it. I shift uncomfortably on my chair. Watching a pretty girl roll a smoke. Something inside me shakes its head.
—Before, I asked about the tattoo. The lines. What are they for?
The tobacco is spread evenly and she starts to grate hash over it, tiny flecks falling into the European-style joint. There are things I don’t like to remember, things I mostly forget.
—They’re things I don’t want to forget.
—What things?
—Things I did. Bad things.
—You’ve done only six bad things in your life? You are very good, then.
—These were very bad.
She’s rolling the joint between her fingers now, rolling it out smooth, tucking in the edge of the paper, pinching it with her thumbs. She runs her tongue across the glue strip, rolls her thumbs upward, spinning the whole thing into a tight, experienced joint, then pops the whole number in her mouth, covering its length with the thinnest film of her saliva. She holds it out to me, eyes sparkling.
—What kind of very bad things?
On cue, “Ain’t No Sunshine” starts to play.
In New York, four years ago, a woman lays spread-eagle on a table, her body covered with bruises. Dead.
—You should go.
—Como?
—I really think you should leave now.
The edge in my voice. She still has her arm extended, the joint offered to me.
—Que pasa? Is there something?
—Go away. I want you to go away.
My body starting to tremble.
—You are sick? Can I?
—Get the fuck out of here. Get the fuck off my porch. Go back to your fucking friends.
Keeping my voice as steady and quiet as possible. Watching her flinch back from the first obscenity. Struggling out of the hammock, all her grace disappeared in the face of my abuse.
—Just get the fuck away from me.
Stumbling off the porch and running away, across the sand to the safety of the fire as I pick up the water jug and fling it into the darkness after her.
I kill the lamp, walk through the door over to the boom box, kick it to the floor, and the song ends. I go around the room, pulling the rods that drop the storm shutters, close and lock both doors. Bud is hiding under the bed.
—That’s right, cat! Better fucking hide, know what’s good for you. Fucking cat! Fucking cat! Nothing would have happened, nothing without you. You! Stupid! Fucking! Cat!
I’m screaming now. Bud is terrified. I tear the back door open and run. I run across the twenty yards of sand to the tree line where the jungle begins and then I run through the jungle, tripping and falling a dozen times before I huddle in the roots of a tree, shivering and sobbing, hugging the trunk.
Having been reminded of Yvonne who liked to roll her own cigarettes, and who is dead because of me. Having been reminded of the six men I’ve killed, two by accidents of a sort and four in cold blood. And crouched here all night long, wretched and sobbing, I never once feel sorry for myself. Because I’m a maddog killer and I deserve everything I get.
THE FRIEND’S name was Russ. He gave me the cat to watch and then he disappeared and then guys started showing up and hurting me and killing my friends because Russ had failed to let me in on a key piece of information. He had failed to tell me that there was a key
hidden in the bottom of Bud’s cage, a key that unlocked a storage unit that contained a bag that contained four-and-a-half million ill-gotten, whistle-clean dollars.
Still, things turned out a fuck of a lot better for me than for Russ. He ended up dead from having his head beat in with a baseball bat. That’s a fact I know for certain. I know because I was on the other end of the bat when it happened. I didn’t really mean to kill him. My reason was fogged at the time. A barroom full of my friends had just been machine-gunned to death. Anyway, he wasn’t the last guy I ever killed.
Or the first.
IN THE morning I go back to the bungalow. I pick up the boom box and the spilled CDs and pop the shutters open. The Spanish girls’ camp is gone and the area has the look of having been broken up quickly in the dark. Sorry, girls. So sorry.
This isn’t easy. Living isn’t easy. But the less I expose myself to life, the easier it is. The less chance there is that something might remind me of who I am. Boozing made it easier, but I don’t want to booze anymore. Because it shouldn’t be easy. With the things that happened, the things I did, life shouldn’t be easy. So last night is a reminder: keep your life small, keep the people in your life few, and keep them in front of you. Because life isn’t easy. And you can lose control of it in an instant.
Bud watches me from the bed until I come over and sit down next to him. Then he climbs into my lap, stretches, and rubs the top of his head against my chin.
—Sorry, Buddy. You’re a good cat. Not your fault, I know that.
He jumps off the bed and walks over to the cabinet where his food is. I take the hint and get off my ass to feed him.
—Yeah, I know, apologies are like assholes, right? Want to make me feel better, feed me.
I leave him to eat and go into the little bathroom. It’s just a tiled chamber with a showerhead at one end and a small commode at the other. A rain tank with a filter unit is on a small tower right outside. That takes care of my washing-water needs, and Leo brings me a few five-gallon jugs of drinking water every week.
Where I really luxuriated when I had this place built was the septic tank. That cost a pretty penny, as does getting it pumped. But, trust me, when you grow up with indoor plumbing, you are simply not prepared for the places most people in the world have to crap.
I wash up and find several cuts on my arms, legs, and feet from my run through the jungle. I sterilize those and take care of them with a few Band-Aids. Then I go for my morning swim, get my ears clogged so that I have to do the cigarette trick, put on shorts and a guayabera shirt, lock up, and walk over to The Bucket, where I find Mickey already sitting on my swing, drinking from my coffee cup, and reading my paper. And I start to remember very clearly just what it feels like when you really want to kill a man.
I MADE that call to Tim back in August. I’d been going out to the pay phone by the highway every three months to call him at home. He’d let me know what was up, if the cops were still poking around. And they poked. I mean, in the forty-eight hours I spent running around Manhattan getting chased, the death toll reached fourteen. At the time, it was a pretty impressive number. Then some really fucked-up people rammed a couple airplanes into these tall buildings in New York and I dropped off the radar.
So things had been quiet for awhile. That shit never seems to last. After Tim told me his story about people maybe looking for me in Mexico, we changed our MO. I started calling him every week at a pay phone in Grand Central.
And it didn’t take long for Tim to start noticing some things.
—What do you mean, “things”?
—I don’t know, man.
—Well that helps, Timmy.
—OK, so people, they like to talk to me, right? Always, on the bus, whatever, I’m the guy people sit next to and like to just start talking to. And, mostly, so, OK, I got ears, use ’em, right? But then, lately? I think I may have noticed something, a trend in the topics of conversation.
It’s starting to rain on me; fat, warm drops.
—Timmy?
—Yeah?
—Can you please get to the point?
—Crime, seems like people, all the time, want to talk to me about crime.
The rain gets heavier and, all at once, is a deluge.
—Want to talk about, Is it better now than it was before? Is the mayor doing all he can? Seems it was better when Rudy was around. With exceptions, of course. Shit happened even when big bad Rudy was sheriff around these parts. And then, some guy might chime in, Yeah, like remember that time? And guess what time he means?
Water is pouring down my body. I might as well be in the ocean.
—And even one of the guys at work one day pops out with, Hey, remember that guy went berserk, that guy you knew him? What the hell was that about?
The dusty ground has already turned to mud.
—So what I’m telling you here is that I think I’m noticing some things. A trend in conversations wherein people, some I know and others I don’t, are asking questions of me that frequently lead to you.
The rain stops and the sun comes out and hits my drenched body. And I tell Tim, fuck it, get your boss to give you a transfer and get the hell out of town. Now.
That’s what he did, got his boss to move him to his western operation. I sent money to cover moving expenses and whatnot, because it pays to take care of the only man in America that knows where you are. And that’s how Timmy ended up dealing grass in Las Vegas.
And I ended up being on edge every time I heard a Russian accent.
PEDRO SEES me walking up to The Bucket. I gesture at Mickey’s back and Pedro shrugs his shoulders. I lean on the bar next to Mickey. He looks up from my paper, smiles. It’s a pained smile, the smile of a man in the grips of a savage hangover.
—Good morning.
—Yeah. Look, no offense, man, but that’s my cup.
—Cup?
—That cup you’re drinking coffee from? I bought it in town, brought it all the way down here because I wanted a really big, heavy cup for my coffee.
He looks confused.
—I’m sorry, it was . . .
—And that’s my paper.
—These things, they were, you know, on the bar.
—Yeah, Pedro does that for me, has my stuff waiting for me. Because I live here and I pay him extra for it to be that way.
Pedro has his back turned to us, rotating my chorizo and stirring my eggs. His shoulders are shaking as he tries to keep from laughing. Mickey starts to slide the paper and coffee cup over to me.
—No, Mickey, that’s OK, just leave everything there.
Pedro is starting to lose it, little pops of laughter escaping from his mouth.
—You are sure? It is OK?
Puppy dog all over his face, he just wants to make me happy. Just to end the noise of my voice so his head will hurt a little bit less.
—Yeah, just leave it there.
He smiles, relaxes a little.
—Thank you. I am very embarrassed.
—Yeah, just leave it there, ’cause that’s also my swing you’re on and I’ll want my things right there when you get up so I can sit down.
Pedro gives in. Guffaws. Mickey gets tangled in the ropes again and almost falls from the swing. I grab his arm and direct him onto the next swing over.
—I am sorry. I did not know this was for you. I sat and I thought . . .
I sit. Still laughing, Pedro brings my plate, the tortillas, and a cheap plastic cup for Mickey. I stick a chorizo into a tortilla.
—Hangover?
—What? Yes. Hangover.
—Pedro, bring the guy a Modelo.
I finish making the little burrito and hand it to him.
—Eat this and drink that beer. Trust me, I know what to do to a hangover.
HE KEEPS his mouth shut this time and I pass him sections of the paper as I finish them. He eats the food I give him and drinks the beer and then the coffee and then I tell him to drink water for a few hours and he’ll be righ
t as rain. He’s grateful as hell. He’s not really a bad guy, and it turns out he’s leaving tomorrow anyway. He’s planning to start heading north, but really wants to get over to Chichén Itzá before he moves on.
—And then I must go home.
—School?
—Christmas. My mother must have me home for Christmas.
Christmas. Right. It’s December and Christmas is at the end of December. How did I forget that? But I know why I forgot it. Because I wanted to. I always used to go home for Christmas, too. And I don’t like to remember what it was like. How nice it was.
Before I know it, I’ve volunteered to give him a lift to the ruins tomorrow.
He insists on paying for breakfast and I let him. Then he takes his water bottle and walks off to loll in the sand and sweat out the rest of the hangover. Pedro picks up my plate and wipes the bar.
—He was asking about you.
—What?
—Before you got here.
—What?
—How long have you lived here. Where do you come from. Do you work.
Little shit bastard.
—So?
—So?
—So what did you say?
He looks at me and snorts through his nose.
—Cabrón. I kept my mouth shut.
—Sorry, sorry, man.
—I don’t talk about you with no pinche tourist.
—Mea culpa, Pedro, it’s cool, I know you wouldn’t say anything.
I stick out my hand and he takes it.
—Si, si, but you have to watch that shit. I never talk about you.
—Claro.
Shaking his head, he starts scraping the grill. He never scrapes the grill. I light a smoke. The only way I can make up for insulting him will be to stay up late into the night while he gets drunk and we sing songs together and repledge our friendship. No relationship, no number of psycho girlfriends, can prepare you for how easy it is to hurt the feelings of a Mexican man.
I’m worrying about how to make it up to him, along with the prospect of playing “Am I really a Russian gangster?” with Mickey on a three-hundred-mile drive, when the boat pops up on the horizon and Leo drives it right up on the beach so it will be easier to lift out the Cuban with the huge machete gash in his thigh.
Six Bad Things Page 3