by Dick Wybrow
"Is so hard to do this one thing I am asking, all the time, from you?" She looked at him with a smile that stopped at her eyes. "You are at risk of losing ten pesos off your nightly tip out."
The man behind the bar rubbed his bald head and laughed. He went over, grabbed the heavy silver tray, and returned to the waitress station. He then transferred the shots from the original tray to hers by putting his fingers in each of the drinks, clinking them together, and lifting them to the heavy platter.
"Gracias," she said and gave him a proper smile.
As she walked way, he licked his fingers and said, "You know that's like fifty cents, yeah?"
Without turning around, she gave a little wiggle of her hips, which was his favorite thanks of all.
Her grin faded when she reached the table.
"So tomorrow, then?" one of the men asked, his voice slurring slightly. "We got people asking."
Another turned to the head man and said, "Mine too… if this is what we're talking about, Silvio."
Silvio, the man with the mullet, shook his head slowly, casually, but his eyes cut hard to both men. "This is not what we're talking about. No business here," he said. "Back at the ranch is business. This"—he spread his muscular arms—"is drinking."
The too-loud laughter made the waitress flinch as she dropped the bucket of beer at the center of the table.
Everyone at the table reached forward for their bottles except Silvio.
She then went around the table, putting the shot glasses in front of each of them. When she got to the man with the mullet, she saw him staring. She dropped his shot, some of it sloshing out of the tiny glass.
"What are you doing?" he growled playfully, staring at her pretty face. "Señorita, I believe you had your thumb in my drink."
The waitress ignored him and asked if the group needed anything else. All eyes at the table went to Silvio. When no one answered her, she turned to leave.
Silvio reached out, gripped her arm, and was met with a scowl. "Well." He lifted the shot with his other hand and downed it in a single gulp. "I could use another one of these… but maybe you can dip another part of your body in it for me."
Again, the table erupted with laughter. She tugged on her arm to go, but he held on.
She turned to him and frowned. "We're closing. Finish your drink and clear out."
"Closing?" Silvio asked. "The sun is still shining. The birds are—"
"We're closing," she said, chewing her words as she looked around the table, "to you."
A man with a scraggly beard grinned. "But we're just having some fun. You are kicking us out?"
She looked at the man who'd just spoken. "Not all of you." Then, looking back at the man still holding her arm, she said, "Just him."
"I come in here all the time. Still you don't like me?" Silvio asked, shaking her arm in a playful way that she didn't find playful.
"What's to like?" she asked and lifted her chin.
He stood slowly. Again she tried to free her arm, but he held on. Leaning in close, he smiled too wide.
"You should watch who you speak to in such ways. You have no idea who you're talking to."
She leaned back. "I know exactly the sort of man I am talking to. And I think—"
"No one cares what you think!" he shouted in her face then felt a tap on his shoulder. He spun around to face the slightly paunchy and red-faced Raz staring at him.
"Why don't you leave the lady alone?" Raz stood there with a wide grin on his face that he really didn't feel.
Silvio's mustache twitched, and he got to his feet. "Stay out of it! Go back to your piña colada, pendejo. This doesn't concern you."
"It does," Raz said, widening his stance. "She's a friend of mine."
"Good, then I can give you what she has coming." He then arched back and smashed Raz's nose, who went down like a flan forgotten in the oven. Turning back, he began to speak, "Now—"
But was hit square in the jaw with an unusually heavy silver serving platter. He went down hard, right on top of Raz.
The entire table stood up, shouting, and within seconds, three large bouncers were at the table pulling the men from the bar. One of the drinkers grabbed his friend from on top of Raz, and they were quickly ushered out the door.
The waitress walked over to Raz, knelt down, and brushed the hair from his face.
He blinked, looked up, and smiled. "Hi, Anza."
When she patted him on the chest, her strange expression turned stranger as a mechanical voice burst from his pocket. "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
Raz smiled and said, "So that's what it does."
* * *
The three of us together again.
We sat outside at a table on the front deck of the restaurant. Anza watched a ship in the harbor as fat white tourists disembarked and waddled down the path.
"Dan said you were teaching down here," I said. "That didn't work out?"
"Teaching is not paying as well as waiting tables," she said bitterly. "I don't like working in a restaurant with stupid frilly outfit, but more money, so. I prefer to doing the teaching."
"What would you teach?"
She shrugged. "English."
"It's probably better you wait tables then," I said and smiled. "Think of the damage you could do."
She took the small red straw she'd been twisting with her fingers and threw it at me. Anza then cleared her throat, stole a glance at the Actor, and finally asked the question all over her face. "So, what did he do, this one?"
"Killed his entire family and became king. King of Hollywood. Sort of."
Anza turned and gawked, pointing at the Actor. "No, I am not meaning on his silly show!"
I joined her in staring at the Actor because obviously it was making him terribly uncomfortable. He took a gulp of his Mai Tai, his face briefly buried in lime wedge, drink umbrella, and mint sprig.
I said, "I thought you liked his show. When I first met you—"
"I did like his show," she said. "But then he is killing his brothers and sisters and even those who are not relating to him!"
"Yes," the Actor said through his mint. "Even those not relating to me."
"Dat was very bad of you," she said, waggling her finger. "I thought you were gooder than that." Before he could protest, she continued. "But, but… now I see your face, and I see something has happened. Why is this? What have you done?"
Over the next few minutes, the Actor explained how he'd tried to pull out of his downward spiral in Hollywood by making his deal with the Devil, how he'd been duped, naturally, and was being hunted.
"By an eighteenth-century gunslinger," he finished.
"Nineteenth," I said.
"Is always confusing," Anza said, nodding. "Because the number in front is not matching the other one."
"Right, exactly," I said. "But on the bright side, we did steal Sally's motorcycle, and it never needs a fill-up. You can just ride and ride and ride, and it might be kind of alive."
"I am missing the bright side of this story," Anza said and frowned.
"The bit about the gas. Also, we might have a redneck motorcycle gang chasing us."
Anza stared openmouthed for a moment then burst into laughter. The Actor and I looked at each other then couldn't help but join her. Tears streamed down her face.
"Nobody gets in trouble like you guys do," she said after a minute, still chuckling. "It is nice to see your faces."
"Aw, thanks."
"Except not so much his because it's all fleshy and nasty and Devil farked."
The Actor grimaced. "Devil farked?"
Anza shrugged and gave him a sweet smile.
I'd waited too long to tell the Actor about Uncle Jerry and wouldn't make the same mistake twice, but first, I had a question. "Dan said even after the contract you were under—mine—was over, you still could see the hell affiliated. Why is that? You're not under contract or anything, are you?"
"No, no. Absolutely not," Anza said. "Because this is stupid to do.
" She glared at the Actor playfully. "I don't know why is like that. Is good in some ways. I know who the bad guys are, like that fark head with the stupid hair and big mustache."
The Actor winced. "So 'fark' is your new swear word? That will get old fast."
She shushed him then continued. "But there are now so many hell businesses that even not-so-bad people, they work for them, and I just see… you know, ruined faces."
"Like Dan?"
Her eyes watered for a moment, then she nodded and brushed a hand across her face.
"Is that why you came here? To get away?" the Actor asked, probably happy we weren't talking about him anymore.
She shook her head. "No, no. I am here for the same reason you are."
We both looked at each other and shrugged.
"Uncle Jerry," she said and frowned.
"So you know?" I asked.
"Of course, I know, Raz. It took some asking around, but yes I found out."
Again, my chest ached, and I rubbed a spot between my man boobs. "He was a crazy bastard, but I'll miss him."
"He was goddamn crazy," the Actor said and smiled sadly.
"Hey," Anza said and slapped the table slightly. "You know I don't like that. No cursing around me, please."
The Actor held up his hands in surrender. He knew better, and I got the feeling he'd said that just to get a rise out of her.
"So, we wanted to ask—"
"Wait, wait, wait," Anza said and stood up. "Why are you was-ing Uncle Jerry? He 'was the crazy guy' and all of that."
I blinked. "I'm not entirely sure what you're asking."
The Actor said, "Yeah, it's amazing your English still hasn't improved, impressive actually."
"You are speaking about Uncle Jerry like he was before and not now," she said, her hands slightly shaking.
"Anza," I said, realizing she did not know. "Uncle Jerry is dead."
Her hand went to her mouth, and she slowly shook her head. She sat back down and bounced a dainty fist on her lips. "When is this happening?"
I explained to her how Enrique, the non-Honduran drug dealer in Atlanta, had hit me with the news when he'd demanded I pay him or die months earlier. "I've been on the run ever since," I said.
"Who is not after you guys? Drug dealers, biker gangs, a nineteenth-century gunperson."
"Eighteenth," the Actor said.
"Is not a thing. How is it you don't knowing your numbers?"
The Actor smiled at her. "I would pay a thousand dollars to watch you play Jeopardy." He sipped his drink and smacked his lips. "Yes, we're being chased by so many. We're very popular."
"And you are very wrong," Anza said with a small smile. "Uncle Jerry is not dead."
"What?" both me and the Actor nearly shouted.
"No, is not dead," she said then looked down. "He is… worse than dead."
My mouth went dry. "Wha… worse than dead?"
She nodded slowly then burst into a big smile. "No, is not worse than dead!" She laughed. "I have always wanted to say that though—is worse than dead. That is pretty fun to say!"
"You can be so strange," the Actor said.
"But still," Anza said. "Is not good. He is being forced to pilot planes from Mexico to other parts of Central America for one of the cartels." She jutted her chin toward the door. "Silvio runs it. When Uncle Jerry is not flying, he is chained up and locked in a room."
"Oh my god," I said and got a stern look from Anza, but she let it slide. "Where?"
She shook her head. "Here. Cozumel. That's why I am here. That's why you are both here, no?"
"Sort of."
"Right," she said and lowered her voice. "I found out he was basically taken into white slavery, which apparently is worse than regular slavery or something."
"Same thing," I said.
"Well," she said and smiled. "Now that you are both here, we can all work together." She reached over the table, stretched out, and grabbed both of our hands. "Again."
The Actor chewed on a piece of pineapple. "Work together to do what?"
She shrugged. "Break him out, of course."
Chapter Fourteen
Uncle Jerry had stared at the web in the window for most of the day.
The sun had slowly traversed the far hills, although he couldn't see the far hills because the curtains were always drawn. He was thankful for that in the midafternoons when it got so sweltering hot in the room, it was hard to breathe. But he did miss the sunrise, and the sunsets.
For the past… six months? A year? He couldn't remember—he hadn't seen a clock or calendar. Silvio wouldn't allow it.
Silvio's son, Pablo, thankfully, was nothing like his cruel father. The little boy brought Uncle Jerry his daily meal and once sneaked him an old transistor radio. But in the past few days, the music had been replaced by a woman's voice reading a series of numbers.
He hadn't minded entirely. At night, he would listen to the woman and imagine what she looked like. In his mind, she was sipping a fancy cocktail, wore a red dress, and had big hair like they used to have in the eighties.
Why did she spend her days reading numbers? She could be an actress! He would then chastise himself and remember, as a twenty-first-century man and all, she could also be the CEO of a billion-dollar, multinational company. With daddy issues and an affinity for grisly old men in their sixties.
Last night, he'd named her Darla, but he felt Darla was tiring of him, tired of repeating the massive sequence of numbers. He had, however, already made another friend.
"There you are," he croaked, squinting at the sun coming through the crack in the blackout curtains.
The fat spider had slipped between the gap and was looking to take refuge in the web up in the far corner of his room.
"Sun's bright, huh?" he said. "Gotta get clear of the birds, or you'll end up swallowed by a swallow!" He wondered if that was why the birds might have been called that.
The spider stopped halfway up the wall, briefly frozen. After a full minute, it started its move again and slipped under the web, traversed its length, and settled into the deep pocket of the corner.
"Hot, too, huh? That your summer home, then?"
He'd never cared for spiders very much. They were creepy things and looked like they were always plotting something. He never quite knew if they were staring at him, and he'd read something once about how they had incredible hearing. They'd make perfect spies. If, of course, you taught them English.
But Jerry was pretty sure that would be very, very hard to do.
When the creature had first visited months earlier, it had given him a serious case of the willies. For weeks, Jerry'd had nightmares about waking up wrapped in a silken cocoon with the spider sitting on his chest, deciding which part to munch on first. But after a while, they'd become friends.
Slowly, Jerry sat up, pulled off his thin sheet, which was spotted with sweat, and went to pour a glass of water from the pitcher. Halfway to the small, broken table, he stopped short, the chain strapped to his ankle snapping taut. It had wrapped around the leg of the bed overnight. He kicked it a few times to get its full length. It only gave him a few more feet, but it was enough to reach the table.
When he lifted the pitcher and tipped it for a drink, a fine white grit slid into the glass.
Then he remembered. He'd finished the water the night before. Uncle Jerry licked his lips and looked toward the door.
He held the plastic jug up in the air toward the spider. "You got a free hand? Maybe you can get me a refill." Jerry laughed. "Come on, you got eight, right?"
The spider tucked itself deeper into the corner.
"Hopefully, little Pablo will be here in a little while," he said cheerfully. "Boy loves his Legos. All he seems to want to talk about is those little bricks. When he comes, maybe he'll have another paperback for me. I've read that other one so many times. I guess, I could give it anoth—" He looked down at the thin paper pages stripped and ripped up and tossed on the floor. He remembered kicking what
was left of the cover under the bed yesterday. Or was that last week? "Ah, it had a shit ending anyhow."
Jerry looked back to the bed but couldn't bring himself to get in it again just yet. Instead, he walked toward the curtain and only stopped when the chain went rigid. He couldn't quite reach the window and tried to peek through the gap, maybe catch a quick glance of the countryside. All he saw was the blazing sun.
"Looks like it's a nice day," he said and looked up at his tiny friend.
In his mind, strangely, he thought he saw the spider shake its head.
Then he heard a clattering at the front door. Jerry sighed and looked up at the spider. "Yeah, you're probably right."
Chapter Fifteen
Anza peeked into the window of the apartment, looked from left to right, then went to the door.
Reaching into the small purse slung over her shoulder, she dug around for a moment then held her tiny fist out and looked at me. I stared for a moment then held an open hand under hers, and she dropped five tiny white objects that looked like big teeth. I gawked at them.
Slipping her key into the door, she nodded toward us. "Is gum. Chiclet, sugar-free, so good for your tooths."
"Good," I said. "I have been worried about my tooths."
"I don't need no more dragon breath from you two," she said and waved toward me and the Actor. "And be quiet. My roommate is in his room, sleeping."
I handed two pieces to my friend.
"Why do I get two and you get three?" He chewed like a beaver trying to free up splinters.
"Wait," I said as the door slid open. "You live with a guy?"
"Shh!"
We went inside, and she closed the door quietly on its jamb. The Actor and I went over to a two-seater couch and waited as she brought us all glasses and a bottle of water.
The home was small, hot but nice. The windows had cracks, but the thin curtains hid most of those scars. There were two other comfy chairs in the room, and between all the seats was a low coffee table.
It was here where Anza put down a large map. "Okay," she said, pouring the water. "We are here, where I have marked with a heart."
"Cute," the Actor said.