Something for Nothing

by David Anthony

  “Uh-huh,” Ludwig said. He didn’t even look up from his work. “Horses and hookers, it sounds like.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s an important part of the transaction,” Martin said. “The seller wants to show you a good time. You really can’t say no.”

  Ludwig looked up at Martin, and they smiled.

  Then pretty soon they were talking about some movie Ludwig had seen. But even as they talked, Martin’s mind kept drifting back to Hano . . . and the girl in Ensenada. Because Martin had in fact been thinking about what would happen if they had to go back. He’d avoid the tequila—that was for sure. But when he thought about the feel of Lucille’s firm, bare legs, or the sight of her bare breasts in his hotel-room mirror, he was excited. And curious. Would he be able to experience the thing he’d missed out on? Because even if they’d had sex—which was doubtful—he couldn’t remember it.

  IT WAS CLOUDY ALL along the coast on the way down to Santa Barbara. They were the kind of low stratus clouds that hugged the coastline and only came up to about six thousand feet, and so it was easy to pop up above them and not have to fly blind. The extra bonus was that the low clouds meant a smooth flight—no turbulence. But flying above them was disorienting, because from above the clouds everything looked the same. It was a lot like driving the Viking, actually: just a big sea of gray. He was skimming along the top, reassuring himself every now and then that the instrument panel was reliable and that he wasn’t actually lost. A couple of times he had to resist the urge to dip down through the clouds, just to see land and convince himself that he wasn’t off course and maybe fifty miles out to sea. It was exciting to be up there, feeling as if you were weightless—feeling as if you were floating, defying gravity. But you had to be careful, because the truth was that you weren’t weightless at all. Gravity hadn’t forgotten you. It was just giving you a temporary pass while it waited for you to screw up.

  He descended into Santa Barbara at about six o’clock. When he walked into the tiny terminal area, Hano was sitting there in a plastic chair, looking at him with a big shit-eating grin.

  “There he is,” he said to Martin. “Charles Lindberg, Jr.”

  “Hi, Derek,” he said.

  Hano looked like he’d been spending time in the sun—his dark skin was now a deep shade of brown. He was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved yellow shirt that made him look even darker than he already was. Martin had decided on khakis, a white T-shirt, and a blue v-neck sweater. He’d ditched his alligator shoes for some navy blue boat shoes. He had a feeling that neither of them had managed to effect the drug-smuggling look. He knew this was a good thing—dark leather jackets and mirrored sunglasses were probably a bad idea—but he was a little embarrassed just the same. What would the Mexicans think? Look at those two jackasses, they’d say. Can’t we sell to someone with a little more style?

  They had some time to kill, so they went to the same outdoor patio place as last time. It was busy, but not bustling—mostly pairs of people having drinks and chatting quietly. Martin had the feeling that Santa Barbara was one of those towns where no one worked, and where everyone hung out in cafés and looked good. Kind of like Berkeley. The only people who actually had to do anything were the waiters and waitresses, the cooks and bartenders. But even that was a job where you really didn’t expend much effort—especially at this place, Martin thought as he looked over at their waiter. He wasn’t the same guy they’d had before, but Martin noticed that he was standing right where the other waiter had, leaning up against one of the white stucco archways and looking out at the street. Maybe his plan was to just stand there and wait to be discovered by some Hollywood director who happened to be walking past. Then the waiter could become famous and not have to work anymore.

  “So,” Hano said as he sipped his beer. “I’ve been hearing about that horse of yours. That he’s got a good chance at the Pleasanton Fair. A really good chance.”

  Martin felt a surge of excitement. He couldn’t think of anything he’d have rather heard at that moment—aside from the sudden news that the trip to Mexico was cancelled but that they were going to get paid anyway.

  “Really?” Martin said, trying to sound casual—casual and surprised. “Who said that? Val?”

  Hano nodded. “Yeah,” he said, drinking again from his bottle. “Val and a couple of other guys. Do you know Dale Jenkins?”

  Martin shook his head, no.

  “Well,” Hano said. “He’s one of the trainers with me at Barker Stables. He’s got a client who might have a horse running in that race, a guy from somewhere in Orange County, and he was saying that you’re the main competition. Or that your horse is, I mean. Temperature’s Rising, right? Ricky said he’s the horse to beat.”

  Martin sat there, absorbing the notion that he, Martin Anderson, was the owner of a horse that people he didn’t even know were describing as the favorite in a championship horserace. And these were people who knew what they were talking about—not just some clowns at the local track. How about that?

  “Huh,” Martin said. He was trying to contain himself. “It does seem like he’s running really well right now. And Pleasanton is a good distance for him—he likes the longer races. He’s not a sprinter.”

  “Sure,” Hano said. “Yeah, that’s right. That race is a mile.” Martin wasn’t sure what to say; he didn’t want to come across as too eager to talk about his horse, and so he took a long drink from his beer. Evening was setting in, and the air was actually a little chilly. The low clouds had hung in there all day, never clearing, and so the warm air hovered up above. Not that anyone seemed to mind. The sidewalk was busy with people. But you could see that no one was in a hurry; these people were ambling, strolling. They were making their way from one place to another, but they weren’t really headed anywhere specific or important. They were fine with a chilly summer evening.

  “Hey, listen,” Hano said. He looked around, checking out the woman a few tables over who was laughing at something her date had said. “How long have you and Val been working together? With him as your trainer, I mean? A while, right?”

  Martin shrugged. Now he was looking at the woman. “I don’t know,” he said. “Six years? Seven years? Something like that. He’s trained three horses for me. Why?”

  Hano raised his bottle with his left hand and motioned to the waiter.

  “No reason,” Hano said. “Well, actually, that’s not right. I guess I’m just thinking about your options. I mean, with Temperature’s Rising. Don’t get me wrong, Val’s a pretty good trainer. A really good trainer, in fact. He definitely produces good horses. But it’s a small operation. And, you know, there you are, up there in Northern California, and the truth is that there isn’t much of a racing scene up there. Not really. There are some good horses, but it’s nothing like Southern California. And in L.A., or the L.A. area, you get a lot more exposure. Especially if you’re looking to break into Grade One races—which, from what it sounds like, you should be doing with this horse.”

  The waiter walked up with two beers, one for Hano and one for Martin, then headed back toward his spot at the stucco column.

  “Anyway,” Hano said. He picked up his beer. “I’m just saying that if you’re interested in making a move, you might think about working with Barker Stables. With us, I mean. With me. I think we can do a good job for you: get your horse into some good races, help him move up the chain a little bit. I mean, look, we’re not talking about the Derby here, but he might qualify for some races with pretty nice purses. Really nice. And I just don’t see that happening if you stay located up in the Bay Area. No offense to Val, of course. It’s just that, well, I don’t know if he’s thinking outside of his little domain up there. You know?”

  Martin sat, looking at Hano. He knew that there was a bigger racing circuit down south, but he’d never thought seriously about being a real, active part of it. Maybe a race or two, but that was about it. Locating down there? He didn’t know if it was realistic. There was the money, for one thing
. But also the horse. Deep down, he wasn’t sure that Temperature’s Rising was the real deal. Wasn’t he just a big fish in a small pond—a tiny pond? But here was Hano, suggesting that he really did have the goods.

  “Well,” Martin said. “That sounds interesting. It sounds great, actually. But I don’t know. Like I said, Val and I have been together for a long time. And it’s really because of him that I’ve had some solid horses. I mean, it’s not like I showed up at his stable with Temperature’s Rising fully formed. He’s the one who kind of brought him along.”

  “Look,” Hano said. “I’m not trying to do anything behind Val’s back. Really. I’m just thinking about the bigger picture. And besides, this kind of shit happens all the time. It’s not a big deal. If you owned Secretariat, then yeah, that’s a big deal. But that’s not what’s going on here. You’ve got a nice horse, and you’re a good client, but Val and I won’t be going to the mat over something like this. We’ve known each other for a long time, too. Five years, or something like that.”

  Hano stood up. He stretched and yawned, and Martin noticed that one of the women at another table snuck a quick glance his way.

  “I gotta go to the bathroom,” Hano said. “But then we should probably hit the road, okay? Or hit the skyways, or whatever you guys say.”

  Martin looked at his watch. It was about eight-thirty. They were supposed to make it to Ramirez’s place sometime between twelve and one.

  “Okay,” Martin said. “Go ahead. I’ll pick up the tab.”

  Hano nodded. “All right,” he said. “And I’ll pay for the drinks in Ensenada.” Then he leaned over and gave Martin an open-handed whack on the shoulder.

  “Listen,” he said, looking right at Martin. “I wasn’t trying to pressure you about your horse. Honest. It was just an idea. If you want to stick with Val, great. I was just talking, that’s all. Just shooting the shit. You know?”

  Martin forced out a smile. Hano was leaning in a little closer than he needed to, but Martin resisted the urge to lean away. He could smell the beer on Hano’s breath.

  “Sure,” Martin said. “I know. I’ll think it over. We can talk about it.”

  Hano looked at him for another second or two, then patted him again on the shoulder.

  “Good,” he said. “Great.”

  Then he straightened up and headed off toward the bathroom. Martin watched him walk up to their waiter and say something, and then point toward Martin. The waiter nodded. Martin knew that he’d told the guy to bring the tab, but he couldn’t help feeling as if Hano had told the guy that he had a loser at table three. “See that guy?” Martin imagined him saying. “He doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it.”

  THE LOW CLOUDS HUGGED the coastline all the way down to Ensenada. This made for a smooth flight, not to mention giving them a spectacular view when they pushed through the clouds above Santa Barbara—the sun had just set, and it was as if they’d been invited to a private viewing of nature’s wonders up at six thousand feet.

  But the clouds also made it hard to find Ramirez’s ranch once they got as far as Ensenada. Martin had the coordinates, but they weren’t that exact. He had to dip below the clouds and circle around, looking for the landing strip with the burning rags. And just as with the first trip, it was confusing, because once they were past Ensenada, it was utter darkness. It was like flying over the ocean at night.

  “Do you know where you are?” Hano asked more than once. “Are we lost?”

  “Yeah,” Martin said, finally. “We’ve come back down into another time period, one from before there was electricity. If they don’t kill us, they’ll treat us like gods.”

  Hano snorted, but didn’t give over to a real laugh. Martin could tell that Hano was nervous about the plane. At least I’ve got one edge over this guy, Martin thought.

  A few minutes later Martin spotted the two parallel lines of lights, and a few minutes after that they were bumping down onto the dirt landing strip. Just like before, he taxied down and past the runway, and then he wheeled around in the sudden darkness and came back toward the lights. It was hard to see through the glare of the burning rags’ smoke, but as they moved along Martin gradually made out a couple of dimly lit figures jogging along, guns in hand. It really was as if they’d descended into some sort of primitive civilization. Martin had thought he was going to feel better this time, but there was something about the men and the setting that scared the shit out of him all over again.

  What am I doing? he thought.

  He stopped the plane at the edge of the two rows of burning rags, and they went through the whole process of putting their hands up against the plane and being searched. There was a slight breeze, and Martin felt as if the smoke from the rags was blowing right into his face. It made his eyes burn and tear up, but he was afraid to move his hands to wipe his eyes. Instead, he leaned his face over and rubbed his eyes against his biceps, first the right arm, then the left. But as he did this it occurred to him that the Mexican guys would think he was crying. The men were talking to one another in Spanish, and he wondered for a second if that’s what they were saying.

  Eventually someone gave him a quick pat on the shoulder, indicating that he could turn around. And then Hano was talking to one of the guys in Spanish, and they were climbing into the backseat of a car. Or Martin was climbing into the car. Hano was about to get in, but then he started talking to someone in Spanish again. Martin sat there looking at Hano’s legs and midsection as he stood there, leaning against the car door and talking. Martin tried to pick up a stray word here or there, but it was hopeless.

  “Okay,” Hano said, leaning in to look at Martin. His face was a weird reddish color, from the glow of the landing strip flames. “We’re all set. They’re just gonna load up the plane. But Ramirez is here, so give me the money, and I’ll give it to him.”

  “What?” Martin said.

  Hano shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess he decided to come check things out. But we gotta pay him, right? So give me the bag, and I’ll give it to him. I’m the one who speaks Spanish.”

  “But what about me?” Martin said. “Shouldn’t I be there? I mean, to hand it over?”

  Hano looked at him for a second, glanced out at whoever was standing there next to the car, then looked back at Martin.

  “Martin,” he said, more serious now. “This isn’t the time to fuck around. Who gives a shit who gives him the money? I speak Spanish, and I’ve met the guy before. And they just told me to do it, for Christ’s sake. Just give me the money, and I’ll be right back.”

  Martin sat there for another second, thinking and staring at Hano. Was there a decision to make here? Should he just get out of the car and march around to the other side, and say “No, we’re both doing this”? Would it matter? Did he really need to look Ramirez in the face?

  “Martin,” Hano said. Martin saw that he was talking through gritted teeth now, and looking right at him. It was similar to when he leaned over to look at him at the restaurant, but more serious . . . more intense. “Just give me the fucking bag. Please.”

  Martin sighed and handed the bag over to Hano. It was the word please that made him give in.

  “All right,” he said to Hano. “Sure. Here you go.”

  Hano reached out and grabbed the bag, and nodded at Martin. “Good,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “So you’re gonna be right back, right?” Martin said. But Hano had straightened up and was closing the car door. When the door clicked shut the interior light turned off, and so Martin was left alone in the darkness of the car.

  For a few seconds he sat there feeling miffed. He watched as Hano walked over and shook hands with someone—with Ramirez, apparently—and then handed over the bag of money. Martin squinted and tried to get a look at Ramirez, but it was all just shadows and flickering light. He was just a guy, maybe vaguely Mexican-looking. From where he was sitting he could barely recognize Hano. Behind them, Martin could see his plane. A couple of guys were bus
y loading it up with the packages of heroin . . . the bricks, Hano and Val had called them.

  Martin figured that would be it—that now that Hano had turned over the money, he’d walk back to the car, and either get in, or signal for him to get out. But he didn’t. Instead he just stood there talking to Ramirez. Jesus, Martin thought.

  It was like the time his father had sent him to a shitty summer camp. Some all-boy Catholic thing down the coast, past Santa Cruz. He’d been about thirteen or fourteen, and had gotten into trouble for something, so off he went. It was a boring camp, just Ping-Pong and hanging around. But one evening he and two friends had met two girls who’d snuck away from their family’s beach house for the evening. The girls had some wine they’d stolen from one of the girls’ parents, and so they all sat around drinking. But eventually his friends had paired off with the girls, and Martin had been left behind. “Keep watch for us,” one of his friends had said. And he’d done it—sat there like an asshole, listening to the sounds of making out. And then, worse, he heard about it all week, about how great it had been, how they’d scored with some local chicks, how much cooler they’d been than the girls back home. Martin acted like he was in on it—talked up the whole thing to some of the other kids at camp—but of course he hadn’t been. Not really.

  Martin decided to get out of the car. Fuck it, he thought. I’m not even the lookout here. I’m just the pathetic American sitting quietly in the car, while the big Hawaiian guy does all the talking and schmoozing. But as he reached for the door handle he saw that one of the Mexicans was standing a few feet away, with a rifle in his hand. He didn’t know whether or not the guy was supposed to be keeping watch on him, maybe making sure he didn’t get out of the car. It seemed kind of unlikely. But he knew he didn’t want to find out the hard way—the rifle barrel in his face, lots of yelling. More humiliation.

  And so he just sat there. Five and then ten minutes went by, but it felt like an hour. He would rather have been in a motel room in Ensenada, puking his guts out.