Six Bad Things

by Charlie Huston

  —Which is?

  —Corpus Christi, U.S.A., man. I know it sounds weird, but there’s actually some pretty good surf in Texas. The general vibe in that state is all fucked up, but they have some decent waves.

  Then he plugs a Tool tape into the deck, cranks the volume, and that’s it for conversation.

  The 184 wanders in and out of about a dozen tiny towns before it hits Ticul, where, Rolf says, we’ll jump to the 261. Each town is peppered with speed bumps to keep the through traffic from blasting over the pedestrians as drivers try to get the hell to somewhere else, but this is a detail Rolf seems to have a habit of forgetting. Fortunately, as the day waxes and Rolf smokes more and more of the cheap Mexican brick-weed he’s carrying, lead seems to drain from his foot. At Ticul we stop, gas up, and he drives the buggy into the middle of town, announcing that it’s time for lunch and an early siesta.

  —What about Leo?

  —We aren’t supposed to meet him for hours, man. The dude you’re flying with, he doesn’t like being airborne during the day. There’s a great taco wagon here by the park. We can grab some snacks and take a nap on the lawn.

  —Yeah, except that the cops are looking for me and sunbathing in the middle of town might not be the best thing right now.

  —Dude, do you know how long it takes for a Mexican APB to go out? Let alone, man, to places like this. Chill. We’ll grab a couple fish tacos and refrescos and find some shade.

  He stops next to a tidy little park, gets out, and turns to face me.

  —Besides, dude, if there’s any trouble, I’m armed.

  And he lifts the tail of his Spitfire Bighead T-shirt, revealing the butt of the pistol tucked in the waistband of his shorts.

  —So no worries, man, let’s eat.

  And surprisingly enough, not only are the tacos great, but I do actually manage to drop off and take a nice little nap. Despite the stoned-out-of-his-gourd, gnarly-brained surf jockey sleeping next to me with a gun in his shorts.

  THE SUN has crossed well past its zenith when Rolf shakes me awake.

  —Dude, we totally overslept.

  We’re off the 184 now, heading south on 261. Rolf is laying off the weed and has both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road. And I got to say: when he’s paying attention, he is a pretty good driver. The road turns west at Hopelchen and the low-hanging sun shoots into our eyes. Rolf slips on a pair of Dragon Trap shades, a flame motif burning down the arms. I put on my own cheap Ray-Ban Aviator knock-offs.

  —We gonna make it?

  —No problem, man. But there is a need for speed.

  So he speeds.

  A few miles outside of Campeche we turn south onto a one-lane road. We bump along for a couple more miles, then roll into Bobola. When I say this place looks like the modern equivalent of the town in A Fistful of Dollars, I certainly don’t mean to emphasize the word modern. We pass a handful of houses, then come into the square. It’s a classic: cobbled street circling a tiny park, lots of trees, and a big church the Spanish left behind. There’s a guy selling ices out of the back of his pickup, and a couple kids buying. Nobody else. Rolf drives us around the park, past the ice man and onto one of the dirt streets that branches off of the square. He parks about a hundred yards up the street.

  —OK.

  —OK?

  —That’s the place.

  Across the street is a tequilaria.

  —What now?

  He looks around.

  —Looks like Leo’s not here yet, dude.

  —So?

  —Well, I know you’re not a drinking man, but I could use one. Come on.

  We cross the street and walk into the bar. It’s dark inside and it takes a moment for our eyes to adjust from the afternoon sunlight outside. That’s why it takes so long to realize that the two guys over by the bar, the only two guys in the place, are Sergeants Morales and Candito. That’s also why it takes a moment more before we realize the pile of stuff on the floor next to them is actually Leo, who has very clearly had the shit beaten right out of him.

  DESPITE WHAT many popular movies would have you think, the simple fact that Morales and Candito are Mexican does not make them stupider than shit. They have me: a somewhat mysterious and wealthy American involved in a somewhat mysterious death. And they have that odd little moment when Bud wandered out from under the bed and Candito gave me that funny look. Given the current level of digital technology, it probably wasn’t too hard to poke around until he got rid of that nagging feeling that he had seen me somewhere before.

  OBSERVATIONS: THE bar is empty except for the five of us, at a time of day when one would expect otherwise. Morales and Candito have parked their Bronco somewhere off the street where it cannot be seen. They have no backup; backup would have come crashing in by now. They have thrashed Leo and dragged him in here.

  Hypothesis: They have cleared out the bar, chosen not to call in any other cops, and have Leo displayed here to communicate some message. What message? Well, one assumes it concerns funding their early retirement.

  How do they know I have four million? They may very well not. But they know I have money, and I’m sure they want all of it.

  THE GUN in Rolf’s waistband is a revolver, a .32 or a .38, carrying five or six rounds. I’m guessing the pockets of his shorts aren’t crammed with extra ammo, so if this turns into a shoot-out we’re gonna be pretty well fucked.

  Me, I’m all for bargaining. But first Rolf shoves me to the floor, yanks the gun from his shorts, and squeezes off two quick shots before he dives behind a table.

  One of the bullets smashes into the bottles behind the bar and the other one smashes the bone in Morales’s right thigh. I know this because I can see shards of it sticking out through his shredded uniform pants.

  Rolf is huddled behind a table made out of an old tequila barrel. It looks sturdy and might actually stop or deflect some bullets. I knock over a card table with a thin sheet metal top emblazoned with a Sol advertisement, and hope nobody shoots any spitballs at me. I can hear Morales screaming high and shrill and Candito trying to quiet him.

  —Tranquilo. Tranquilo. Tranquilo. Tranquilo.

  The screams soften until there is just a constant, strangled keening coming from deep in Morales’s throat. I peek out from behind my useless barricade. Candito, kneeling next to Morales, has taken off his belt and turned it into a tourniquet much like the one the macheted Cuban had. I look over at Rolf and see that he is starting to edge around his barrel, gun first.

  —Rolf!

  He ignores me, positioning himself to take a shot, but at the sound of my voice Candito stands, pulls his service piece, points it at Leo, and yells something in our direction. Rolf ducks back down.

  —Fuck!

  Candito yells again, but I still don’t catch all of it. Rolf yells something back.

  —What does he want?

  —He wants me to throw out my gun, dude, what the fuck do you think he wants? Keep quiet next time, I almost had him.

  Candito yells again.

  —So throw your gun out.

  —No fucking way.

  —He’s gonna kill Leo.

  —Bullshit. That hick cop has never shot anyone in his life. He’s pissing his pants right now. Besides, dude knows that if he kills Leo I’ll fucking blast him.

  —How does he know that?

  —Because I told him.

  Candito yells again and this time I get the word dinero. Bingo. Rolf looks over at me.

  —He says he just wants the money.

  —Yeah, that figures.

  I open my shirt, lift my tank top up, rip the Velcro seal, and tug the money belt from around my waist. I take five grand and the John Carlyle ID and stuff them in my pockets.

  —Tell him I’m gonna stand up.

  —Dude, don’t do that.

  —Rolf, I’m hiding behind a beer can, I might as well stand up.

  —No, dude, I mean don’t give him your fucking money.

  —Just tell
him I’m standing up and not to shoot.

  —OK, but I’m telling you we can get out of this, no problem.

  He shouts at Candito and Candito shouts back.

  —He says do it slowly. Hands up and all that.

  —Right.

  I hang the money belt over my shoulder, put my hands on my head, and slowly stand up. Morales is sprawled in a large pool of his own blood, still making that hurt animal noise, his right hand clutching the tourniquet, his left clawing and scratching at the floor. Candito is standing, blood stains on the knees of his pants, pointing his gun at Leo’s head. Leo is still crumpled and motionless, unconscious for all I can tell. I take my right hand from my head and lift the money belt from my shoulder. Candito yells and I freeze.

  —Rolf?

  —Yeah?

  —What was that?

  —Just the usual. Don’t fuck around with him or he’ll fucking kill Leo and then you. That kind of stuff.

  —OK.

  I hold the money belt out in Candito’s direction, nodding my head.

  —Tranquilo, amigo.

  The gun pointed at Leo’s head is shaking, sweat is pouring down Candito’s twitching face, and I realize that Rolf is right. This guy is scared pissless. I know the feeling.

  —Tranquilo, OK?

  I swing the money belt once and toss it to him. It lands neatly at his feet. He keeps the shaking gun pointed at Leo as he squats down. The fingers of his left hand fumble one of the compartments open and he pries out a thick sheaf of bills. His eyes flick to the money. He lets it and the belt fall into the edge of the puddle of Morales’s blood, then he stands back up and starts screaming at me, the gun vibrating.

  —What the fuck, Rolf?

  —That’s what he says, dude.

  —What?

  —He wants to know what that shit is, how much?

  —It’s about seventy-five thou.

  Rolf looks at me.

  —No shit?

  —Yeah.

  —Dude.

  Candito yells at us. I take my right hand from my head and point at the money belt.

  —Tranquilo, amigo. Setenta cinco mil.

  He tilts his head, shakes it.

  —Setenta cinco mil?

  —Si.

  Then he’s screaming again, too fast for me to follow.

  —Rolf?

  Nothing.

  —Rolf?

  Nothing. I look at Rolf. He’s staring at me.

  —He says fuck your mother and fuck your seventy-five grand. He wants to know where the real money is.

  —Tell him that’s all there is and he can take it or leave it.

  —What’s he talking about?

  —Fucked if I know. Just tell him that’s all there is.

  Rolf tells him, and Candito sprays curses and bends over to press the gun against Leo’s head.

  —He doesn’t believe you, dude. He says give him the money or he’ll shoot Leo.

  I look at Leo heaped on the floor. I can’t tell if he’s breathing. And it’s not like I can run out, call Tim, and have him ship the money back to me.

  —Tell him there is no fucking way in heaven or earth that he is ever going to have more than what he has right now. That’s all there is. Tell him if he leaves now, he can keep the money and probably still work it out so he keeps his job and keeps his partner alive. Tell him if he wants to shoot me he might as well do it because I’m about to walk over there and see if Leo is OK.

  —Cool.

  Rolf tells him. Candito looks from Leo to the money to me as I walk out from behind the table and start to cross the room toward him. Then he bends, scoops up the money belt, points the gun at me, and backs away shouting. I hold my hands out in front of me.

  —Tranquilo.

  —He says tranquilo yourself. He says he’s gonna take the money and go get the doctor and when he gets back we should be the fuck out of here and if we hurt his partner he’ll hunt us down and blah blah blah.

  I stop walking and watch as Candito backs himself around the tiny bar to a doorway covered by a Virgin of Guadalupe curtain. He reaches behind himself and pulls the curtain aside, jabs the gun at me three times, emphasizing that I should not fucking follow him, then ducks through the doorway. I can hear his feet sprinting away on the gravel outside.

  —Rolf.

  He pops up from behind the barrel.

  —Dude, that was tense.

  I kneel next to Leo and roll him onto his back. His face is beaten and bloody. At least one of his teeth has been knocked out. I put my finger alongside his throat; his pulse is steady and strong. Rolf walks over and looks at his best friend.

  —Motherfucker.

  He looks at Morales where he’s still sprawled on the floor, mewing, his eyes rolling in his head.

  —Mother. Fucker.

  He raises the revolver, shoots Morales in the face, and spits on his corpse.

  —Rolf!

  I’m staring at what used to be Morales’s face.

  —Rolf! What the fuck are you doing?

  —You see what this dick did to Leo, dude?

  —You don’t just. You don’t just. What the fuck?

  —Dude! He fucked up my best friend.

  I look at the lines tattooed on my forearm, and find I have nothing else to say.

  —So what now?

  —You take Leo in the buggy. There’s only the one road in and out of town, so just cruise out to the highway, park, and I’ll drive out in their truck after I take care of the other guy.

  —Rolf.

  —Hey! You hired the pros to get you out and shit got fucked up. That’s cool, you paid, but now shit’s got to be taken care of. These cops? They know who Leo is, where he lives. Get it? So untwist your panties and help me get him to the buggy, ’cause I got a pig to ambush.

  And what do you say to that except Yes, sir?

  LEO STAYS unconscious as we put him into the passenger seat of the buggy. I get behind the wheel and fire it up. Rolf slaps me on the shoulder. He’s holding the revolver and has Morales’s 9 mm dangling out of his hip pocket.

  —Just turn north when you hit the highway and pull into the trees. I’ll be there in a few.

  He walks back into the bar. The town is dead silent, motionless except for one painfully skinny stray dog that limps across the park. I pull onto the road out of town. Behind me I might or might not hear gunshots. It’s hard to tell over the roar of the buggy’s engine.

  Back on the 261, I pull into the trees where Rolf told me to. I get out, grab my pack, and hoist it onto my shoulders. It should be about twenty kilometers from here to Campeche. If I stay near the highway I can walk and be there in several hours. Or maybe I’ll take a chance and stick my thumb out. If Morales and Candito were working alone no one will be looking for me. If not, they’ll find me soon enough. I lick my fingers and rub a little blood from Leo’s forehead, but there’s nothing I can do for him. I check his pulse again, still strong, and put my face close to his.

  —I’m sorry, my friend.

  And it’s time to get moving again before anyone else gets hurt.

  I HITCH a ride with a family from Cancún that are on their way to Campeche to stay with relatives for Christmas. I sit in the back seat of their Jeep, between their two small sons. The boys are quiet for the first couple miles, but get over their shyness and are soon pointing at their own body parts and at things in the car, asking me to tell them what they are called in English.

  —Ashtray. Headrest. Ankle. Gearshift. Eyebrow. Toenail. Booger.

  They giggle after every word and try to repeat them back to me. Their parents sit quietly in the front seats, holding hands, seemingly happy just to have a break from entertaining the kids. They drop me off in the middle of the city and I take a cab to the airport.

  Campeche is a state capital and a tourist destination; the airport has everything I need. I go to the departures board and find a flight. I call Aeromexico from a pay phone and get transferred to an English-speaking agent. Sh
e says I can’t make a reservation without a credit card number, but assures me there is room on the flight and tells me how much it will cost. At the American Express counter I get about ten thousand pesos worth of traveler’s checks.

  I have to make a decision here about which identity to sign the checks with because that’s who I’ll be flying as. I’m about to give the guy at the counter the Carlyle passport when I remember that all it has is a three-year-old entry stamp and no visas. Not a problem with AmEx, but it will be a problem if anyone in a uniform needs to see it.

  I give him the passport I’ve been using for the last two years. Of course there is a problem there as well. When Morales’s and Candito’s bodies turn up, the Federales will look into their recent cases and start asking questions. Soon, they will find that I have disappeared. After that they’ll be looking for this identity. Of course if Rolf didn’t get Candito, all of this is moot. Because Candito will be coming after me, the real me. And all this is just too confusing anyway; too many variables and too few options for a guy who needs to get the fuck out of Mexico. I sign the checks and walk over to the Aeromexico counter.

  Buying a one-way ticket with cash is just as big a no-no in Mexico as it is in the States, the kind of tip-off that screams SMUGGLER OR TERRORIST! to any well-trained airline agent and has them buzzing security. That’s why I’m using the traveler’s checks and buying a round-trip ticket. It also helps that I’m flying nowhere near the border.

  The airline man finds me an aisle seat on the flight and announces the total.

  —Siete mil y cinco cien.

  I sign a bunch of checks and slide them over along with my passport. He checks the signatures and prints up my ticket to Cabo.

  THE FLIGHT gets in around one in the morning. I walk out of the airport, get mobbed by cabbies, all trying to carry my pack for me, and climb into the closest hack. The driver asks me what bar I want to go to. I have him take me to a hotel instead, the Hyatt. I pay for my room for one night with more traveler’s checks. It will make it easier for the Federales to track me this far, but I can live with that. I’ll be dropping off the radar first thing in the morning.