This first part can be taken as a stand-alone, but there *is* more to the
story, and I hope to find time to tell it. If you don't see enough
action/angst in this part, stick around.
Disclaimer: These guys do not belong to me. If they did, they wouldn't be sitting around talking to each other. This is being written for fun (certainly mine, if nobody else's), not profit. No copyright infringement intended.
Survivors
by Melody Wilde Part 1 of ?
"Senor?"
The steady movement of sandpaper against wood stilled, and the man in black looked up. "Si?"
"//Luis thought you would want to know about this.//"
He lay aside the shape of wood which was not yet a guitar and, lifting an eyebrow in question, took the newspaper from the boy's hand. It had been weeks since he had last read a newspaper-even longer since he had last seen the news upon the television. The news of the outside world no longer mattered so much to the man he had become again-a man of peace, a simple maker of guitars. Every night he prayed that this time he would be allowed to remain that man, that the outside world would never intrude upon him again, but, deep in his heart, he had not truly expected his prayers to be answered.
"//Assassination Attempt!//"
He read the story quickly-a complex plot to assassinate El Presidente, a plot which had failed due to an accident of fate-and felt his peace shatter. His eyes closed.
"Sands."
"//What?//"
He shook his head and returned the paper with a quick "Gracias" and a dismissive flick of his hand. The boy grinned and scampered back to his playmates.
It would be useless to continue to work upon the wood now. He did not want the feelings of hate and anger and frustration which were flowing through him to mar the fledgling soul of the guitar. Standing, he stretched, knocked the sawdust from his dark trousers, and turned to walk across the plaza to the church. There was coolness and peace inside the church. Perhaps he could borrow some of it for his heart.
"//My son.//" The elderly priest greeted him as he entered the building and stopped to give his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness within. "//Is it well with you?//"
"No, Padre," he murmured. He moved down the aisle, dropping to one knee to cross himself before sliding into a pew. He was not surprised to find the Padre lowering himself into the row before him and turning to face him.
"//What troubles you, my son?//"
"//There is a thing I should have done that I did not. A job left unfinished. Because of my omission, a good man almost died.//" He folded his hands and lay his forehead against them. Sands' voice echoed through his head. "The President *will* be killed, because he's that piece of good pork that needs to be balanced out." After the failed coup de etat, he had thought it was all over. Ended. Finito. So many had died that day. It had been foolish of him to believe that Sands had died too. Foolish not to hunt down the man's body, to make sure, one way or another, before he returned to his home and his peace.
"//How can I help you?//"
"//Pray with me. Pray *for* me.//"
He slid to his knees as the padre's voice lifted in prayer. He tried to pray himself, but the words would not come. How could he ask his God to grant him the gift of continued peace when his carelessness had almost cost his country their leader? How would he ever be able to ask for God's forgiveness if he stayed here with his friends and his music and El Presidente died because he had done nothing? Quite possibly, he was the only person still alive who knew of Sands' twisted sense of making sure there was balance in the world. He might be the only person who could stop Sands before he struck again.
"//My son?//"
He gave up the attempt to communicate with his God. "//Padre, I am going to have to leave here for a time.//"
The priest knew the man before him too well; he understood all that the words meant. He lay a hand on the bent head and said, in a broken voice, "//It grieves me.//"
"//It grieves me also, Padre.//"
"//Is there no other way?//"
"//No. I must go and make this thing right.//"
"//Then...//" The older man's hand lifted to make the sign of the cross. "//Go with God. Go with our prayers.//"
Without another word, El Mariachi rose, crossed himself once more, and left the church.
* * *
Agent Sands-almost certainly *former* Agent by now, even if the C.I.A. hadn't been able to find him to personally disbar him or whatever it was that they did with good agents gone to their definition of bad-was lying on a blanket in the sun when he heard the sounds of Chicle Boy's footsteps running toward him. "Senor Sheldon! Senor Sheldon!"
Cursing the day that, in a moment of pain and weakness, he had revealed his first name to the boy's mother, Sands rolled to one side to push himself to a sitting position. "Over here."
"Senor Sheldon!"
"Yes, Chiclet, I heard you the first six times. What is it?"
"//The phone, Senor Sheldon. It beeps.//"
"Beeps? What are you talking about?"
"//The phone.//"
"You people don't *have* a phone."
"//*Your* phone,//" the boy said, as if speaking to an idiot.
Sands felt something small and rectangular shoved into his hand. His fingers explored the surface of the cell phone and his head jerked to one side.
"Well, golly, it *is* my phone. Where did you get this?"
"//You threw it in the cab when...//" The boy's voice faltered. "//That day.//"
"I remember *that*. How did it get *here*?"
"//I took it.//" He could almost hear the boy shrug. "//I thought it might be worth money, but then...there was no need.//"
No need at all. He had paid the family handsomely for taking him in and for finding a decent doctor who could keep his mouth shut and for taking care of him afterwards and hiding him from those on both sides of the law who were looking for him. He guessed it all had come close to cleaning out the largest of the secret bank accounts that he'd kept for emergencies-but if this didn't qualify as an emergency, he'd be fucked if he knew what ever would.
"What does it say-on the display?" He held it toward the boy. Silence. "Is there a letter flashing on the screen?" he asked with exaggerated patience.
"Si."
He fumbled with the keys, which had grown significantly smaller in the past few weeks. "Gosh darn thing didn't work when I needed it, but it starts beeping *now*," he muttered. "Swell. Just swell. And the way things have been going for me, it's probably Publishers' Clearinghouse telling me I've missed my big chance to...ah."
He had managed to find the correct key. "You have reached your voicemail. Please enter your password."
"Password..." He held the phone out. "Chiclet, you know your numbers, right?"
"Si."
"Be a good boy and press these numbers on the phone then, okay? 1. 9. 8. 4."
"1, 9, 8, 4."
"Yeah." He gave a tight smile. "Good year. Too bad we didn't get there. Now *that* was some kind of balance."
"//Done, Senor Sheldon.//"
"Good." He raised the phone back to his ear. "Now fuck off."
The boy had grown used to the form of dismissal. Sands waited until he heard retreating footsteps, then held the phone back to his ear.
"You have one new message. To hear your message, press the star key."
That one was easy, even for a blind man. He pressed and waited.
"January 21, 1:54 p.m." The mechanical voice gave way to another. "Sands."
"*Fuck*." His arm jerked involuntarily with shock and he almost dropped the phone. The voice in his ear went on, soft, almost caressing.
"I am sure that you did not expect to hear my voice, but after what has happened, I think it is time that we meet again, to talk of the past and of the future. Thursday. The Plaza del Oro. There is a restaurant that serves adequate pork. Noon."
"To delete this message, press 7. To save this message, press 9. To replay this message..."
He pressed the "replay" button to listen once more, then his thumb groped across the numbers, pressing at random until he heard the beep announcing that the call had been terminated. El Mariachi. What the hell did he want?
"What has happened? What the hell has happened?" He raised his voice. "Chiclet!"
"Si?"
"What day is this?" "//I don't know, Senor Sheldon. Should I ask Mama?//"
"Why don't you do that." He shoved the phone into the pocket of his shorts. "And while you're at it, see if you can find a newspaper."
"Si, Senor Sheldon."
As he pushed himself to his feet to follow the boy, he muttered, "I knew it was too good to last."
* * *
It was the first time he'd been farther than a half-block or so away from his new home since the day he'd arrived there looking like a poster child for the holiday the country was celebrating. It was a long walk to the Plaza del Oro, and the boy had had to stop twice to let him rest. All those weeks of lying about in the sun and doing nothing had been great for the healing process, but it had shot his endurance to hell.
"Fucking weakling."
"Senor?"
"Sorry. Thinking out loud. I'm ready to go on now."
They moved on through the heat and the darkness. At least the boy had gotten better since that first day about not leading him into things that hung over the sidewalk.
When Mamacita had read him the headline, he'd known why The Man With the Guitar wanted to see him. It had been a brilliant plan, one he almost wished he'd thought of himself, but the fate of El Presidente no longer mattered to him the way it had three months-or a lifetime-ago. These days, when he thought of "keeping the balance" the phrase had a whole new meaning.
He wondered if El had any idea what had happened to him that day-if he knew just how incapable Sands was at that very moment of even planning a coup, much less setting it in motion. He'd lost his contacts, one way or another. He shook his head. Perhaps he had been a little hasty with Belini. If Belini were still alive, he would've been a good man to trust not to be trusted. But since he had no one to act as a go-between, he was forced to go and meet with El Mariachi himself and try to convince the man of his innocence. It wasn't so much that he cared what El thought of him; it was more that he knew El was capable of hunting him down and killing him without giving him a chance to say a word. This was the better way of dealing--
"Ouch!"
"//Sorry, Senor Sheldon. I didn't see it.//"
"Yes, well, obviously, neither did I. Could we maybe walk closer to the curb?" The boy was better as a guide dog, but not perfect yet.
"//We're here, senor.//"
"Peachy. What time is it?"
"//Just past eleven.//"
Plenty of time for Chiclet to get him spatially oriented and for him to be seated when El arrived. He just hoped the man had been serious about wanting to talk-that he wouldn't come in shooting first and asking questions later-but it was a chance he'd have to take.
He wished the kid hadn't left his fake arm behind in the street that day. And that he had a better weapon than the small gun he'd once carried in his crotch as a backup. Chiclet had sold the other weapons long ago, sold them to pay for the doctor, actually, so he couldn't really complain, but still... If only he'd been lucid enough at the time to tell them about the bank account. But what was done was done, and he'd make the best of what he had.
"//Here, senor.//"
The kid helped him into a chair, facing the door, as he'd been instructed. "Tell me about the place."
"Senor?"
"Where's the bar? Is there a back door? Where is it? Is there anything between me and it? Things like that."
"//The bar is that way...//"
"Chiclet." He sighed. "It doesn't work to *point*-not with me."
"//The bar is to the left...//"
"Your left or my left."
"//My left.//"
It took another five minutes-and most of his patience-to learn that the second exit was at his back, toward the right, and that there were no tables between him and it.
"Perfect." Or as good as it was going to be. "Now make yourself scarce for a couple of hours."
"//You don't want me to stay?//"
"That would be nice, but I don't think your mother would want you to be here if things get messy. Go sell some gum or something and come pick me up later. Or pick up the pieces."
"Senor?"
"Fuck off, Chiclet."
He heard the patter of the boy's feet and the slam of the door, then adjusted his sunglasses and raised a hand to signal the waitress.
* * *
He had thought to arrive first, but when he paused just outside the door and peered through the glass, he saw that Agent Sands was already sitting at a small table toward the back of the restaurant. Sands seemed to be alone. There was a great temptation, born of his anger at this man and at himself, to walk in and kill him with no words and then return to his village and his peace. But no-if he allowed his anger to rule, he would never have a chance to learn the names of the others involved in Sands' schemes. He could not allow himself the luxury of anger.
Sands seemed unaware of his approach as he moved between the tables and stopped before the agent's. At the last moment, Sands' head came up and the dark, oversize sunglasses turned toward him.
"El." Sands gave one of his half-smiles and gestured toward the other chair. "Welcome. Please-join me. I hope you don't mind that I started without you. I told them to bring an order for you as soon as you got here. This isn't the best pork I've ever had-nothing to shoot the cook over, certainly-but I think you won't be too displeased."
He sat, studying the man. Although he had met Agent Sands only once, and that months before, the man's image was burned into his brain. There was something different about him now, something not of his words or his gestures or the black clothing replacing the foolish cowboy garb. He was thinner, and there were lines about his mouth and jaw which seemed to El Mariachi to speak of long-standing pain.
"Well golly, El, here we are just like you wanted, and you're just sitting there not saying a word. Usually when somebody asks me out on a date they have something to say to me. Or if they aren't interested in the fine art of conversation, at least they want to-"
"You talk too much."
"This is undoubtedly going to surprise you, but you're not the first person who's told me that." He raised a hand. "Okay. Sorry. I'll be quiet. Your turn."
"Why did you do it?"
Sands' brow furrowed. "'Do it'? Do what? Shoot the cook? Order the pork? Try to-"
"Why did you become involved with another plan to kill El Presidente?"
"Innocent. Wasn't me."
"I do not believe you."
"I was afraid you wouldn't, but it's the truth."
"Before, you said he should die."
"That was *before*. This is *now*. I really and truly *have* gotten past all that killing El Presidente and organizing a coup stuff. No joke."
"If it is not to interfere in our country, why have you remained in Mexico?"
"That's sort of a long story that I'd rather not go into right now. But it's been strictly for personal reasons-nothing to do with your government." He made a gesture. "Cross my heart and all that."
"I do not believe you," he repeated. "I do not believe it is in your nature not to meddle."
Sands gave a short, mirthless bark of laughter. "I've given up meddling."
"And what do you do instead?"
"Well, actually, I've spent the last three months-give or take a week- soaking up the sun and working on my tan. Not plotting. Not even thinking that much, actually." His fork moved across the plate, spearing a piece of pork. "Would you like to try a bite of mine while we're waiting for your order-"
He slammed his hand down on the table, then glanced around with a quick, "Pardon" for the few other patrons inside. Sands went very still, his only movement two short, quick twitches of his head from side to side.
"Someone attempted to assassinate El Presidente."
"I heard. It. Wasn't. Me. I. Had. Nothing. To. Do. With. It."
He leaned forward, putting menace in his face and voice and stance. "There is no reason for me to think you are not involved with this, as you were with the failed coup on the Day of the Dead. If you tell me who is working with you-what your plans are-I may let you live and escape back to your own country to face their justice. If you do not..."
"I wish I could help you, El-honest, I *do*-but I am *so* out of this loop that-"
"Enough!" He stood, kicking the chair back, away from him. Sands' head snapped up to follow the movement and his throat worked.
"Gee, I hope you're not leaving so soon. We've barely had time to-"
He reached across the table and seized Sands by the front of his shirt, dragging the agent to his feet even as he glanced around the room for the back exit. With another nod of apologies to the startled patrons, he shoved Sands to the door and through it, into the alley beyond.
"Wait. I didn't pay for my food."
He spun the slighter man, slamming him into the wall. One of Sands' hands flew up to hold his oversize sunglasses in place.
"You really need a course in anger management, El."
His hands tightened. "I should have killed you the day I met you."
"Yes, well, this is undoubtedly going to surprise you, but you're not the first person who's said that to me either."
His arm came up and he backhanded the other man across the face with all the force he could muster. Sands' head jerked sideways and he went down with a gasp of pain, the sunglasses flying off to land in the dust.
"You have tried to destroy my country, not once, but twice. God will forgive me for killing you, but I will never be able to forgive myself for *not* killing you months ago." He bent forward and his fingers tangled brutally in the dark hair, pulling Sands' head up. "I should have-"
He saw Sands' face.
"Madre de Dios." His hand went limp, and he stepped back in shock, crossing himself.
"Yeah, they're a real conversation stopper, that's for sure. Not that I have personal knowledge, of course, having never seen them myself." Sands pulled off a glove and drew the back of his hand across his mouth, working his jaw. "Am I bleeding?" When there was no reply, he touched the corner of his lip gently with fingertips. "It feels like I'm bleeding. Could you at least quit staring and hand me my glasses?"
"Madre de Dios."
"You're getting repetitive, El. You need to broaden your vocabulary." Sands reached out, fumbling about himself, until his hand touched an earpiece. "Come on-you're a gunman. You've been around. Haven't you ever seen a man who's had his eyes gouged out?" He gave a tight smile and slipped the sunglasses back into place.
"Who did this to you? Why?"
"Does it matter?" Sands levered himself to his feet and leaned against the wall. "I guess I'm just that kind of a guy. I mean, five seconds ago weren't *you* ready to blow my head off? And let me tell you, having your head blown off is probably a lot less painful in the long run than having your eyes removed without anesthetic."
"Madre de Dios."
"There you go again." Sands fumbled in a pocket. "I don't suppose you have a hanky or something. Mamacita just got the blood out of this shirt. I don't think I have the balls to take it back to her with more on it."
"Come inside." He caught the agent's arm and began to steer him back toward the door, but Sands balked.
"I can walk."
"Si. Forgive me."
Sands smiled again. "Does this mean we're going to be best friends now?"
"No. But it means I am not going to kill you just yet. It means you will talk, and I will listen."
"Groovy."
* * *
After informing El that he could walk all by himself, he had just *had* to run into another overhang on the way back in. He'd been surprised-and somewhat disconcerted-to hear a sound of sympathy from the gunman instead of laughter.
The remains of his food had been taken away, but El ordered another tequila and lime and a bottle of water and a clean napkin. They sat in silence until it arrived, then El dampened the napkin and handed it to him.
"Here. The right side of your lip is bleeding."
He pressed the cold cloth to his mouth. "Don't think you can charm me with kindness," he mumbled around it. "After all, you're the one who's responsible for it bleeding in the first place."
"Should I tell you I am sorry?"
"Are you?"
"Maybe I will be. Tell me what happened to you."
"I'd really rather not. Some things you just do *not* want to revisit, you know. Out of sight, out of mind...if you'll pardon the expression."
"Tell me."
He lowered the cloth. "Stopped?"
"Mostly. Tell me."
He didn't want to talk about it-in fact, he'd spent weeks not talking about it or thinking about it any more than he had to-but it seemed he didn't have a choice now. If he wanted to make El believe him-if he wanted to walk out of this restaurant alive-he was going to have to go back there, no matter how it hurt. And he did want to walk out alive. And what the hell did it matter anyway now.
"You have quite a punch there, amigo." He lay down the cloth with a sigh. "Okay. What do you want to know?"
"Who did this to you?"
"Barillo gave the order. His doctor friend used the drill. Here's a good rule to remember as you walk life's happy road: Don't piss off somebody who has a doctor friend who enjoys torture."
"He used a drill?"
Sands could hear the shock in El's voice, and that surprised him. After all he'd read in his background check about the life and deeds of El Mariachi, he *did* think the man would be more desensitized to pain and death.
"Oh yes. And he enjoyed it. His smiling face was the last thing I saw." He reached for the tequila and sipped. "Not a very pleasant person, our Dr. Guevera."
"Tell me, Senor Sands, how did your plan go so terribly wrong for you?"
"Ajedrez."
"Ajedrez?"
"That's right-you never had the pleasure, did you? She was AFN-supposedly working with me to bring down the Barillo cartel. More of that interagency cooperation you hear so much about. At least I *thought* she was working with me. Of course, when it came to her, I did a lot of thinking with my dick."
"It happens. She slept with you?"
"Oh yes. She slept with me." A corner of his mouth twitched up at the memory. "And she was good. I wish I'd paid a bit more attention and enjoyed it more."
"Why?"
"Oh gee, I don't know. Because she's probably the last woman who'll ever fuck me now?"
El laughed. Somehow it was more reassuring rather than offensive. "Go on."
"I knew something was going wrong that day-that things were falling apart- but I didn't know what. Then Ajedrez and Dr. Guevera caught up with me at the Flying Cow. She distracted me while he stuck a needle in my neck. When I woke up..."
He really did not want to continue, which was pretty amazing for somebody who loved to talk as much as he did. But El remained silent, and he had the feeling the man would continue to remain silent until he had finished the story.
"When I woke up, she and Guevera were there with Barillo. She told me she was Barillo's daughter. Barillo looked like something out of one of those old horror movies-not that I should talk, of course. He said I'd seen too much." He felt his hands begin to tremble and dropped them below the table to hide them. "And so Guevera took his drill and fixed it so I'd never see anything again. Then they all went away and left me alone. The end."
No, not quite the end. He had heard the men going, then felt soft lips against his ear. Someone was moaning annoyingly, but, above the sound, he could hear Ajedrez's whisper. "You wait right here, sugarbutt. I'll be back for you as soon as Daddy's done meeting with General Marquez, and then you and I will have some *real* fun." It was that, more than anything else, that had motivated him to get up and out into the street and away from there.
The waitress came by and he heard the chink of a plate being set upon the table. "Ah. Your pork at last."
"//Would you like something else//?"
He waved the waitress away. "I'm fine."
He heard a fork scrape against a plate, then, "How did you manage to survive that day, after what had been done to you?"
"I don't know." He shrugged. "Dumb luck. Stupidity. Not knowing when to give up. Somebody Up There playing a really nasty joke on me. Take your pick." He tilted his head to one side. "Probably stupidity, since I went right out into the street and managed to get myself shot several times. It wasn't a particularly good day for me."
El made another sound that might have been a laugh. "And how did you come to be here?"
"Well, you invited me, remember? And it had been a long time since I'd had pork and tequila, so I thought I'd give the place a chance."
For a moment, the only sounds were those of El eating. Then he said in a low voice, "You know, somehow I am beginning to find you more amusing than annoying. I do not think this is a good thing, since I came here to kill you."
"If it's amusement you want...have you heard the one about the CIA agent and the FBI man who walked into a bar and-"
"Perhaps I have been wrong. Perhaps you were not involved in this business."
"Believe me, El, for the past three months all I've thought about or cared about is surviving. Sitting in the sun and being alive and sometimes not hurting too much. Oh, I wouldn't say that if somebody gave me my eyes back I wouldn't go right out and get back to my agenda of restoring the balance...but I don't think that's likely to happen." He gave a half- smile. "The way things are, it's the last thing on my mind."
More silence, then, "What will you do now?"
"Someone's been helping me. I guess I'll stay with them 'til the money runs out and they toss me out in the street. After that..." He shrugged.
"Helping you...?"
His mouth tightened defensively. "That's none of your business. If you have a problem with me, it's just with me, not them."
"They both died that day, you know." The change of subject disoriented him. "Who?"
"Barillo. Guevera."
"Are you sure?"
"I was there."
"That's just swell. It's a little late to help me, but I guess I'm just spiteful enough to be glad they didn't get away with it. And Marquez?"
"Dead."
"And so is she. Ajedrez. I killed her." He reached for the glass again and began to turn it between his palms. "So everything's all neat and tidy."
"Except someone tried to assassinate El Presidente."
The glass was cool. He really wished he could press it against his mouth, which was hurting like a bastard. All the talking wasn't helping it either.
"If you're going to shoot me, I wish you'd go ahead and get it over with. If not...I really could use a siesta."
"I am not going to kill you, Senor Sands." He heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back from the table and the sound of money being placed beside the plate. "My treat." There was a smile in the voice. "I do not know if you are a good man, but you are a brave man. I believe you."
"Gracias."
A hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "Vaya con dios."
He nodded, then listened to the sounds of El Mariachi walking away. He waited until he heard the door close before he let his head droop. Suddenly, he was very very tired...and there was still the long walk back. With a sigh, he rested his elbows on the table and settled back to wait for Chiclet.
Disclaimer: These guys do not belong to me. If they did, they wouldn't be sitting around talking to each other. This is being written for fun (certainly mine, if nobody else's), not profit. No copyright infringement intended.
Survivors
by Melody Wilde Part 1 of ?
"Senor?"
The steady movement of sandpaper against wood stilled, and the man in black looked up. "Si?"
"//Luis thought you would want to know about this.//"
He lay aside the shape of wood which was not yet a guitar and, lifting an eyebrow in question, took the newspaper from the boy's hand. It had been weeks since he had last read a newspaper-even longer since he had last seen the news upon the television. The news of the outside world no longer mattered so much to the man he had become again-a man of peace, a simple maker of guitars. Every night he prayed that this time he would be allowed to remain that man, that the outside world would never intrude upon him again, but, deep in his heart, he had not truly expected his prayers to be answered.
"//Assassination Attempt!//"
He read the story quickly-a complex plot to assassinate El Presidente, a plot which had failed due to an accident of fate-and felt his peace shatter. His eyes closed.
"Sands."
"//What?//"
He shook his head and returned the paper with a quick "Gracias" and a dismissive flick of his hand. The boy grinned and scampered back to his playmates.
It would be useless to continue to work upon the wood now. He did not want the feelings of hate and anger and frustration which were flowing through him to mar the fledgling soul of the guitar. Standing, he stretched, knocked the sawdust from his dark trousers, and turned to walk across the plaza to the church. There was coolness and peace inside the church. Perhaps he could borrow some of it for his heart.
"//My son.//" The elderly priest greeted him as he entered the building and stopped to give his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness within. "//Is it well with you?//"
"No, Padre," he murmured. He moved down the aisle, dropping to one knee to cross himself before sliding into a pew. He was not surprised to find the Padre lowering himself into the row before him and turning to face him.
"//What troubles you, my son?//"
"//There is a thing I should have done that I did not. A job left unfinished. Because of my omission, a good man almost died.//" He folded his hands and lay his forehead against them. Sands' voice echoed through his head. "The President *will* be killed, because he's that piece of good pork that needs to be balanced out." After the failed coup de etat, he had thought it was all over. Ended. Finito. So many had died that day. It had been foolish of him to believe that Sands had died too. Foolish not to hunt down the man's body, to make sure, one way or another, before he returned to his home and his peace.
"//How can I help you?//"
"//Pray with me. Pray *for* me.//"
He slid to his knees as the padre's voice lifted in prayer. He tried to pray himself, but the words would not come. How could he ask his God to grant him the gift of continued peace when his carelessness had almost cost his country their leader? How would he ever be able to ask for God's forgiveness if he stayed here with his friends and his music and El Presidente died because he had done nothing? Quite possibly, he was the only person still alive who knew of Sands' twisted sense of making sure there was balance in the world. He might be the only person who could stop Sands before he struck again.
"//My son?//"
He gave up the attempt to communicate with his God. "//Padre, I am going to have to leave here for a time.//"
The priest knew the man before him too well; he understood all that the words meant. He lay a hand on the bent head and said, in a broken voice, "//It grieves me.//"
"//It grieves me also, Padre.//"
"//Is there no other way?//"
"//No. I must go and make this thing right.//"
"//Then...//" The older man's hand lifted to make the sign of the cross. "//Go with God. Go with our prayers.//"
Without another word, El Mariachi rose, crossed himself once more, and left the church.
* * *
Agent Sands-almost certainly *former* Agent by now, even if the C.I.A. hadn't been able to find him to personally disbar him or whatever it was that they did with good agents gone to their definition of bad-was lying on a blanket in the sun when he heard the sounds of Chicle Boy's footsteps running toward him. "Senor Sheldon! Senor Sheldon!"
Cursing the day that, in a moment of pain and weakness, he had revealed his first name to the boy's mother, Sands rolled to one side to push himself to a sitting position. "Over here."
"Senor Sheldon!"
"Yes, Chiclet, I heard you the first six times. What is it?"
"//The phone, Senor Sheldon. It beeps.//"
"Beeps? What are you talking about?"
"//The phone.//"
"You people don't *have* a phone."
"//*Your* phone,//" the boy said, as if speaking to an idiot.
Sands felt something small and rectangular shoved into his hand. His fingers explored the surface of the cell phone and his head jerked to one side.
"Well, golly, it *is* my phone. Where did you get this?"
"//You threw it in the cab when...//" The boy's voice faltered. "//That day.//"
"I remember *that*. How did it get *here*?"
"//I took it.//" He could almost hear the boy shrug. "//I thought it might be worth money, but then...there was no need.//"
No need at all. He had paid the family handsomely for taking him in and for finding a decent doctor who could keep his mouth shut and for taking care of him afterwards and hiding him from those on both sides of the law who were looking for him. He guessed it all had come close to cleaning out the largest of the secret bank accounts that he'd kept for emergencies-but if this didn't qualify as an emergency, he'd be fucked if he knew what ever would.
"What does it say-on the display?" He held it toward the boy. Silence. "Is there a letter flashing on the screen?" he asked with exaggerated patience.
"Si."
He fumbled with the keys, which had grown significantly smaller in the past few weeks. "Gosh darn thing didn't work when I needed it, but it starts beeping *now*," he muttered. "Swell. Just swell. And the way things have been going for me, it's probably Publishers' Clearinghouse telling me I've missed my big chance to...ah."
He had managed to find the correct key. "You have reached your voicemail. Please enter your password."
"Password..." He held the phone out. "Chiclet, you know your numbers, right?"
"Si."
"Be a good boy and press these numbers on the phone then, okay? 1. 9. 8. 4."
"1, 9, 8, 4."
"Yeah." He gave a tight smile. "Good year. Too bad we didn't get there. Now *that* was some kind of balance."
"//Done, Senor Sheldon.//"
"Good." He raised the phone back to his ear. "Now fuck off."
The boy had grown used to the form of dismissal. Sands waited until he heard retreating footsteps, then held the phone back to his ear.
"You have one new message. To hear your message, press the star key."
That one was easy, even for a blind man. He pressed and waited.
"January 21, 1:54 p.m." The mechanical voice gave way to another. "Sands."
"*Fuck*." His arm jerked involuntarily with shock and he almost dropped the phone. The voice in his ear went on, soft, almost caressing.
"I am sure that you did not expect to hear my voice, but after what has happened, I think it is time that we meet again, to talk of the past and of the future. Thursday. The Plaza del Oro. There is a restaurant that serves adequate pork. Noon."
"To delete this message, press 7. To save this message, press 9. To replay this message..."
He pressed the "replay" button to listen once more, then his thumb groped across the numbers, pressing at random until he heard the beep announcing that the call had been terminated. El Mariachi. What the hell did he want?
"What has happened? What the hell has happened?" He raised his voice. "Chiclet!"
"Si?"
"What day is this?" "//I don't know, Senor Sheldon. Should I ask Mama?//"
"Why don't you do that." He shoved the phone into the pocket of his shorts. "And while you're at it, see if you can find a newspaper."
"Si, Senor Sheldon."
As he pushed himself to his feet to follow the boy, he muttered, "I knew it was too good to last."
* * *
It was the first time he'd been farther than a half-block or so away from his new home since the day he'd arrived there looking like a poster child for the holiday the country was celebrating. It was a long walk to the Plaza del Oro, and the boy had had to stop twice to let him rest. All those weeks of lying about in the sun and doing nothing had been great for the healing process, but it had shot his endurance to hell.
"Fucking weakling."
"Senor?"
"Sorry. Thinking out loud. I'm ready to go on now."
They moved on through the heat and the darkness. At least the boy had gotten better since that first day about not leading him into things that hung over the sidewalk.
When Mamacita had read him the headline, he'd known why The Man With the Guitar wanted to see him. It had been a brilliant plan, one he almost wished he'd thought of himself, but the fate of El Presidente no longer mattered to him the way it had three months-or a lifetime-ago. These days, when he thought of "keeping the balance" the phrase had a whole new meaning.
He wondered if El had any idea what had happened to him that day-if he knew just how incapable Sands was at that very moment of even planning a coup, much less setting it in motion. He'd lost his contacts, one way or another. He shook his head. Perhaps he had been a little hasty with Belini. If Belini were still alive, he would've been a good man to trust not to be trusted. But since he had no one to act as a go-between, he was forced to go and meet with El Mariachi himself and try to convince the man of his innocence. It wasn't so much that he cared what El thought of him; it was more that he knew El was capable of hunting him down and killing him without giving him a chance to say a word. This was the better way of dealing--
"Ouch!"
"//Sorry, Senor Sheldon. I didn't see it.//"
"Yes, well, obviously, neither did I. Could we maybe walk closer to the curb?" The boy was better as a guide dog, but not perfect yet.
"//We're here, senor.//"
"Peachy. What time is it?"
"//Just past eleven.//"
Plenty of time for Chiclet to get him spatially oriented and for him to be seated when El arrived. He just hoped the man had been serious about wanting to talk-that he wouldn't come in shooting first and asking questions later-but it was a chance he'd have to take.
He wished the kid hadn't left his fake arm behind in the street that day. And that he had a better weapon than the small gun he'd once carried in his crotch as a backup. Chiclet had sold the other weapons long ago, sold them to pay for the doctor, actually, so he couldn't really complain, but still... If only he'd been lucid enough at the time to tell them about the bank account. But what was done was done, and he'd make the best of what he had.
"//Here, senor.//"
The kid helped him into a chair, facing the door, as he'd been instructed. "Tell me about the place."
"Senor?"
"Where's the bar? Is there a back door? Where is it? Is there anything between me and it? Things like that."
"//The bar is that way...//"
"Chiclet." He sighed. "It doesn't work to *point*-not with me."
"//The bar is to the left...//"
"Your left or my left."
"//My left.//"
It took another five minutes-and most of his patience-to learn that the second exit was at his back, toward the right, and that there were no tables between him and it.
"Perfect." Or as good as it was going to be. "Now make yourself scarce for a couple of hours."
"//You don't want me to stay?//"
"That would be nice, but I don't think your mother would want you to be here if things get messy. Go sell some gum or something and come pick me up later. Or pick up the pieces."
"Senor?"
"Fuck off, Chiclet."
He heard the patter of the boy's feet and the slam of the door, then adjusted his sunglasses and raised a hand to signal the waitress.
* * *
He had thought to arrive first, but when he paused just outside the door and peered through the glass, he saw that Agent Sands was already sitting at a small table toward the back of the restaurant. Sands seemed to be alone. There was a great temptation, born of his anger at this man and at himself, to walk in and kill him with no words and then return to his village and his peace. But no-if he allowed his anger to rule, he would never have a chance to learn the names of the others involved in Sands' schemes. He could not allow himself the luxury of anger.
Sands seemed unaware of his approach as he moved between the tables and stopped before the agent's. At the last moment, Sands' head came up and the dark, oversize sunglasses turned toward him.
"El." Sands gave one of his half-smiles and gestured toward the other chair. "Welcome. Please-join me. I hope you don't mind that I started without you. I told them to bring an order for you as soon as you got here. This isn't the best pork I've ever had-nothing to shoot the cook over, certainly-but I think you won't be too displeased."
He sat, studying the man. Although he had met Agent Sands only once, and that months before, the man's image was burned into his brain. There was something different about him now, something not of his words or his gestures or the black clothing replacing the foolish cowboy garb. He was thinner, and there were lines about his mouth and jaw which seemed to El Mariachi to speak of long-standing pain.
"Well golly, El, here we are just like you wanted, and you're just sitting there not saying a word. Usually when somebody asks me out on a date they have something to say to me. Or if they aren't interested in the fine art of conversation, at least they want to-"
"You talk too much."
"This is undoubtedly going to surprise you, but you're not the first person who's told me that." He raised a hand. "Okay. Sorry. I'll be quiet. Your turn."
"Why did you do it?"
Sands' brow furrowed. "'Do it'? Do what? Shoot the cook? Order the pork? Try to-"
"Why did you become involved with another plan to kill El Presidente?"
"Innocent. Wasn't me."
"I do not believe you."
"I was afraid you wouldn't, but it's the truth."
"Before, you said he should die."
"That was *before*. This is *now*. I really and truly *have* gotten past all that killing El Presidente and organizing a coup stuff. No joke."
"If it is not to interfere in our country, why have you remained in Mexico?"
"That's sort of a long story that I'd rather not go into right now. But it's been strictly for personal reasons-nothing to do with your government." He made a gesture. "Cross my heart and all that."
"I do not believe you," he repeated. "I do not believe it is in your nature not to meddle."
Sands gave a short, mirthless bark of laughter. "I've given up meddling."
"And what do you do instead?"
"Well, actually, I've spent the last three months-give or take a week- soaking up the sun and working on my tan. Not plotting. Not even thinking that much, actually." His fork moved across the plate, spearing a piece of pork. "Would you like to try a bite of mine while we're waiting for your order-"
He slammed his hand down on the table, then glanced around with a quick, "Pardon" for the few other patrons inside. Sands went very still, his only movement two short, quick twitches of his head from side to side.
"Someone attempted to assassinate El Presidente."
"I heard. It. Wasn't. Me. I. Had. Nothing. To. Do. With. It."
He leaned forward, putting menace in his face and voice and stance. "There is no reason for me to think you are not involved with this, as you were with the failed coup on the Day of the Dead. If you tell me who is working with you-what your plans are-I may let you live and escape back to your own country to face their justice. If you do not..."
"I wish I could help you, El-honest, I *do*-but I am *so* out of this loop that-"
"Enough!" He stood, kicking the chair back, away from him. Sands' head snapped up to follow the movement and his throat worked.
"Gee, I hope you're not leaving so soon. We've barely had time to-"
He reached across the table and seized Sands by the front of his shirt, dragging the agent to his feet even as he glanced around the room for the back exit. With another nod of apologies to the startled patrons, he shoved Sands to the door and through it, into the alley beyond.
"Wait. I didn't pay for my food."
He spun the slighter man, slamming him into the wall. One of Sands' hands flew up to hold his oversize sunglasses in place.
"You really need a course in anger management, El."
His hands tightened. "I should have killed you the day I met you."
"Yes, well, this is undoubtedly going to surprise you, but you're not the first person who's said that to me either."
His arm came up and he backhanded the other man across the face with all the force he could muster. Sands' head jerked sideways and he went down with a gasp of pain, the sunglasses flying off to land in the dust.
"You have tried to destroy my country, not once, but twice. God will forgive me for killing you, but I will never be able to forgive myself for *not* killing you months ago." He bent forward and his fingers tangled brutally in the dark hair, pulling Sands' head up. "I should have-"
He saw Sands' face.
"Madre de Dios." His hand went limp, and he stepped back in shock, crossing himself.
"Yeah, they're a real conversation stopper, that's for sure. Not that I have personal knowledge, of course, having never seen them myself." Sands pulled off a glove and drew the back of his hand across his mouth, working his jaw. "Am I bleeding?" When there was no reply, he touched the corner of his lip gently with fingertips. "It feels like I'm bleeding. Could you at least quit staring and hand me my glasses?"
"Madre de Dios."
"You're getting repetitive, El. You need to broaden your vocabulary." Sands reached out, fumbling about himself, until his hand touched an earpiece. "Come on-you're a gunman. You've been around. Haven't you ever seen a man who's had his eyes gouged out?" He gave a tight smile and slipped the sunglasses back into place.
"Who did this to you? Why?"
"Does it matter?" Sands levered himself to his feet and leaned against the wall. "I guess I'm just that kind of a guy. I mean, five seconds ago weren't *you* ready to blow my head off? And let me tell you, having your head blown off is probably a lot less painful in the long run than having your eyes removed without anesthetic."
"Madre de Dios."
"There you go again." Sands fumbled in a pocket. "I don't suppose you have a hanky or something. Mamacita just got the blood out of this shirt. I don't think I have the balls to take it back to her with more on it."
"Come inside." He caught the agent's arm and began to steer him back toward the door, but Sands balked.
"I can walk."
"Si. Forgive me."
Sands smiled again. "Does this mean we're going to be best friends now?"
"No. But it means I am not going to kill you just yet. It means you will talk, and I will listen."
"Groovy."
* * *
After informing El that he could walk all by himself, he had just *had* to run into another overhang on the way back in. He'd been surprised-and somewhat disconcerted-to hear a sound of sympathy from the gunman instead of laughter.
The remains of his food had been taken away, but El ordered another tequila and lime and a bottle of water and a clean napkin. They sat in silence until it arrived, then El dampened the napkin and handed it to him.
"Here. The right side of your lip is bleeding."
He pressed the cold cloth to his mouth. "Don't think you can charm me with kindness," he mumbled around it. "After all, you're the one who's responsible for it bleeding in the first place."
"Should I tell you I am sorry?"
"Are you?"
"Maybe I will be. Tell me what happened to you."
"I'd really rather not. Some things you just do *not* want to revisit, you know. Out of sight, out of mind...if you'll pardon the expression."
"Tell me."
He lowered the cloth. "Stopped?"
"Mostly. Tell me."
He didn't want to talk about it-in fact, he'd spent weeks not talking about it or thinking about it any more than he had to-but it seemed he didn't have a choice now. If he wanted to make El believe him-if he wanted to walk out of this restaurant alive-he was going to have to go back there, no matter how it hurt. And he did want to walk out alive. And what the hell did it matter anyway now.
"You have quite a punch there, amigo." He lay down the cloth with a sigh. "Okay. What do you want to know?"
"Who did this to you?"
"Barillo gave the order. His doctor friend used the drill. Here's a good rule to remember as you walk life's happy road: Don't piss off somebody who has a doctor friend who enjoys torture."
"He used a drill?"
Sands could hear the shock in El's voice, and that surprised him. After all he'd read in his background check about the life and deeds of El Mariachi, he *did* think the man would be more desensitized to pain and death.
"Oh yes. And he enjoyed it. His smiling face was the last thing I saw." He reached for the tequila and sipped. "Not a very pleasant person, our Dr. Guevera."
"Tell me, Senor Sands, how did your plan go so terribly wrong for you?"
"Ajedrez."
"Ajedrez?"
"That's right-you never had the pleasure, did you? She was AFN-supposedly working with me to bring down the Barillo cartel. More of that interagency cooperation you hear so much about. At least I *thought* she was working with me. Of course, when it came to her, I did a lot of thinking with my dick."
"It happens. She slept with you?"
"Oh yes. She slept with me." A corner of his mouth twitched up at the memory. "And she was good. I wish I'd paid a bit more attention and enjoyed it more."
"Why?"
"Oh gee, I don't know. Because she's probably the last woman who'll ever fuck me now?"
El laughed. Somehow it was more reassuring rather than offensive. "Go on."
"I knew something was going wrong that day-that things were falling apart- but I didn't know what. Then Ajedrez and Dr. Guevera caught up with me at the Flying Cow. She distracted me while he stuck a needle in my neck. When I woke up..."
He really did not want to continue, which was pretty amazing for somebody who loved to talk as much as he did. But El remained silent, and he had the feeling the man would continue to remain silent until he had finished the story.
"When I woke up, she and Guevera were there with Barillo. She told me she was Barillo's daughter. Barillo looked like something out of one of those old horror movies-not that I should talk, of course. He said I'd seen too much." He felt his hands begin to tremble and dropped them below the table to hide them. "And so Guevera took his drill and fixed it so I'd never see anything again. Then they all went away and left me alone. The end."
No, not quite the end. He had heard the men going, then felt soft lips against his ear. Someone was moaning annoyingly, but, above the sound, he could hear Ajedrez's whisper. "You wait right here, sugarbutt. I'll be back for you as soon as Daddy's done meeting with General Marquez, and then you and I will have some *real* fun." It was that, more than anything else, that had motivated him to get up and out into the street and away from there.
The waitress came by and he heard the chink of a plate being set upon the table. "Ah. Your pork at last."
"//Would you like something else//?"
He waved the waitress away. "I'm fine."
He heard a fork scrape against a plate, then, "How did you manage to survive that day, after what had been done to you?"
"I don't know." He shrugged. "Dumb luck. Stupidity. Not knowing when to give up. Somebody Up There playing a really nasty joke on me. Take your pick." He tilted his head to one side. "Probably stupidity, since I went right out into the street and managed to get myself shot several times. It wasn't a particularly good day for me."
El made another sound that might have been a laugh. "And how did you come to be here?"
"Well, you invited me, remember? And it had been a long time since I'd had pork and tequila, so I thought I'd give the place a chance."
For a moment, the only sounds were those of El eating. Then he said in a low voice, "You know, somehow I am beginning to find you more amusing than annoying. I do not think this is a good thing, since I came here to kill you."
"If it's amusement you want...have you heard the one about the CIA agent and the FBI man who walked into a bar and-"
"Perhaps I have been wrong. Perhaps you were not involved in this business."
"Believe me, El, for the past three months all I've thought about or cared about is surviving. Sitting in the sun and being alive and sometimes not hurting too much. Oh, I wouldn't say that if somebody gave me my eyes back I wouldn't go right out and get back to my agenda of restoring the balance...but I don't think that's likely to happen." He gave a half- smile. "The way things are, it's the last thing on my mind."
More silence, then, "What will you do now?"
"Someone's been helping me. I guess I'll stay with them 'til the money runs out and they toss me out in the street. After that..." He shrugged.
"Helping you...?"
His mouth tightened defensively. "That's none of your business. If you have a problem with me, it's just with me, not them."
"They both died that day, you know." The change of subject disoriented him. "Who?"
"Barillo. Guevera."
"Are you sure?"
"I was there."
"That's just swell. It's a little late to help me, but I guess I'm just spiteful enough to be glad they didn't get away with it. And Marquez?"
"Dead."
"And so is she. Ajedrez. I killed her." He reached for the glass again and began to turn it between his palms. "So everything's all neat and tidy."
"Except someone tried to assassinate El Presidente."
The glass was cool. He really wished he could press it against his mouth, which was hurting like a bastard. All the talking wasn't helping it either.
"If you're going to shoot me, I wish you'd go ahead and get it over with. If not...I really could use a siesta."
"I am not going to kill you, Senor Sands." He heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back from the table and the sound of money being placed beside the plate. "My treat." There was a smile in the voice. "I do not know if you are a good man, but you are a brave man. I believe you."
"Gracias."
A hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "Vaya con dios."
He nodded, then listened to the sounds of El Mariachi walking away. He waited until he heard the door close before he let his head droop. Suddenly, he was very very tired...and there was still the long walk back. With a sigh, he rested his elbows on the table and settled back to wait for Chiclet.