MY FRIEND, YOUR FRIEND
"What's going on out there?"
"They talk quiet about you, kid," Goza commented, strolling up to the bar and helping himself to the bottle waiting for him. "But the policía are looking – they watch every tall Americano tourist that walks by."
Kelly sighed, took a last drag of his last cigarette and stamped it out. Yes, that was a given. Nate was likely dead and Hampton would be on top of things. He supposed he couldn't fault Hampton's reaction to the British security breach; he just wished Hamp wasn't so damned sure of himself. Maybe Scotty would be able to convince him to back off a little. A day or two – that's all he'd need to contact Elena and find Randolph. The charter service owner deserved a question or two, even a well-placed fist if necessary. It had all started in Patzcuaro – time to get back there. He'd have to move quickly, though, before Hampton got too many operations in place.
He swiped a hand across the back of his neck, past the still burning shoulder, and grimaced at the grit he found there. There'd been no opportunity for anything more than a quick wash in a grimy restroom, but just as well. He couldn't hide his Caucasian features, and he didn't exactly speak the language. He'd be less noticeable in a set of dirty, disheveled clothes, and as long as he kept his conversations to a minimum he could probably work his way out of the city. Most of the time he didn't need any interpreter because Scotty was at his side and completely fluent in Spanish. This was one of those times, however, when he rued not knowing any more than what he'd memorized from the phrasebook.
His gaze shifted from the scarred tabletop to the man drinking at the bar across the room. If the Mexican hadn't already lifted his watch, Kelly would have just decked him one more time and walked away. But Goza had dangled his last source of cash between them and Kelly had gone along with hocking it – at that point the thief and hustler seemed to feel he could be a help to the "pretty good" Americano fighter. Or maybe he just saw Kelly as an able source of money. Whatever the case, Goza was amiable and capable enough, given a few dollars and a few drinks, and Kelly had to admit he didn't mind the other man's company, given his own situation. Goza didn't ask questions, despite the curiosity lurking in his black, observant gaze. He hadn't tried to finger Kelly's pocket and go for the gun stashed there. There wasn't much else keeping them together but Goza didn't seem in any hurry to walk away, had offered to walk the marketplace and check on any news of an American fugitive. Of course, he didn't know exactly what was going on, and if he did, he might happily wave adios to his newfound "friend." Well, soon enough. Once Kelly found a way to Patzcuaro could leave the Mexican behind, and if Goza wanted to snitch then so be it. By then he'd have it all uncovered, and Scotty…
Scotty – though he longed to have his partner by his side in all this, he didn't want to unduly implicate Scotty in any way, and hanging around waiting for the police after Nate had been stabbed would've done just that. With Nate down there were likely orders to grab him any way possible. This was his own mess, even if he didn't have a clue as to how he'd landed in it. And he wouldn't take Scotty with him if he fell, even though he knew his partner was willing to take it on. But treason wasn't a charge easily fought. There was evidence to uncover, personal and professional integrity to protect, and at this point two governments to convince. If there was one thing Kelly would not sacrifice it was his partner, any part of him, blood, brains, heart, or soul. They might find Kelly Robinson a traitor and pack him off to jail for life, chalk it up to too much time spent in the field flirting with temptation, but they would not find any blemish on Alexander Scott. Never. Besides, being out here would pull the real traitors out into the open, and make it easier to discover just who had set him up.
Trust me, Jack, he said silently, missing his partner's calm presence beside him, knowing Scotty was not liking this any one bit. Just give me a little more time…
"Hey, kid." Goza finished his drink and poured himself another, then set the bottle down and turned away from the bar. He gave Kelly a good look up and down, as if trying to find something in him to question. Finally he said, "A man – he asked me about you. Called you by name."
"And it took you until just now to tell me this?" Kelly rebuked. Just what was he holding out for – more money? Or maybe he wanted the gun – Kelly quickly checked his jacket pocket, but it was still here. They weren't exactly friends here – arm's length allies was more like it. The other man had boasted of working for himself and that usually meant going for the side with the better deal. Kelly's Robinson's end of that was fast running out. "What man? British?"
"No, not British." Goza came over to the table but didn't sit. "American. A tall man, very dark." He shrugged, shoved a hand in his pocket and fingered something there. Well, he'd been gone long enough; he'd probably had time to lift all sorts of things off unsuspecting tourists. Then again, maybe the British had indeed gotten to him, offered him a bribe better than any watch or ring from some vacationer.
Kelly's hand slid back into his pocket, too, and gripped the gun. "Go on," he prompted evenly. He probably should have decked the man when he'd had the chance. "That's not much of a description, amigo," he prodded. "What else can you tell me about him?"
"He had shoes with black stripes, two rings, and a fancy watch, like yours," Goza promptly responded and then paused. "He said he was your friend." He emphasized the last word, as if tasting it for the first time and finding it sour. "He was alone."
Well, value-wise, that could describe almost any tourist. Those Adidas, however… "He's my friend," he confirmed quietly. Didn't take you long, Duke, he thought to himself. But I need some more time. Give me another day…
"He's smart, your friend," Goza nodded. "He had your watch and your ring – he knows where to look for you."
Stated like that it made Kelly feel exposed, despite the raw truth of it. They did know each other that well. But rarely did they display that relationship to others. And few understood just how close they were. But Goza, the observant son of a bitch, was one of those few. Maybe being apart showed somehow; Kelly had to admit that he did feel rather lopsided, and the headache from yesterday hadn't abated. Not to mention the shoulder that kept tightening.
"This friend," Goza began conversationally, tasting the word again. He strolled back to the bar and poured himself another drink. "You know him for a long time?"
"Yes," Kelly said softly, rubbing at his burning eye, the one he'd kept propped open last night, like any good spy in a tight situation. And his situation felt like a shoe one size too small.
"You are close then? Like family, eh? Brothers, maybe?"
Why all the questions now? There hadn't been half as many last night. Then again, last night had been a lot of mescal and tequila, as least for Goza. "Yeah, we're close," Kelly offered, and the realization of that statement made Scotty's absence hurt all the more.
"He worries for you," Goza told him, setting down his glass. "He does not say, but it shows. He doesn't like for you to be on the run."
No, he wouldn't, Kelly conceded to himself, guilt jabbing at him. Scotty would prefer this to be a stand-and-fight situation, probably had a plan in place, if only he could get his partner to come in off the street.
"Can you trust him?" Goza asked, and the question seemed to bounce off the peeling walls of the cantina and back into Kelly's chest. Can you trust him? Can you, can you?
Kelly leveled a steady gaze onto the other man. Goza, the loner, the one who answered only to himself – so he said yesterday. The one who seemed to question the very meaning of friendship, or of trust, if some sort of collateral didn't secure it.
"With my life," Kelly answered simply.
Goza's brows went up. He reached up to scratch at his bearded chin. "Hm," he only said and turned away. "That's a lot, Kid," he said, pacing.
"Yes, I suppose it is," Kelly nodded. "Sometimes it's…everything."
Goza started at him for a long second, then resumed pacing, clearly contemplating. After a second tramp back and forth he turned and approached. Kelly watched as he pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it over. "He said to meet you," the older man began. "Fort San Diego – this afternoon."
Slowly Kelly took the envelope, stared at Scotty's scrawled writing. A little prickle or warning worked up the back of his neck. It could be a set up; Scotty might've been forced into it, especially with Hampton so adamant. That's how this had first started. The only way to be sure was to stake out the meeting place. Scotty would expect that – Hampton should, too. If it was another shot at entrapment, then it was a poorly disguised one.
He ran a finger over Scotty's message, and a longing pulsed into him. He hated this lopsided feeling, even though it'd been necessary. "Was he alone?" he asked the other man, slowly looking up.
Goza shrugged and waved a hand. "The zocalo is a busy place, kid."
Kelly tipped his chair back onto two legs. "You're a pretty observant fellow, Goza. You could pick out a snake among the flowers."
That made the other man let off that rough chuckle of his. "I guess you're right." He shrugged again. "I waited – I watched. There was no policía. No British voices. Will you go?" he demanded lightly. "To meet with this friend…" he stressed the word again "…that you trust with your life?"
Kelly's fingers went back over the handwriting, finding just the tiniest piece of Scotty's substance along the lettering and sensing the urgency of the request. He brought the chair back down and stood. "That's what it's all about, my man," he said to Goza, and gave his new acquaintance a small smile.