Sands and anyone else you may recognize from OUaTiM belong to Robert Rodriguez. The title is shamelessly cribbed from an old, old movie. (Told you I'm into noir!)
There's a reference in my story "Darkness Bound" to Sands's partner and sexual harassment. Originally, that was intended to become the first chapter of this tale, which would have been chapter three. I wrote this first, then thought I'd go back and explain what Sands had been doing for two months, but that didn't happen. "Darkness Bound" took on a life of its own, and may spawn a sequel of its own one of these days. That was "R" for language, this one is "R" for other reasons. This ended up as a lame duck, but I thought the Day of the Dead called for some kind of commemoration.
Out of the Past
For several days, the blind man was certain he was being watched. He was paranoid by profession as well as by nature, and while he couldn't see whoever followed him, he knew someone was there. Subtle nuances clued him; the click of bootheels at a discrete distance, stopping when he stopped, the distinctive ring of a cell phone several times throughout the day--but even more strongly, he could feel the scrutiny.
After three days of constant torment (which he, of course, did not show by so much as a grimace), he asked Manolo, the boy who acted as his eyes. They were in the main plaza of the village, and there were many people around them. The boy described various passersby; none of them sounded like anyone he'd expect to follow him.
Then, Manolo added, "There is a pretty lady, senor."
"Describe this lady."
"Es muy linda. Her hair is like the sunset and she wears it up like a crown."
"Does she?" He was seized by a dreadful suspicion. "Tell me more."
"Her lips are very red, and she has on lots of silver jewelry."
The blind man nodded to himself. "Does she carry a bag? A ladies' bag?"
"Si, it's very big, she must be very strong to carry it."
"She's wearing boots?" It may have sounded like a question, but he had heard boot heels--not shoes or high heels--and if it was...her ...boots would be completely in character.
"Very fancy boots, senor, with flowers. And she has on blue jeans and a shirt like yours, but it is blue." A western shirt, the boy meant. "And a, a thing, like a coat without arms."
"A vest. Does she have on a belt with a great big buckle?"
"No, senor."
"Well," said the blind man with a ghost of a smile, "it's nice to know she draws the line somewhere."
"She is a friend of yours, senor?"
She's probably here to kill me, he thought. Not that I'd miss the opportunity to return the favor. Since there was no use saying any of this to his young companion, he changed the subject. "If it's the person I'm thinking of, she'll catch up to me in her own good time. Meanwhile, take me to Tarantula Azul. I'm ready for lunch."
When they arrived, he dismissed his guide and spent several minutes behind the door marked "Hombres". He reemerged to find his usual meal awaiting him at the table he liked best. The pibil was good today; if this was going to be his last meal, it was at least an adequate one. He sipped his tequila and lime and listened closely.
In the kitchen, someone was telling a joke in Spanish about three mice who went out drinking. Outside, a motorbike chugged past. And finally, the sound he had been listening for; the scrape of a boot heel off to the left side of the bar.
A server came out of the kitchen through the swinging doors, and in the puff of air displaced by their wake, the blind man scented a faint fragrance that confirmed his suspicions. He sat motionless for a moment, considering his options. He could ignore her, go about his business, and endure more suspense while he waited for her to make her move. This did not appeal to him. Flight he discarded at once as absurd. She need only give him a moment's lead; it was the same, really, as going about his business, but with less dignity. And at this point, dignity was essential.
So, he would confront her. This was worthy of further meditation. He knew the big bag Manolo had described; she was perfectly capable of toting a complete change of clothing and enough artillery to rob the Federal Reserve Bank. Should he stroll over and say hello? Buy her a drink? Kiss her? Knock her on her ass and disarm her? Shoot her? Cut her throat with a steak knife? That was the hell of it; they were all perfectly plausible options.
Finally, he pushed his plate aside and rose from the table. It was difficult to concentrate on pibil with the prospect of mayhem imminent. He made his way to the bar, wallet in hand, and then, at what he judged to be the correct distance, let the wallet fall from his hand. As he bent to retrieve it, his left hand came into contact with a boot. A left boot, therefore, her right boot was over--he found that with his right hand, and slowly frisked his way from her ankles, up her calves (there was a knife in the inner left boot), to her denim-clad thighs, working his way around the rounded curves of her rump to the contours of her hourglass waist and into the region of her shapely bosom beneath the crisp cotton shirt. There was a machine pistol tucked under the vest, and another knife hanging down her back under the collar.
Through all this, she didn't so much as twitch. The wrong woman would have screamed and slapped him two minutes ago. It was disappointing; he'd hoped for more of a reaction.
"It's nice to see you, too, Sheldon," she said conversationally. "Your wallet is about eight inches behind my left boot."
He knew better to turn his back on her now that battle had been joined. "It's not going anywhere. Are you here to kill me?"
"Like making small talk with a crocodile," she murmured. It was the same velvety voice that liked to croon show tunes in the shower. "That's been left to my discretion. Apparently, you still make some people at The Farm nervous."
"I got news for you, sweetcheeks. If they sent you here, you make them nervous, too."
"Oh, that's just Hodgekiss. And he's on the way out, he just doesn't know it yet." From her satisfied drawl, he understood that she'd had something to do with whatever was about to land on the unsuspecting Hodgekiss.
"Maybe, maybe not. Meanwhile, you're still stuck down here."
"Yes...here. Mexico, home of bargains in silver, cheap tequila and la vida loco." She didn't sound unduly troubled about it. "And the only member of the Old Boys Club I have to deal with is you. And you were never one of the Old Boys--or for that matter, one of the New Boys--which is what's probably going to keep you alive."
"Is it?"
"If you're a reasonable man."
Behind his sunglasses, the man's eyebrows raised. "What would make you think I'm not a reasonable man?"
"Ha. Remember Dublin, August of '95? Does the name Kelly Green mean anything to you?" She waited for an answer and got none. "Or that embassy dinner in '98? What ever happened to the prince's chauffer? Did they ever find him?"
His forehead wrinkled. "I doubt it." The bitch apparently had his past indiscretions tattooed in memory. Those were a couple of the more spectacular ones, true, but he didn't for an instant doubt that she could call forth others.
"The bottom line is, we're more or less stuck with each other. I know you're wondering how you could dispose of me. Bad idea. Aside from the whole killing a federal agent thing, god only knows who they'd send to replace me. You could end up with someone much less sympathetic who doesn't know you like I do."
"And you want what from me in return?"
"As I recall, we work together pretty well when we aren't trying to kill each other. Or have you forgotten Montreal?"
His testicles went north at the memory of Montreal. "You almost got me neutered!"
"They're still there--aren't they?" she asked with mock innocence.
"Yes, they are. Want to see?" He still had the .22 stashed in his Levi's. The prospect of whipping it out and popping her gave him a distinct sense of pleasure.
"Maybe later. So what did Barillo do to you?"
He tilted his head until was facing her, inhaling the sweetness of her perfume. Then, slowly, he raised his sunglasses to reveal the hollows where his eyes had been. She wasn't squeamish; she didn't gasp or squeal or turn away--he would have heard the rustle of her collar. He had the intuition that she might have closed her blue eyes for a moment, but that was only a suspicion on his part. When she spoke, her voice was regretful. "So it's true. Damn. Too bad."
"Yeah, it kinda sucks," he agreed, thinking, killing you would balance so much. But not here. I want to enjoy it.
"They may have taken your eyes, Sheldon, but you still have your brains intact."
"And my testicles, let's not forget them." If she calls me "Sheldon" one more time, I'm going to tear her throat out with my teeth.
"Why don't we retire to my hotel room, and explore our options? The booze is better there. Don't forget your wallet." He retrieved it swiftly, and when she brushed her right arm lightly against his, he rested his left hand gingerly upon it. She was right-handed, he recalled, but her other hand was no doubt within centimeters of some deadly device in that mammoth bag.
They proceded from the taverna; from the direction of their progress and the number of streets crossed, he identified her hotel as the one on Calle del Flores. Memory supplied the image of a lobby in muted tones of burgundy, with heavy, old-fashioned furniture. The elevator had a wrought-iron gate; it clanged as she pulled it open. It, too, was old, and as it rose, the cage bumped as it drew level with each floor. She was on the fifth floor, which was the top floor. They turned left on leaving the elevator, and she worked her key in the lock as he mused upon her sense of humor.
She left him in the doorway and crossed the room briskly. "Name your poison," she said; there was a faint clink of glass from the area of the bar.
"Poison isn't your style," he replied, closing the door behind them. He said it confidently enough, but mentally he was crossing his fingers; he had strong suspicions about certain events in California.
"We have scotch, vodka, gin, and of course, tequila."
"Tequila."
"Tequila it is." From the clinking of glass on glass, he could tell that she'd poured two tequilas. She handed him one. "Lime?"
"Please."
"It isn't fresh."
"Don't bother, then." He sniffed the drink before tasting it. It was a good tequila, aromatic, and he sipped it, enjoying its bite. (Knowing if she'd added anything to it, she'd be smart enough to use something he couldn't detect without a chem lab.)
"Excuse me for a moment," she said, and he heard the whisper of her boots against the carpet as she moved away.
He took another sip of the tequila--it was quite good, she did know how to pad an expense account--and he heard bedsprings squeak in the next room. He strolled that way, ears pricked for the slightest sound. There was the sound of a lightweight object falling to the floor. A moment later, it happened again.
He tried to remember if he would be in her line of sight from the bed, but it would depend on where she was sitting. Another creak--was she getting up? He thought he heard the scrape of a belt being undone. Something rustled. Could the scheming bitch actually be getting naked? He took another incautious step and fell headlong over what could only be her bag.
A wave of fury rose in him. He grabbed for the bag, ready to use whatever artillery was at hand to restore his dignity. He'd waitied long enough, it was time to gack the back-stabbing slut.
It was whisked away from him, and her cool voice said, "Sorry. Let me get that out of your way, and I'll get you a fresh drink." On her silent way to the old armoire--its hinges creaked as she opened the door--he heard the rip of velcro, and knew she'd removed the shoulder harness. Okay, she was barefoot now, which meant one less knife to concern himself with. The gun was not on her person, but he couldn't count on her having placed it in the bag or the armoire. That left the knife down her back, possibly the pistol somewhere near to hand, and any other weaponry she might have secreted around the suite.
The tequila calmed him. As he tasted the new drink, he reached out to her and found the vest gone, and the jeans discarded in favor of a long, full skirt. "Are you wearing panties under that?" he asked, just to annoy her.
"Have I ever?"
"Didn't think so." Was she sipping her own drink? Looking at him? Planning how to get rid of his body? He tried to fix a nonchalant expression on his face as he waited for her to speak.
"What are we going to do with you?" she asked him.
"What do you mean, do with me?"
"You're qualified for early retirement--the kind with a pension check. If you want to retire the other way, I can do that, too." She spoke as matter-of-factly as if they were discussing room service. "I can't recommend letting you run your own ops. I hope you weren't expecting that."
"Not really."
"Can you work with me? Are you willing to cooperate? Do what you're told without throwing in any fancy touches of your own that could get us killed? Or do you want to go for retirement options A or B?"
His lips thinned at the implied insult. He stood there, breathing in, out, in, out, slowly, trying to suppress the urge to break her neck. "That's rich. I'm supposed to trust you?"
"If you think you can't trust me, then you've got a damn short memory."
"Long enough to remember what got me sent here in the first place!"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I'm talking about your sexual harrassment charges, sweetheart! You blew the whistle and they wanted me out of The Farm--and where did I end up? In this Third World hellhole getting my eyes gouged out by a glorified melon baller!"
"Are you out of your mind?!" Her voice went up an octave. "What, you think I waltzed into Denner's office one day and said 'Gee, I've been doing the horizontal bop with Sheldon J. Sands every chance I get, why don't you ship him off to Mexico?' " Her blonde airhead impersonation was savagely funny. She continued fortissimo. "Jesus, Sheldon--don't look at me!"
He bared his teeth at her choice of words.
"The way I heard it, you tried to squeeze whatername, Teresa--over in Documents--into hauling your ashes when you went in there looking for dirt on Coles!"
"And you believed that? Teresa? Ugh!" He made a grimace of disgust. Teresa, who was at least fifteen years older than he was with a face like a pug?--hell, he would've been doing her a favor!
"I knew you were looking for dirt on Coles, I know how you operate with women, it wasn't completely unbelievable." She deeped her voice and imitated him. " 'Hey baby, are you wearing panties under that?' I've got news for you, slick, you aren't as smooth as you like to think you are!"
"They wouldn't tell me who made the charges, but I thought after Copenhagen....you didn't--?"
"Tell them I was sleeping with my partner? Hell, no! You think I wanted to look like a world-class bimbo? With your reputation?" Even her breathing was furious. "I lied on a stack of Bibles when I got back from leave and heard why they'd shipped you out! I swore up and down our relationship was purely professional! And in case you've forgotten, I was on leave because I took a bullet for you, fuckwit!"
If she was lying, she deserved an Academy Award for it. He could believe that Teresa would've tattled. She'd been around forever, had all the Old Boys eating out of her hand...maybe his former partner wasn't the person ultimately responsible for his condition. Okay, so he wouldn't try to kill her--yet. "So you kept your mouth shut and saved your career. Congratulations!" He raised his glass. "And welcome to Mexico!"
As she made a noise like a kettle coming to a boil, he swallowed the liquor, took the necessary half-step forward and kissed her. She protested with a half-hearted punch to his rib cage, but only one. Close up, the floral scent of her perfume was augmented by the herbal notes of her shampoo. She tasted of tequila; hers had lime. He laced the fingers of his right hand into the mass of hair at the back of her neck. Her coiffure gave way; long curly strands floated down over his forearm. She was just the right height to kiss without craning his neck. His left hand slid down her back, fondled her rump beneath the corrugated texture of her taffeta skirt.
Still kissing him, she took baby steps toward the bedroom. On the way, she was tugging at his belt; she got to the .22 before he did--it thunked to the carpet over toward the window. Ripping open the snaps on his shirt, she dragged him down onto the bed with her as he kicked his boots and pants off behind him. Her skirt was up to her waist as he measured his length upon her, her legs spread wide in welcome. He drove his cock into her with a groan.
"Oh, yeah," she breathed, arching beneath him. Then she said, "You won't be needing these..." and plucked the sunglasses from his face. They rattled to a stop on the tiled floor of the bathroom, by the sound of it, and he was left feeling more naked than he'd imagined possible. "Now, where were we...?" Her lips caressed the contours of his jaw...his cheeks...his forehead...everywhere but those vulnerable openings.
He began to pump angrily. Bitch! Why couldn't she leave well enough alone? The trouble was, she was enjoying it. Her hips were moving to meet his thrusts. Little squelching noises bubbled up as flesh met flesh. His body knew the drill, found the right tempo by instinct. Long months since he'd had the comfort of a woman--not since Before--and he didn't need eyes for this. He was in the groove, alert to every nerve ending, aware of every squeak the mattress made beneath their thrashing bodies. Sweat ran down his back. Her hands squeezed his buttocks, nails digging in just enough to get his attention.
Everything about her was so familiar that he could almost lull himself into thinking he saw her, fiery curls spilling across the pillows, her blue eyes half-closed as she concentrated on her approaching climax, red-tinted lips parted, the smooth ivory of her shoulders and the bounty of her breasts.... She pulled his face down to kiss him again.
This time, though, she didn't stop with mere kisses. With her hands clasping the back of his head, she blew lightly against his face. The sensation of warm air on the ridges around his empty eye sockets was excruciating. No one else had touched him there, not since the day two months ago when the darkness had closed in. He tried to regain his rhythm. Holding his face where she wanted it, her lips began to graze his cheekbones, moving delicately higher.
Panic mingled with a strange glow of pleasure in his belly. Tenderly, her moist lips grazed ever-so-lightly against the scar tissue around his sockets. She moaned as he used her savagely, the slight vibration of sound from her mouth tingling against the sensitive skin. He rammed deep in a frenzy of lust and vulnerability. The little whimpering noises that spoke of her oncoming climax teased him with little flutters of sound and breath and he was...he was...so...damned...close--!
What drove him over the edge was her tongue, probing, licking--circling first his left eye, then his right--then the breath that brushed against the wet circles, drying her saliva and making his flesh tighten. Her tongue flirted erotically with the cavities where his eyes had been, imparting a sexual charge. Her hot mouth widened, covered one of the gaping holes and french kissed it. He screamed hoarsely; there was a burst of white light in his brain. Like lightning, it jumped the gap to his balls, and he forked into her with all his strength as he erupted. Each spasm brought a fresh groan from his throat.
Slowly, the crackling energy left him. The darkness was total. His ears were ringing, a vertigo that disoriented him. Not since the Day of the Dead had he felt so adrift. As he had then, he tried to talk himself back to reality. "My name is Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. I'm in the fifth floor Bridal Suite in the Hacienda del Sol on Calle del Flores---" His voice failed him. He pulled away from her and curled up, gasping for breath and shivering. "You're one sick bitch, you know that?"
Her warm body curved against his back, her palms resting on his thighs. "Coming from you, Sheldon, that's saying something." She waited until his tremors had subsided to rigid tension. "Sheldon, look at me."
"With what?" he spat, turning her way.
She kissed him again, hard. "You don't get it, do you?" she asked him, her voice just above a whisper. "Humanity walks around every day, we're all one divine spark away from being so much meat---and most people are just going through the motions of life. They'll do anything to keep from thinking about how fragile it all is. But you--" Her fingertips stroked his temples, his cheekbones.... "Looking at your face, I can see the skull beneath the skin, but you're alive--hell, that's not a spark, it's an inferno You're sexier now than you ever were before."
He tested her words and found them sincere. She was almost as much of a sociopath as he was. There was no polite social lie here, no attempt to soothe his ego. Memory of her questing lips stirred him. Her hips rocked unconsciously against him, a signal that she was aroused but still unsatisfied. That would never do.
Rolling into a better position, his hand closed over her mound. As he remembered, it was completely smooth--she actually enjoyed being waxed. His fingers dug into the wet slit that offered itself to them. With the heel of his hand grinding down hard against the edge of her pelvic bone, his finger teased her swollen love button. She shrieked, clutching his arm--not trying to pull him away, just trying to hang on--and she rode his fingers as they probed her depths. He kept at it until she was breathless. "Damn you!" she whispered between gulps of air.
"Too late," he said softly. Since she was addressing his back, he allowed himself a small, secret smile. Translated, "Damn you!" was short for "You just gave me another reason not to kill you." Straightening up, he drew his hand away and raised it to his face. Inhaling deeply, he savored her sweet musk. Slowly, he sampled the tip of his index finger, gradually licking the sap from his hand. Then he bent over and kissed her, letting her taste their juices on his lips.
He stretched out alongside her. "It's late afternoon. The sunlight is coming in thru the window over there. It's lighting up your copper curls and glinting off your baubles." His fingers flicked against her necklaces. "You're wearing a western shirt, unbuttoned, and your skirt is satiny and it's up around your waist. Your perfume is L'Eau D'Issey. You have a mole, right there--" He found the spot from memory "a cluster of freckles over here--what's this...?"
"That would be a scar," she said dryly. "From a Danish bullet wound. I'm impressed. You even got the hotel right. And yes, it is the Bridal Suite. There's just one teeny little thing---sorry---I'm a blonde this year."
He remembered Manolo's description of a woman with hair like a sunset. "Liar."
He'd forgotten her bedroom laugh until he heard it again. "Only about the little things. Well--" she continued briskly, "are you ready to come work with me?" It crossed his mind that she was adept at using sex to get what she wanted. They both were. He might--tentatively--believe that she wasn't responsible for his exile, but he'd been suspicious for a long time.
On the other hand, what else would he do for the rest of his life? Collect a miserable pension and wander around on the arm of a hired guide, a stranger in a strange land? Retirement option B was perferable to that. The prospect of rejoining the life with all its intrigues was a much more enticing possibility. Could he really trust her not to screw him over--or kill him outright? Time alone would answer those questions. Meanwhile, he would have to guard himself. It would be so very easy to become addicted to that orgasmic bliss, that white light--if only because it wasn't darkness.
"I'm your man," he said at last. "Come on, it's getting late, let's go get some dinner. I know a little place that does a really great puerco pibil." And thought, let the games begin.
No, I'm not writing a sequel to this one. This is all there is. Enjoy.