Chapter 12 – See No Evil
When Sands woke up that morning, he was hungry. He wanted something to eat. He wanted a neat pile of scrambled eggs, fluffy and piping hot, with sizzling, crispy bacon, and hot buttered toast. And coffee. And maybe a short stack while he was at it, soft but lacy-edged and drenched in syrup. He was, after all, very hungry.
But that was a moot point, because Little Miss Prissy-Pants wasn't speaking to him.
He scowled, throwing the covers off onto the floor and heaving himself up out of bed. He'd slept naked last night because it had been damned hot—and still was, really. He shuffled his way over to the dresser and pulled out a full set of clothes—shorts, undershirt, jeans, shirt, socks. Perfect on the first go. Well, at least something was going his way.
It had been nine months since he'd last seen Snape. Nine. It was really pissing him off how long Snape could go with the silent treatment, and especially over something so trivial. Sands pulled his shirt on over his head, grimacing. So they'd gotten drunk and fooled around—there was no harm in that. And Snape had learned a little humility—everybody needed a good dose of that in their lives; it built character. Sands didn't see what the big deal was—the lousy old crumpet-sucker had clearly been desperate. If you looked at it from the right angle, Sands had done him a big favor. But no, Snape would rather act like an uptight old prude and throw a tantrum.
Sands got the first leg of his jeans on with no trouble, but as he hopped about on his clad leg, trying to get the other in his pants as well (and they kept moving, dammit!), he lost his balance and fell to the floor with a grunt and a thud. Growling in annoyance, he kicked them off where he lay and then stood up, jeans in hand and legs still bare. He crammed the irritating things haphazardly back into their appropriate drawer; if they didn't want to cooperate this morning, he just wouldn't wear them. Besides, he had no reason to get dressed—it wasn't like he was going anywhere.
He plodded downstairs in his undershirt and shorts and swung 'round into the bathroom; he ran his hand through his hair as he pissed, wondering if he could put off that shower for another day or two. He decided that he could, and flushed the toilet with a rattle and a bang and moved over to the sink to brush his teeth.
While Sands was enjoying his minty freshness with his mind otherwise empty, there came a sudden burst of unwelcome realization. It came to him so suddenly that he actually stopped all movement for a moment, spearmint foam dribbling down his chin, before letting out a groan and spitting irritably into the basin. Why, of all times, did that have to be today? He was in a crappy enough mood as it was.
Sands was forty years old today.
Forty. Forty frickin' years old. Sands hated the very idea of it. Thirty-seven had been good at first (Susana had surprised him with black leather—she may have been a back-stabbing bitch, but she'd had one hell of a body), but now didn't bear thinking about, thirty-eight too had been a party at first but was now tainted with stupid, stupid reality, while thirty-nine had passed unheeded. But forty…it sounded old. It was old. What was worse was that it felt old.
Forty years old, and look where he was. Hiding out in Culiacán, blind, and alone in some shitheap. This was not where he had envisioned himself age forty, that was for sure. He'd expected to finally have been transferred out of this dump, riding high on an assignment in Columbia or Argentina, setting his board with national leaders and drug lords alike, playing countries and continents for his own private amusement, setting them up and watching them fall. Instead, he was skulking around in back alleys and local dives, eating into his dwindling funds, with nobody for company but his kid and some crotchety old goat for a neighbor. Scowling, he realized he didn't even have the neighbor anymore. He hadn't heard a peep from Snape in all this time. He knew that Snape had been taking a different route home lately—and he was probably doing his disappearing act straight into his house, the jerkwad, so Sands could never catch him. So all Sands had was his stupid kid.
It wasn't fair, and he knew it, but that was the way it was, as David Bowie would tell him. He was just going to have to deal with it on his fortieth birthday.
There was really only one thing he wanted for his birthday this year—any year—and that was El Mariachi's head on a platter. But he knew he wasn't going to be getting that on this auspicious day, so he was going to settle—he was going take himself out for dinner and spend some money on somebody else.
And that somebody else had just arrived.
As he walked out of the bathroom, hitching up his shorts and scratching his balls and putting his sunglasses on, the familiar jingle of a bell sounded outside, and shortly after, Chiclet burst through the door. "Buenos dias, Señor!" he said brightly, oblivious to Sands's state of undress. "I woke up early this morning, and I figured since I was already up, I might as well come over now."
"Goodie for you," he said flatly, meandering over to his chair and settling down into it. He yawned, scratching the back of his head . "And just what prompted you to get up so early this fine morning?"
"Well, it's only seven."
"Mmm. Well, you might as well just take the list now, then, as I don't have anything for you to do. You can go to school early and hang around the flagpole and check out the girls this morning," Sands said.
Chiclet fidgeted a little. "Well, I was hoping to wait over here until seven-thirty. I don't know when Don Greene wakes up, but that's when I usually get here, and I don't want to disturb him."
Sands glared at him; Chiclet already knew that Snape's name—pseudo or otherwise—was taboo at this point. "Well, I can guarantee you he'll be up—I happen to know for a fact that the old dingleberry has breakfast every morning promptly at seven. So you can just tootle over there and get his precious grocery list, too, and then you can get lost. I'm not going to entertain you for thirty minutes just so you can cater to his schedule. You aren't on his—you're on mine," Sands said snippily. "Anyway—we're going out today, so hurry home from school, and no loitering next door."
"We are?" Chiclet asked, curious.
"Yes, we are. It's going to start raining cats and dogs in a few weeks and I want to take advantage of the weather," Sands snapped.
"Oh—well, all right, Señor," Chiclet said uncertainly, and trotted into the kitchen to get Sands's grocery list.
"Cook me some scrambled eggs while you're in there," Sands called after a moment.
"Okay," Chiclet said, and Sands heard the cabinets open, the sound of a pan being set on his stove, and the rattling of the kid rummaging around in the fridge.
It didn't take Chiclet long, and, as Sands got up and ambled into the kitchen, he thought they smelled pretty good. He took one more sniff before sitting down in his customary seat, hearing Chiclet rush around and get a plate for him. A few moments more, and a plate of eggs was set down with a thunk, followed by a mug of fresh coffee. He picked up his fork and took a bite, and was vindictively pleased to discover they were just as good as Snape's were. He loved it when Chiclet cooked a good breakfast—it proved that Sands didn't need that old fart at all.
He salted and peppered his eggs—and told that kid to add Tabasco to his grocery list—and then continued to eat, taking a swig of his coffee to the sounds of Chiclet cleaning up the kitchen and putting everything away where it belonged.
"Are they all right, Señor?" Chiclet asked with his ever-present, eager-to-please concern.
"They're fine," Sands replied around a mouthful.
"Okay—I guess I'll go over to—I guess I'll go now. Bye, Señor!"
Sands scowled, chewing a little more forcefully than usual as Chiclet scampered off and out the door. Unable to help himself, pushed back his chair with a noisy scrape on the floor and got up, dashing over to the front window and pressing his ear to the glass, hoping to catch a few traces of conversation from next door. He got there just in time to hear Snape open the door, but he didn't say anything. Sands huffed in annoyance, stalking back to the kitchen and finishing his eggs standing up as he heard Chiclet's tinny bell ring-a-ling away from the house. He dropped the dirty plate in the sink (Chiclet could clean that one up when he got back) before meandering to back out into the living room and to his chair, flopping sulkily down into it.
He only sat for a moment, wallowing in silent contemplation of his sucky situation, before standing abruptly and going back upstairs. He had nothing to do until Chiclet got back, so he might as well go back to bed, to try to sleep through this whack day. Shucking his shorts and undershirt—it was burning up in here, and that just pissed him off even more, and in no small part because he wanted to go next door; Snape and his fairy magic kept his house cool and comfortable year round—he got back under the sticky sheets. Sands took his sunglasses off and dropped them on his nightstand, groping for his blindfold and tying it firmly around his head. He settled down into bed, wiggling around—his sheets were getting funky; he'd have to get the kid to wash them—hands laced behind his head, already sweating from the heat, and found to his disgust that his head was churning so that he wasn't about to get to sleep any time soon.
Snape really had no business being such a bitch about everything—after all, toward the end he'd been all but begging for it. That's what happened to angsty little men who got all hung up over their old girlfriends—it was hell on the sex life. Years of pointless pining for the girl he left behind had clearly left old Snape more than a little hard up. And anyway, if he hadn't wanted it, nothing would've happened. Sands had dealt with people like him before—they were all alike. All repressed and uptight, convinced of their own stalwart fortitude and unable to take life easier—unable to take advantage of a situation proper. Unable to see when somebody was trying to do them a favor. Unable to admit it when they wanted it. Unable to see when they'd been bested.
Sands had given Snape a few days to cool off before testing the waters again—he'd half expected not to be let in for breakfast the following week. But he had been sorely disappointed in spite of himself (and admittedly extremely annoyed by it) upon discovering that the door was most definitely locked—magically, so no amount of his own breaking-and-entering skills would get through it. Miffed, he'd treated Snape to a glorious demonstration of his percussion skills on the front door, just to make him as mad as he was himself.
It had worked; it had apparently made Snape mad enough to cast some kind of spell on the door. He'd heard a barked command from inside in that phony Latin his type used, and then beneath his beating fists he'd felt a bizarre, almost electrical pulse, and the air around them went flat and dead. He'd started, really mad now that the wet end had the nerve to put a spell on him—but as it turned out, he hadn't. No, he'd realized what Snape had done when he raised his fist to beat on the door again and had been unpleasantly discomfited to find that no matter how furiously he pounded, he didn't make a sound against his front door—or any part of the rest of the façade, either.
Angry but undaunted, he'd gone back inside his own house and picked up where he left off, throwing things at their shared wall, followed shortly by a rendition of "Respect" in his best Aretha at the top of his lungs—and when that didn't get a response, he spitefully brought his imitation talents to the fore and treated the tight-assed old prick to his own take on the pathetic, desperate sounds Snape had made in Sands's bed a week ago.
That got a response, all right—Snape had put a spell on the walls, too. The turd. That left Sands high and dry, all by himself to make noise and be hungry and alone and wait for Chiclet to finish up at school so he could finally eat.
And that's exactly how it had been for nine frickin' months. Snape kept his wall charmed against any sound from either direction, he took a different route home, and absi-tively poso-lutely refused to speak to Sands at all.
What a bitch. What a woman.
Sands scowled, rolling over on his side and trying to get comfortable—a difficult task when lying puddle of one's own sweat. His back hurt, because he'd slept wrong, which was just a nice shot of lemon juice in the paper cut on his dick that was today's birthday. He supposed his age was eventually going to catch up with him—he'd just been hoping it would be somewhere around sixty, rather than forty. He would've voluntarily retired at sixty and retreated to some tropical island, living out the rest of his days in paradise, drinking Polynesian cocktails with little umbrellas in them and getting oiled up by topless native girls.
Forced retirement sucked big fat hairy donkey balls.
He sighed, pressing his arm over his blindfold. Why, why, why was falling asleep so difficult? That wasn't very fair, either. But, as per usual, that's the way it was.
Well, the way it was sucked it, too. It could go to all nine hells, as far as he was concerned.
He twisted angrily around and hissed as his leg twinged painfully. It had started up with that crap again lately, as Sands was no longer doing business with old Don Greene. He had been buying some of those "magic" salves that Jose had recommended—and dammit if they didn't work just as well as he'd said. But now that Snape refused to acknowledge his presence—refusing even to sell anything to him via Chiclet, which was really too much—that blessed relief he'd come to take for granted was gone. So he was left with those familiar and unwelcome spasms of pain in his thighs, and it was all Snape's fault. Leave it to that window-licker to give up one of his best customers over something so stupid.
Sands reached down and gingerly massaged his thigh before flopping back onto his pillow. Snape would eventually cave. He'd have to. And Sands would be waiting for him when he came crawling back—and boy, but was he going to enjoy that. And it was on that thought that he finally, mercifully, drifted off to sleep.
Sands was jolted out of a sound sleep by the slam of a door. The gun was already out from under his pillow and in his hand by the time he heard the cheery call of, "Only me!" and he relaxed. Groaning slightly as his residual sleepiness caught up with him after snapping awake, he slowly sat up, rubbing his face with his hands. Sleeping all day…bad habit. He'd wanted to do it—but he hated it when he did.
He scowled down at the floorboards and that stupid kid—he'd woken up with a woody, but he couldn't very well do anything about it now that Chiclet was here. He concentrated on thoughts of Belini in a thong, and that put paid to most of his hard problem, although it left him feeling more than a little stiff and cranky. Growling, he threw off the covers and got up, digging around in his dresser for clothes, and he managed to get into his jeans without falling over this time. Not bothering with his boots yet, he picked them up and carried them out of the room and down the hall.
"Did you get everything?" he asked as he stumped down the stairs.
"Everything but the milk—they were out of the kind you like. I'll pick it up tomorrow," Chiclet replied, bustling about in the kitchen.
"Dammit," Sands groused. He plonked down into his chair and tugged on his boots. This was the second time that place had been out of real milk in as many months. He had a good mind to tell Chiclet to start shopping somewhere else—his money would spend just as well at a different market, and they could blow him if they didn't like it—that, or they could start having what he wanted when he wanted it.
"Did you remember to get me two cartons of smokes?" Sands demanded.
"Sí, Señor," Chiclet called.
Sands grunted—he'd been smoking a lot more lately. That was probably Snape's fault, too. And speaking of—he fished around in his pocket for the nearly empty pack from yesterday that should still be in there. He was not disappointed; his fingers found the crumpled paper and crinkling plastic. He pulled out the very last cig, crushing the empty pack in his hand and throwing it on the floor, before lighting up and taking a satisfying drag.
He waited until Chiclet was through putting everything away (the little shit didn't even pause in his work as he walked by and picked up the wad of ex-cigarette pack and threw it away), and then got up out of his chair. "I haven't eaten since breakfast—take me somewhere to eat," he said.
"Okay." Chiclet pattered towards the front door, and Sands followed his footsteps.
"Where are we going?" Sands asked as they stepped outside into the dusty air.
He heard Chiclet shrug as he locked the door. "Wherever you want to go, Señor. I thought we were just going to El Cisne Oro—you say the pibil is good there."
"Fair enough," said Sands agreeably. The pibil was good down at the square, and they were always very snappy with getting his order. "Maybe we can go dig up something decent for dessert afterwards—I'm sick of fried bread." He turned and followed Chiclet as they turned down the side alleyway, pausing momentarily to flip off Snape's house before setting off on his familiar path into town, knowing his leg would probably be sore after the all-day walking, and hating it.
"Are you—are you and Don Greene still not talking?" Chiclet asked uncertainly. Sands glared at him.
"I'm talking fine. He won't talk to me. And keep your nose out of it," he ordered irritably. "If Don Greene wants to be a stuck-up piece of shit, it's certainly no concern of mine—or yours!"
Sands was sitting quietly in his living room, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair, Chiclet perched on the couch across from him. Sands was pleasantly and decidedly full from the pasta that Chiclet had made under his close supervision (dammit), and the little chef was now sipping his Coke and not talking—for once.
He'd been quite tractable lately—he'd been a bit of a bitch when he was arranging his soirees with the mariachis, always wanting to know what he was doing—that was not what he paid him for! But now he was back to his old chipper, obedient little self, and had been for the past month or so.
And good thing, too—Sands needed the little shit to be on top of his game for what lay ahead. He needed to follow directions, and not get sidetracked by his childish morality issues. Bigger things were at stake here.
"You're going to be sixteen soon, aren't you?" Sands asked abruptly, breaking the silence with his question.
"I'm already sixteen," Chiclet replied, sounding slightly surprised. "I'll be seventeen in December."
Sands jolted in his chair, taken aback—and unpleasantly so. But he just flicked his head, dismissing his discomfiture as if he would an irksome fly. "Okay, fine, whatever—either way, you're old enough to be driving, right? And you already know how, after all."
"I suppose so. I drive my uncle's truck sometimes, but—."
"Yeah, that's great," said Sands dismissively. "The point is that you can drive—so let's get going—we're going to go get you a car," he said, heaving himself up out of his chair. "Consider it an early birthday present."
"What?" Chiclet sounded incredulous. "Señor, no! A bike is one thing, but a car—"
"—is essential for a growing boy," Sands cut him off. "You need a car, and I'm going to buy it for you."
"Señor, that's crazy! I don't need a car, I have my bike! And if I need one, it'll be when I'm out of school, and anyway, I've been saving—"
"No, no, and more no," Sands interrupted yet again, starting to get pissed off at the ungrateful little SOB. "For one thing, I'm not gonna stand by while you buy some junk heap and get killed when the engine catches fire. And two, if you really are pushing seventeen, then it's high time you had a car. I got my first car when I was fifteen—a blue Stingray. 'Wait until after school' my butt," he scoffed. "You're getting one today. And thirdly," he said loudly over Chiclet's renewed protestations, "I need you to have a car—and so that's final."
Sands ignored Chiclet's bitching all the way to the car dealership. The kid would not fracking shut up—he kept insisting that a car was simply too much, that he didn't even have a license yet, that Señor had already done so much for him already, and that he didn't need a car, that he could drive Señor anywhere he wanted if he got his own car, but not one for him, and that if he really had to buy his own car, he had his own money, and that it was just stupid for Señor to buy him one, as all the money he had saved was Señor's anyway, and that he should just not do this!
It was very annoying. Sands played deaf through the whole thing, interrupting Chiclet's monologue of objections occasionally to give orders, to get the kid to hail them a cab and then to direct him where to go. He obeyed quickly enough, but never turned off the talk-box, just kept at it, picking up right where he'd left off. By the time they reached the dealership, Sands's nerves were very badly frayed. Fortunately, Chiclet finally seemed to sense trouble, and he mercifully shut up.
Sands was pleased to find that the cars at this particular dealer were still new imports, as he recalled from better days. He was not about to put himself or his kid in anything from this crapper of a country. Not to mention that driving around in a car that you were fully aware somebody else had farted in was never pleasant. So, new and foreign it was—but he didn't want anything too huge and flashy. Anything like that tended to stick out a mite 'round these parts, and he had a feeling that might end up being detrimental to what he had planned.
This place seemed to specialize in rice-burners, which could kiss his ass, and sportier cars from the good old US of A. The kid would need something that wasn't too conspicuous, but something that could handle the crappy streets in this country—driving on a road was practically off-road. He needed something with some muscle—he was a teenage boy, after all, and a hot car was a necessity—but not over the top. Chiclet was just a little squirt, after all, and from a poor family. Something on the high-end would be suspicious.
Tilting his head back to take in a little of the afternoon sun—something he always took advantage of in July, as the rainy season tended to make sunlight a not-so-reliable commodity—he thought of a typical street in Mexico, thought of the cars that drove by, thought of all the cars he'd seen since coming to Culiacán, thought of all the cars out on the Day of the Dead—
A Jeep. That should do it. A Wrangler—plenty manly and with a good engine and four-wheel drive, but not something that anyone would give a second glance around here.
He made Chiclet take him directly to where the Jeeps were parked, finding the right model and then telling him to pick out one that he liked. Which turned out to be a mistake, because the one Chiclet picked happened to be yellow.
"You'll look like a taxi cab," Sands said.
"The taxis here are green, Señor," Chiclet replied smartly.
Sands glared pointlessly at him, his mouth tight. "Shut up and tell me how it looks."
"It's great, Señor—and much too expensive, and I don't need it," he said, his tone scolding.
"Mmm-hmm," Sands replied. "How much is it?"
"Twenty-four thousand."
"Easily negotiable—and you don't need all that high-end crap anyway," Sands said dismissively. "They only mark them that high so somebody can come talk them down. Car dealers are all Arab camel traders at heart—or at least, they think they are. Come on—let me show you how it's done."
The dealer, as it turned out, was very fond of haggling indeed. Too bad for him that he couldn't haggle his way out of a wet paper bag. It took Sands all of twenty minutes to talk him down to an even twenty thousand for the mostly basic package—air conditioning was not an option; in this country, it was a necessity. The gentleman in question became very receptive once Sands made it clear that he would be paying cash for his car. That same cash also helped convince the jolly little prick to make the purchase in Chiclet's name, despite his not even having a license yet. Then again, it might have been Sands's carefully accidental display of the piece under his jacket that did that—one never knew.
Chiclet still hadn't warmed completely to the idea of his own car even up to the point when they were handed the keys. But once he started driving it back to Sands's house, well—what kid his age wouldn't be won over? It wasn't a bad little car, really—it thrummed happily along (though not as beautifully as Sands's old car), and was quite a smooth ride. Chiclet was soon babbling rapturously about it more than he'd gushed about his bike almost three years ago (Sweet Jebus, had it really been that long?).
"Señor, I don't know how to thank you," Chiclet said for the umpteenth time, and Sands was alarmed at how emotional the kid sounded. Sheesh—it was only a car, after all. No need for him to wet himself.
"You can thank me by making sure it doesn't get stolen," Sands informed him. "This car has an alarm for a reason. Use it."
"Oh, I will, Señor! And don't worry—I'm gonna take good care of it—you wait and see!" Sands pursed his lips at that, but Chiclet was already off again, thank you, thank you, thank you, and it all was very tiresome.
Well—one had to take the bitter with the sweet. If Sands had to endure Chiclet's crap in order to get himself a pair of eyes on wheels, well, then, he could cope. Because Sands had errands for the kid to run. Errands outside of Culiacán. Errands in Guitar Town.
Sands knew he would have to wait a month or two before springing his new duties on him—let the kid get a proper license, let the new wear off the car. But once Chiclet had adjusted, once things were running smoothly, he'd move.
Look out, El…ready or not, here I come…
Sands had no idea what time it was, and that pissed him off to no end. He wanted to know what time it was so he would know exactly how late Chiclet was so he could yell at him when the little shit finally came back from Guitar Town. He was hungry, and Chiclet was supposed to be back by now, surely, so he could cook something for him so they could eat—and he could tell him what he saw.
Unfortunately, he still wasn't back. How long, exactly, did it take someone to scope out a town and then report back with the details? It hadn't taken Cucuy this long. It hadn't even taken this long when he and Chiclet had gone together the first time last month. Then again, that trip had merely been a confirmation of destination, to make sure his memory was still sharp (it was, of course)—they just went there and back, and didn't stop to sightsee (dammit).
Sands forced himself to chill out, throwing himself in his chair so as to make himself stop pacing. He was well aware that he was overly tense, but he felt it was understandable—because when it came down to it, the man he was after might not be in Guitar Town at all. For that matter, Sands wasn't even sure that El was in fact alive—the unwelcome thought that he might be chasing a genuine wild goose had crossed his mind more than once, popping up more frequently the further along he went with his plans. He had no desire to set up a neat little arrangement only to have it topple down on top of him (again). Fideo could have been lying—maybe El really was dead, and he was just dropping the name to try and save his own hide. Sands knew men would say anything in a life or death situation. Once upon a time he'd been very good at gauging what was the truth and what was a lie straight from CYA-ville just by looking a person in the eye.
But he couldn't do that anymore.
So he'd done the next best thing—he'd equipped Chiclet with a car, given a very thorough description of who he was looking for, and sent him out with a wad of cash, a camera with no film, and instructions to browse the merchandise and look inconspicuous. Hopefully, when he got back, Sands would have his man.
Sands fidgeted in his seat, his stomach rumbling. He didn't like sitting still. He wanted to be up and about, to be putting his own plans in motion. Scheming and plotting and going out on business had made him feel better than he had in months—it made him feel active, made him feel involved in things, made him feel in control again—made him feel better about doing little but sit around on his butt for weeks on end. It made him feel less bored, if anything, to think and plan and set up the pieces the way he wanted them.
However, the great Shakespearian tragedy El Mariachi Muerto couldn't very well go on without the titular main player.
This was ridiculous. Sands was sitting here and starving to death ten feet away from his kitchen. He heaved himself up out of his chair, standing firmly on the left leg for a moment and testing the right—it had been aching abominably this morning, cramping up in ways that reminded him of the bad old days back when he was camping out with Nuñez, but it seemed fine now. So he meandered into the kitchen to make his own lunch. Sandwiches sounded very good right now, and he didn't need Chiclet (or Snape) to make them for him.
Well, he didn't need him much. He got jelly on the countertop, and that was after he'd almost put mayonnaise on the bread by mistake (what kind of asshole put mayonnaise in a jelly-shaped jar?!) but other than that, he considered his lunch a perfect success. Not bothering to clean it up (Chiclet could do that when he got back, and he could just be glad about it, the tardy little punk), he picked up his sandwich and deposited it on the kitchen table. He almost sat down before turning on his heel and marching straight back to the fridge. He was hungry—he was going to have two sandwiches. Take that, Mary Poppins. He rummaged around in the fridge until he found the turkey, the cheese, the lettuce, and the tomato. He was quite aggravated to find that the little shit hadn't sliced his tomato for him like Sands had told him to, and he nearly cut his finger off trying to do it himself. Chiclet was going to pay for that. He slapped on the mayo (not the jelly, he was careful to check), and assembled himself a sandwich that Dagwood would have been proud of.
He did put away the veggies and the mayo on his own—didn't do to leave those out in the heat—and paused in the open door of his fridge. He pursed his lips for a moment before deciding that, because he was alone, he could get away with drinking one of the Cokes he kept in stock for Chiclet—as there was nobody to see him demean himself in such a fashion.
He ate his sandwiches in the silence, sipping what was admittedly a very good Coca-Cola—he hadn't had one in a very long time, and he forgotten how nice a cold one could be. Unconsciously, he found himself wondering what Snape was eating. Probably those nasty excuses for grilled cheese he ate all the time. Sands vindictively bit into his very fresh, very good turkey sandwich; he knew for a fact Snape was back to his old ghetto groceries again, and it served him right.
He polished off the last of his crust before moving on to his after-dinner sandwich. He frowned—he'd put too much peanut butter on it, and it was sticking to the roof of his mouth.
Dear God, but he was bored. He hated eating alone; that was all Snape's fault, too. Swallowing the last of his sandwich, he left his plate and glass where they were and marched back out into the living room, irritated but at least mostly sated.
He was just easing back into his chair when he heard the familiar quick knock and then the key rattling in the lock. The door swung open and in popped Chiclet with a hearty, "Hi, Señor!"
Sands raised an eyebrow. "Your good mood had better mean good news," he said, "because you're late."
"I looked around like you said to," Chiclet said, more subdued now. "And I think I might've seen the man you're looking for."
Sands sat up a little straighter. " 'Think?' That's not very definitive," he said flatly. "Get with the program, kid—I need information."
"Well, that's all I've got. I saw a tall man with long hair who was dressed like a mariachi, but he disappeared before I could get a good look at him, and the people started looking at me funny when I tried to follow him, so I stopped and came back."
"Why the hell did that take so long?" Sands demanded.
"I had to pick up something for my mom," Chiclet said, and Sands scowled.
"You're on my payroll, not theirs," he groused. "And don't look at me like that."
Chiclet gave a little snort and went into the kitchen to clean it up from Sands's lunch, and Sands shot him the bird as he went.
Hmm. Tall and long-haired and dressed like a mariachi. The appearance alone wasn't enough to go on, but the way the town seemed to hide him…it was enough.
When Sands was seven years old, he'd stolen his grandmother's cane.
Abigail Sands was a hideous old harpy and was the reason Sands was here in the first place. She'd wanted a grandson to carry her dearly departed husband's name. Fortunately for her, when his grandmother said, "Fuck," her son said, "How hard?" so she got her grandson—and not-so-fortunately for Sands, he'd wound up with the name Sheldon Jeffrey.
Visits to Grandma Abigail were hellish—the old bat was the bitchiest bitch to ever come down Bitch Lane. She wasn't happy unless she was criticizing someone. Her son and daughter-in-law were her favorite targets, but as the namesake of her henpecked old man, Sands was next on the list. Everyone else just rolled over and took it when she laid into them—that's just how she is, they'd say.
Sands didn't care how she was—by the time he was seven, he'd had enough. He'd graduated from the hide-in-the-closet method of dealing with her rants and had moved on to the revenge business. So, after she had presented him with yet another list of reasons of why he was a disgrace to her Sheldon's name, he'd stolen her cane, run up to the third floor, and thrown it out the window. It arced beautifully through the air and landed smack in her prize rosebushes. It had been very funny. Sands still thought it was, but not so much anymore. Not now.
Sands grimaced. This was, perhaps, the most degrading thing he'd ever done in his life—and that included the time he'd been on assignment and posed as part of the entertainment in a strip club. He, Agent Sands, boy wonder, tops in his year, the agent so good the CIA couldn't find anywhere but Mexico to contain him…leaning heavily on a cane, pretending to limp his way down the street, all while hoping said limp distracted people from the real reason he carried the goddamned thing in the first place.
Not funny at all. But he had to do it. Chiclet had been busy today—who the hell did he think he was, making plans when Sands needed him? But Sands couldn't reschedule. So he was, stumping along with a goddamn cane.
And if that wasn't bad enough on his day out without Chiclet, it sounded like he'd already attracted trouble.
Just because he was "obviously" lame didn't mean he was deaf—did they honestly think he couldn't hear them? They sounded like a herd of elephants—giggling elephants. Here they thought they were sneaking up on him—and Sands already knew their position, how many there were, and their intentions. There they were—about ten feet behind him. Three of the little rats, feeling their oats and out to have some fun with the cripple.
Well, they were right about one thing—fun would be had.
They suddenly sped up, closing the distance, and Sands tightened his grip on his cane and pushed his sunglasses farther up his nose. He heard who he assessed to be the ringleader dart right up behind him. Just as Sands took another step, he felt fingers wrap around his cane, and the idiot fucker tried to jerk it right out of his hand.
Sands was ready for him. His fingers clamped down on the handle and he jerked it right back out of his hands in return. The laughter around him faltered, but it hadn't quite died as he whirled where he stood and delivered a very firm (and very professional, he thought) high-kick to in the approximate direction of the shithead's gut. He was pleased to find that he'd underestimated; high-pitched caterwauling filled the air as the heel of Sands's boot connected with his balls. The ringleader went down, and went down hard, and after a moment of shocked silence, his buddies started cursing, advancing angrily on him, but this time with considerably more wariness.
"You stupid fucker!" one of them shouted at him. But Sands just grinned, and before the asshat would have even had time to blink, his gun was out and pointed right between his eyes.
"I'm not the one who was dumb enough to attack an armed man," Sands replied pleasantly. He dropped his gun down and fired a shot at their feet, and he couldn't help but laugh at the sudden sound of their pounding footfalls receding into the distance. Then he frowned; the leader was still there, and now trying to get up. Well, Sands decided, as he was the Robin Hood to his less-than-stalwart Merry Men, the bulk of this educational experience would fall upon him.
Sands strode over and stood directly over him. "Never!" He brought the cane down hard, knobbed end first, and the little punk squealed like a stuck pig. "Underestimate!" He slashed it through the air, cracking him right on the skull. "Your opponent!" He drove the end down hard on the small of his back, and the pussy howled in pain. "You'll regret it," Sands finished, his smile pleasant. "I hope that was informative. Should you need further instruction, I'm always available. Have a nice day." And he left, careful to step heavily on the kid's hand as he left, and walking towards the café to see Marco.
Marco—his new Belini, although that moniker was an insult to the both of them. Sands had dug him up right around the time he'd come across Gracia; Marco had been frequenting the same bar and frequenting the same woman that Sands had at the time (although for entirely different reasons). He wasn't a necessarily ideal replacement for the late Belini—that skunk had been a diamond in the compost heap. Marco was greedier, for one, in terms of denomination, but his love of himself outweighed his love of money, so there were some things that he just wouldn't do. Sands had considered shooting him, and more than once, but as Sands wasn't sitting quite as pretty as he had been when it had been Belini, he held his tongue (and his trigger finger) and would either talk him down or just hand over the money.
Marco was also a lot more paranoid than Belini, and oftentimes arrived at the prearranged coordinates early. Today was no different.
"Ah, sí—allá está," the waitress said when he asked if his party had arrived, and he followed the staccato click of her heels across the room and through the familiar maze of tables, fake-limping his way to Marco, who Sands knew from experience always sat facing the door when he was early, so it was with considerable ill grace that he took the opposite seat.
"Pueco pibil and a tequila with lime?" the waitress asked before Sands could speak, and he smiled sharply up at her.
"Smart girl," he replied, and she clicked away, taking Sands's unused menu with her.
"I thought these meetings were supposed to be on neutral territory, Andrews," Marco said immediately.
"This is neutral—if it weren't, you'd probably be dead," Sands answered pleasantly enough. "Besides, it is in your best interest to meet me at this particular café. When I'm in unfamiliar surroundings, I tend to be less liberal with my cash."
"I could take my business elsewhere," Marco said airily.
"But you won't. Not with the very simple task I have for you, in conjunction with the exceedingly generous compensation that I will provide." He waited until he was positive Marco was listening carefully before leaning forward. "I need names, Marco. Cartel names."
Marco was quiet for a moment, and then said, "If you think I'm gonna go up against the Berguenos for you—"
"Did I ask you go up against anyone?" Sands asked. "That's not what I heard me say. I heard me say that I wanted names. That's all."
"Andrews, I don't cross the cartels," Marco said, sounding more and more suspicious.
"Marco, dear—do take a powder," Sands said, annoyed. "You aren't listening. I don't want to cross anyone—I want to talk. I want to meet with select members of the Bergueño cartel on business." He reached into the bag at his feet and drew out his lunchbox, setting it on the table between them and popping it open to display the contents. "First, you'll get a down payment of five grand—then you give me names, I pay you the balance of fifteen thousand, and then you're gone."
"Yeah—I'm gone, because Bergueno puts me away for good for double-crossing him," he replied, and while he still sounded suspicious, he certainly didn't sound quite as hostile while looking in the face of five thousand smackeroos.
"That's the beauty of it—no one is double-crossing anyone. I really do want to meet these fine upstanding gentlemen on business, in which you are totally uninvolved beyond giving me the names of the gentlemen in question. And you get a total of twenty thousand dollars." He pulled on his cigarette. "So I fail to see what you have to complain about."
"I guess I really don't, not for twenty grand easy money," Marco said.
Sands smiled. "I knew we could come to an understanding. So, here—you take this," he said, pushing the box across the table, and it was snatched up quickly, "And you can meet with me within the week at a location of my choosing, and we'll complete the transaction." He listened to Marco shuffling through his money before abruptly warning him, "Now, don't just take that money and run, Marco—I will find you."
"Hey, have I ever let you down yet?" Marco said, sounding positively jovial now. "I'll just ring your phone when the deal is done. So," he said, leaning forward, "just who are you looking for?"
Sands didn't have a chance to answer just yet; the waitress trotted out, bringing Sands's and Marco's lunch. He thanked her with a charming smile, and he felt her smile back at him. He tasted the puerco pibil, and found it to be excellent. He looked up at Marco, and he felt a smirk tugging the corner of his lips.
It was going to be a very good day.
He may have been a coward and a fink, but Marco was at least reliable. It had taken a week, another meeting, the full twenty grand to get it, but at the end of the day, Sands found himself in possession of two names with phone numbers that Marco had "accidentally" dropped on the table. As such, Sands had quickly established contact with a one Felipe Perez, second cousin to Vincinte Bergueno, and personal secretary Bergueno's second in command and thus with an inside track to the man himself. He wasn't the run-of-the-mill faceless underling—didn't like to get his hands dirty, apparently—but nor was he in a position to order a hit on someone—that someone being Sands. So it was that he felt relatively safe sitting across from this particular gentleman—even unarmed as he was, gauging the risk of not having a gun on him actually lower in this case.
"Hello," he said charmingly, smiling as Perez sat down across from him at the café. Sands was alone this time—Chiclet said he was busy. Again.
"Buenos tardes," Perez replied evenly. "Lovely spot you've chosen to meet."
"I've found the food in this little café to be quite stellar," Sands said. The waiter came around, and Sands jumped in before he could speak. "Puerco pibil and tequila with lime for me," he said quickly, a smile on his face but his voice hard. "And the gentleman across the way is on my bill as well." Sands smiled and gestured towards Perez, who ordered rajas con crema.
"Do you make it a habit to sample the local cuisine?" Perez asked, his voice still formally pleasant.
Sands played along. "The pibil in particular—it's become something of a hobby of mine during my stint in Mexico."
"Among other things?" Perez asked, the phrase a question but his tone most assuredly not.
There was the opening. "Well, in my business, it pays to be intimate with the, ah, local color, as it were," Sands said, before pointedly adding, "I'm sure you can relate."
"Quite, said Perez. "But I'm not entirely sure how I can relate to you. We usually don't receive calls from the US Central Intelligence—if that's really what you are. So I'm sure you can understand my reticence to meet with you. But you claim that this is an arrangement to our mutual advantage?"
"Quite right," Sands said, stubbing out his cigarette before flipping out his badge for Perez's inspection. "I am, in fact, CIA—and believe me, I entirely understand your distrust," he said. "There is no point in pretending—my people don't like your people." Perez hmmed in wry agreement but said nothing. "However," Sands amended, "the higher-ups on my side of the fence tend to regard you as something of a necessary evil. This country needs law, order, and organization—and when the government strikes out, you step up to the plate."
"And your point?" Perez asked dryly.
"My point being that there are instances when it behooves us to work together," Sands replied.
And then the waiter returned with their dinners, and for the moment they were both occupied with their meals. His pibil was as excellent as ever. It seemed it got better every time he came here—if that cook wasn't careful, he was going to wind up dead.
Sands waited for Perez to break the silence; he did not disappoint. "So, am I to understand that you are here to make some sort of arrangement between our respective backers?" he asked, setting down his fork with a clink.
"That's a nice way of putting it," agreed Sands. "Tell me—have you ever heard of a little place called Guitar Town?"
"No, I have not. It sounds made up."
Sands gave him an easy grin. "I thought so, too, until I saw it for myself. On the outside, they do nothing but sell guitars. Guitar makers and guitar sellers and guitar players, just as far as the eye can see. Just a hole-in-the-wall town that the rest of Mexico forgot about." Sands leaned forward. "But it isn't. The whole town is a front. It's nothing but a hideout for half the wanted criminals in Mexico, filled to the brim with, ah, pistoleros."
Perez snorted. "And I suppose next you'll tell me that the legendary Guitar Fighter himself lives there?" he scoffed.
Sands's smile never faltered. "I wouldn't know about that, but what I do know is that when it comes down to it, the CIA likes that nest of snakes even less than it likes your nest of snakes."
Perez calmly answered, "That seems to be your problem rather than mine."
Sands stirred his rice. "Yes, but that's where you would be wrong. When I say wanted criminals, I don't necessarily just mean those wanted by the government—there are a fair handful of fellows wanted by your boys as well. Fellows who would be more than happy to join up with anyone promising them revenge or a cut of your pie—either the government, or one of your competitors." He smiled again. "And all told, there are enough of them to make an army."
Perez was quiet, chewing his food deliberately. Sands followed suit, going back to his pibil and waiting patiently for Perez to speak again. When he finally did, Sands was pleased to hear a note of interest in his voice.
"So what is it, exactly, that you're offering?" he asked bluntly.
Sands kept his grin hidden. "Information. Our intelligence on the town in return for your action against it," he said firmly. "Should your people go in and, say, absorb this town, bring its wayward members into your fold, then you have just strengthened your own position, which is what we want as well—unofficially, of course. Or, on the other hand, should something untoward happen in that neck of the woods, we wouldn't be sorry to hear it, and could see to it that there are no repercussions from the official channels." Now Sands grinned. "It's a win-win situation for both of us. A threat is gone, and the balance is maintained."
Perez had remained silent and still, listening to Sands's words, and he remained so for a moment more before he picked up his fork and went back to his dinner. "You have given me something to think about," he said. "I imagine that there are members of my organization who would be interested in hearing what you have to say—but I am in no position to make any agreements," he added seriously, and Sands nodded graciously.
"Just think it over," said Sands. "You have my number, should you or anyone else in your 'organization' feel the need to contact me."
"I can tell you now that we're not going to take any unnecessary risks. If this 'Guitar Town' of yours is as heavily armed as you say, it is entirely possible that it isn't worth the time or effort."
Sands nodded pleasantly again. "Don't you worry—I'm not asking anyone to make any major sacrifices. We're just trying enjoy a bit of mutualism, here—but just because we may work together doesn't mean that we necessarily have to like each other—or even trust each other."
Perez gave a small snort. "But I think we understand each other," he said, and Sands chuckled in return.
If you only knew.
Dinner was ended quickly afterwards; they both ate quickly and didn't talk much, their limited conversation ranging from such stimulating topics as the weather and the Easter celebrations last weekend.
Perez stood as soon as he was finished, curtly thanked Sands for the meal, and left rather quickly. Sands waited until he was gone, finishing up his pibil, before signaling the waiter for his check and paying and leaving himself.
He wished he knew what time it was—Chiclet may have thrown him to the wolves as far as getting here, but he'd promised that he'd be done with his errands by the time Sands was done and would come pick him up—in his new car, he'd said proudly.
Errands—Sands gave him errands to run—he didn't need any of his own.
Sands felt his way outside, carefully keeping his fingertips on the wrought-iron railing in front of the café, which ended at the corner of the building, and he toed his way across the road to the next building, and he leaned against the stuccoed façade lighting up a smoke to cover up the irritating smell of flowers in this corner of the plaza as he waited for his ride.
He snorted. Waiting for his ride, like a goddamn schoolboy. He was going to have a few words with Chiclet about these "errands" of his. Sands didn't buy him a car just so he could go gallivanting all over Christendom when he was needed here. He could have walked home if he'd brought his cane, but when one was meeting with the cartel, one could show nothing that might be interpreted as weakness.
Sands wasn't weak. Sands was the Grand Master, and all the people his players, and he would set them upon each other, pulled on invisible strings as they danced to his tune.
But Sands found that he was having trouble enjoying such thoughts properly, as the longer he stood there, he realized that he felt the sensation of eyes on him, the prickling between his shoulder blades, and if he listened, he could hear someone nearby breathing.
He turned to face who ever it was with a thin-lipped expression, and when he did, a female voice suddenly spoke up in Spanish, light and chipper and cheery—all traits that he hated in a woman's voice. "Good evening, sir. Would you like to buy some flowers?"
Sands smiled patronizingly at the girl with the flower cart not far from where he stood. "Missy, do I look like the type to buy flowers?" he asked softly, ashing on the ground.
"Well, you never know," she countered pleasantly. "I've had some very unusual customers."
Sands snorted to himself. "Then lemme spell it out for you. No, I don't want to buy any flowers," he said. He leaned heavily back against the building behind him, but felt his back stiffen against his will when he heard a very familiar rasping voice speaking to someone across the square. His face twisted into a scowl, and he pointed that way. "But I bet he wants some—a nice big bouquet of lilies. You should take him some; he'd be so pleased."
He felt the girl following his finger with her eyes. "Oh—you mean Don Greene, señor?" she asked brightly. "He does buy lilies—he's very picky about them, too."
Sands snorted again, this time in contempt. "Now why doesn't that surprise me?" he sneered, tossing his cigarette away. "He probably jerks off with them, the old prune."
"That's no way to speak about Don Greene." The girl's voice was suddenly stern, and it pissed Sands off.
He pursed his lips and glared at her. "I'll speak about Don Greene any way I choose," he snapped.
"Really, sir, Don Greene is—" she started, her voice taking on a lecturing tone, but Sands cut her off.
"I know exactly what Don Greene is—because I know Don Greene. Do you? I don't think so. But I do. So I can call him an old prune or an asshat if I want—because that's what he is."
"How do you know anything about Don Greene?" Now her voice was curious, and vaguely suspicious. Sands sighed, wishing he had eyes to roll.
"How I know him really isn't any of your business, girly-girl—suffice to say that I do. And given just how well I know him, I also know that you are in no position to be contradicting me when it comes to the finer points of his less-than-genial personality." Sands asked, already fishing out another cigarette—he always chain smoked when he was irritated. And once again it was Snape's fault.
"Well, I—okay, so I don't really know him," she admitted, and Sands sniffed in disdain. "But I see him in the square on weekends—every weekend since I've started working here. And I've seen him help a lot of people—and I think he's a good man, even if he is a little grouchy."
"A little grouchy?" Sands repeated incredulously. "Buttercup, that dickweed could out-bitch an entire battalion of Jewish mothers-in-law and still have enough energy left to take on their daughters. What the hell has he ever done for anyone?"
"Oh, just little things—he helps some of the kids who pass through he square, and he made something for Señora Vallejo's arthritis—and there are all the medicines that he sells. They're very reasonably priced, and they always work," she said matter-of-factly, and Sands decided that didn't like her.
"Ah, but there's the kicker, sweetpea," he said, lighting up his smoke. "Priced. You think any of those people got away scot-free? No, they paid. That bastard doesn't offer up anything for free, so don't you go thinking he's some kind of do-gooder." She started to speak again, but he went on over her. "I'm not saying that they paid up front, mind you—but they paid up somehow. That's how he works—no free lunch with Don Greene. You'll pay—you'll always pay. I should know. I did," he muttered, his lip curling.
The girl was silent (as she should be), but Sands didn't have time for her any more, because he heard the sound of very familiar footsteps approaching—Chiclet was here.
"I'm here, Señor—I just had to park up the way," Chiclet said, sounding slightly out of breath but happy. "Hola, Inez," he added to the girl next to Sands.
"Hola, Jesús," she said, back to her bright and cheerful self again. "How are your parents?"
Sands glared at the little shit, heaving himself away from the wall. Chiclet got the message. "Uh, fine—but I gotta go. Buenos tardes, Inez," Chiclet said, scuffing his shoe a little before setting off and walking back the way he came. Sands followed the sound, and settled in stride beside Chiclet.
"Who is that chick?" Sands groused.
"Inez Rosas—she lives a few streets away from us. She's nice—used to watch me and my brothers and sisters when we were younger and my parents were out," Chiclet replied, slowing down and pulling out his keys with a jangle of metal.
"I don't care how nice she is—she's annoying," he said irritably, reaching out a hand to find Chiclet's car, waiting to be let in.
"Well, you didn't have to talk to her—"
"She started it," Sands barked, hauling himself into his seat and slamming his door.
"Well, I like Inez," Chiclet said stubbornly, and Sands's scowl deepened as the Jeep roared to life and they took off in the direction of home. Sands refused to speak to Chiclet for the duration of the relatively sort trip, and the little shit had the nerve to sulk back at him, instead of giving him the satisfaction of trying to talk to him so Sands could snub him.
In the end, Sands did have to speak first, to tell Chiclet to park at the end of the street, and not right in front of his house—just in case someone was watching. They walked down the street in silence; Sands's leg was starting to hurt, goddamnit. And this had been such a good day, too—leave it to end on a sour note, all because Snape had his head up his ass.
Still scowling, Sands let himself in once they reached his door. He heard Chiclet follow him inside, and the kid shut the door and locked it behind them while Sands made his way to his chair, flopping down into it and rubbing his leg with a grimace. Chiclet moved beside him, and his sullen air seemed to be gone. "Can I get you anything, Señor?" he asked, sounding appropriately dutiful.
Sands toyed briefly with the notion of snubbing him now, but the little shit had developed an attitude problem lately, and if he did, the brat might leave in a huff. So Sands simply told him to get him a tequila and to be snappy about it.
Chiclet obeyed—good boy—fetching Sands's golden heaven from the liquor cabinet. He held out his hand and a shot glass was plunked into it, followed by the familiar sound and weight of pouring liquid. "Cheers," he said, amiably enough. "You should have some—puts hair on your chest."
"No thanks, Señor," Chiclet said smilingly, and turned to put the tequila away.
Sands froze, dropping his glass on the floor with a thump—it didn't break, but the contents spilled everywhere.
"Señor!" Chiclet came dashing back, and Sands heard him scoop up the glass, and there it was again.
The faintest whiff of jasmine.
His hand shot out and he grabbed what he knew would be that little shit's arm, and then yanked him down hard. Chiclet came with a yelp, dropping the glass again, and this time it did break, shattering on the floor. Sands leaned a bit closer, inhaling deeply, his nose almost against Chiclet's shirt.
That was most definitely jasmine. Jasmine…motherfucking jasmine…of all things, why did it have to be jasmine?
He tilted his head up to look right at the little son of a bitch. "Since when did you start wearing perfume?" he whispered icily.
He felt Chiclet go stiff in his grasp, his whole body a confession. He tightened his grip, and felt the fucker flinch. "How long, and don't you dare lie to me."
Chiclet kept himself still, his breath a bit shaky, and he hesitantly said, "Four…four months. Her name is Belicia."
Sands didn't give a shit about her name—four months? For four fucking months, he'd been off with some whore when Sands needed him? And that stupid little bastard thought he could've hidden it from him forever?
Well, why not? a nasty, spiteful voice that sounded far too much like Snape hissed snidely at him. It's not like you can watch him.
"And she wears jasmine," Sands sneered, that dull, furious heat burning in the pit of his stomach, his eye sockets prickling maddeningly. "Jasmine. So that's what you've been using my car for, is it?"
He didn't wait for Chiclet to answer before pushing him as hard as he could away from him. He heard the shit stumble and fall, and Sands stood, clenching his hands into fists. "Get out. You get the fuck out of my house." He didn't hear Chiclet move, so he did instead, standing over him. "I said get out!" he shouted down at the floor.
That got him moving. He scrambled to his feet; the door opened and slammed shut, leaving Sands alone. That stink of jasmine lingered oppressively in the air. He could feel himself shaking, and he all but collapsed into his armchair, leaning forward and tentatively reaching under his sunglasses to itch his burning eye sockets.
She had worn jasmine. She had loved the stuff. He'd actually bought her jasmine-scented soap once. He remembered how intoxicating it had been—he'd never been one to be just bowled over by a woman's scent, but on some weird level, hers had done it. He'd liked it—no, he'd loved it. She'd smile a slow, sly smile, lean close, and then suck on his lower lip, and then he'd get a whiff of that seductive scent—that smell, that jasmine, and then she would have him, would always, always have him, even when he thought he had her. She'd thrown a bottle of her jasmine perfume at him the day before he'd handed his ass to her, the smell blooming thickly up from where it shattered and surrounding him, and he'd smelled that same jasmine scent when she'd leaned in close and whispered to him right on the Day of the Dead, smelled it over the smoke and sulfur and blood—his blood—
"You stupid fucking shit," he whispered shakily, grasping his hair tightly. He knew what was going to happen tonight—he knew there would be nightmares. There would be horrible, vivid nightmares, and he would scream—and then Snape would hear it and he'd laugh at him—
Sands slammed his fists down on the arms of his chair. "Fuck!" he bellowed, and in the stillness of the empty room, the returning echo sounded like laughter.