Chapter 8
The Drug House
Disclaimer: Sands and El belong to Robert Rodriguez. I'm only borrowing them for my own sick and twisted amusement. I promise to put them back when I'm done
Rating: A definite R for language and violence.
Summary: All right, time to get messy. Names are exchanged, and Sands and El make their first contact with the Escalante cartel.
Thank you again, to everyone who has reviewed. You all are the best.
****
The house Ajedrez had lived in was situated twenty miles outside Caimanero, less than an hour away from the small town where it had all begun.
The house itself was a monstrosity. All pinkish-gray stone and solid glass walls, it looked like a house a drug lord would give to his daughter. El scowled. It pissed him off that Barillo would stoop to such cliche.
"What is it?" Sands asked.
"It's ugly," El replied curtly.
"So this is another one of those times when I should be glad I can't see?"
"Something like that," El said.
A month ago that comment would have earned El a punch in the mouth. Now Sands just frowned with annoyance. "So how do we get in?" he asked.
The night was warm, lit by a moon nearly three-quarters full. They were crouched down low, hiding among the flowering bushes that lined the stone wall surrounding the estate. When the sun had gone down, they had scaled the wall and dropped lightly onto the ground, using the bushes to cushion their landing. The lack of tight security told El that the person living here now was not terribly important to the cartel, but that mattered little.
After all, you had to start somewhere.
The back of the house was one huge glass wall. El peered through the screen of the bushes. Beyond a kidney-shaped swimming pool was a patio with sleek furniture, then a sliding glass door that let into the house. The ground was open, and provided little cover.
He looked back at Sands and nearly laughed out loud. A drooping branch of the bush behind Sands was resting atop the CIA agent's head, and a single bright red flower lay in his hair, giving him an oddly elegant look.
Abruptly he asked, "What is your name?"
Sands frowned. "What difference does it make?"
"I want to know," El said. He had not thought about it much, since the first time Sands had refused to tell him, but suddenly now it seemed important. What they were about to do could get them both killed. It was stupid to stand on ceremony at this stage of the game.
So he took a deep breath, and told Sands his name.
"How are we going to do this?" Sands asked. He gave no indication that he had heard El's revelation.
El said nothing, but he had no intention of letting it drop.
Because an interesting thing had begun to take shape over the past few weeks. Something was happening to him and Sands. They weren't friends, not by any stretch, but El had begun to think that maybe one day they could be. He would never stop missing Carolina, but he was starting to think he had found something to fill in at least a little of the hole her death had created in his life. He had never had a companion like Sands, never spent so much time before around someone he considered an equal. From the start he had respected Sands, and that respect had only grown over time.
And he thought -- he hoped -- Sands respected him back. That the man shared his feelings on the matter.
But if not, well, the last couple months had certainly been eventful ones. No one could say otherwise.
Sands sighed. "My name is Sheldon Jeffrey Sands," he said. "Happy now?"
El bit his lip, very hard, to keep from laughing.
"And if I ever hear those words coming out of your mouth, I will gut you and leave you in the dirt to die, you savvy?"
"Si, si," El said, grinning, lapsing into his native Spanish in his amusement.
His smile died as he looked back at the house. He and Sands had shared a moment, and broken down a little more of the barriers between them, but now it was time. "I'm going in alone," he said.
"The hell you are," Sands replied.
"Stay here," El said, "and if you hear anything, let me know."
"Yes, through our magical, invisible, two-way radio," Sands said. "That's a great plan, El."
El nodded. He had expected Sands to argue; he would have been disappointed if the agent had not. He drew his gun and screwed the silencer on the muzzle. "I'm doing this alone."
Hatred twisted Sands' face. He knew he was bested; had known it all along. "Fine," he hissed. "Go, then. Fuck off."
Frowning, El crept from the bushes. A month ago he would have left the CIA agent without a moment's hesitation. And if Sands had insisted on coming along he would have knocked the man unconscious and left him behind without a second thought. But now he found himself wanting to stay a little longer, and explain himself. He wanted to say, I don't want you going in there because I don't think you would come back out.
It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. But that didn't stop him from feeling it.
****
The interior of the house was just as eye-poppingly awful as the outside. Glass and chrome winked from every corner, and the furniture was decorated in bright colors that made El think of poisonous flowers.
Two men were sitting at the kitchen table, playing poker and munching on popcorn. El stepped into the kitchen, beside the shiny-bright range, and shot them both before they even knew he was there. He hurried forward and caught one body before it could hit the floor and make noise, but not the other. That man toppled off his chair in a shower of red and blue poker chips.
El froze, still holding the first dead man. He looked around wildly, listening hard, but no one came running into the kitchen to see what all the racket was about. Breathing easier, El laid the body on the floor. He went through both men's pockets and took their wallets, but did not open them up. That could come later.
As quietly as possible, he moved through the empty house. Earlier in the day he had taped down the chains on his pants, but they still made a muffled sound, and he winced with every step.
He encountered no one, until he reached the master bedroom. The door to this room was ajar, and he could hear snoring.
Slowly he began pushing open the door. He would slip inside, press his gun gently to the sleeping person's cheek, and ask his questions. And if the man did not answer correctly, El was going to kill him.
This plan, like most plans El created, fell apart right from the start.
The hinges of the door creaked loudly as it opened, and El cringed at the noise. From in the bedroom, the snoring came to an abrupt halt. "Rico?" said a voice that did not sound at all sleepy.
Cursing to himself, El spun around, back into the hall. He had no sooner done this than a spray of shot embedded itself in the door and doorframe.
El threw himself to the floor, twisting around as he fell, so he was facing the bedroom. He landed on his back. He lay still, holding the gun up, aimed at the dark rectangle of the doorway.
A minute passed, then two. And at last a man appeared in the doorway. He was old and short, and he was armed with a shotgun.
El shot him three times, and watched as the man tumbled down the hall from the force of the bullets hitting his chest.
When he was sure the man was dead, he stood up. He began walking back down the hall.
He had just killed their most promising contact to the cartel. Sands was going to be pissed.
****
He walked out the front door. He wanted to make sure there was no more security, no more men lurking on the premises somewhere.
He moved slowly, keeping close to the house itself. But no one shouted to see him, no one shot at him. Gradually he began to relax. He had gotten away with it. Their link to the cartel was dead and that was bad, but he was still alive, and no one was any the wiser about what had happened here.
He wondered suddenly if he should leave a note on the kitchen table inside the house, propped up among the spilled popcorn and the jokers and kings and tens. Something like, Looking for Bucho. Only this one would say, Looking for Escalante.
He was still trying to make up his mind when he heard something. A quick sound, like a person who wished to shout and yet still remain quiet.
Immediately he dropped to a crouch, his eyes scanning the night. Sands must have heard someone, and this was his way of warning El.
He could see no one. Nodding to himself, he made his way around the side of the house, hugging the ugly stone of the outer wall. The threat must be in back, by the pool and the ugly patio furniture.
From the backyard he heard another cut-off shout. And then he heard voices.
"Shit!" El moved quickly to the back of the house, his gun leading the way. At the corner, he stopped and peered around, into the backyard.
He could see four men. Three of them were armed. The fourth was on his knees, his arms held by two others.
"Donde esta El Mariachi?" one of them asked. El ground his teeth in frustration. He had never really held out any hope that the cartel didn't know it was him, but it still rankled to learn that they knew for sure. Sometimes it seemed like everyone in Mexico knew who he was.
Sands struggled in the grip of the men holding him down. "Fuck you," he snarled.
"If that is the way you want it." The third man slammed the stock of his rifle into Sands' face. Sands' head snapped back, and his sunglasses went flying.
All three men pulled back in horror at the sight of what the glasses had hidden.
El raised his gun, swearing under his breath. Their last secret was out. Before the hour was up, Escalante would know the man traveling with El Mariachi was the CIA agent Barillo was supposed to have killed.
Unless, El realized, he silenced the men before they could spill the secrets they had learned tonight.
The man with the rifle struck Sands again. The two men holding him laughed. Sands stopped struggling and went limp in their grasp. El took careful aim at the man with the rifle, and shot him twice in the back.
The man staggered forward, and bumped into Sands. He collapsed, taking Sands with him. The other two men, suddenly freed of their captive, turned around and brought their weapons to bear.
El spun back around the side of the house. The stone chipped and shattered under the hail of gunfire that came his way.
He looked around quickly, surveying his surroundings. There was a low thorny bush at the corner of the wall, near the front of the house, and a garden hose lay in the grass like a dead snake. There was nothing else.
The shooting stopped in the backyard. The two men were coming for him.
There was a window on the side of the house, a narrow piece of glass that looked into a bathroom. El climbed onto the stone ledge under the window. He glanced up, then tossed his gun onto the roof. He reached up with both hands, balancing precariously on his toes on the ledge, and grabbed the roof eave.
With a groaning heave, he pulled himself up. He got one knee on the roof, and after that it was easier. He rolled onto his side and disappeared out of sight just as the two men came around the corner of the house.
He could hear them talking, urgent whispers in Spanish, trying to figure out where he had gone. El reached for his gun and slowly, without even looking over the edge of the roof, lowered the weapon below the eave.
He closed his eyes, letting the sound of their voices guide him. He bent his arm at the wrist, compensating for the angle he was at, and then fired.
Shouts of pain and alarm rose in the air. He had emptied the clip in the gun before there was any return fire. Pain exploded in his forearm, and he yanked his arm back over the roof.
The shooting from below continued for a moment, but only one gun was firing. He had killed one of them.
Which meant there was one man left. And El was out of ammo. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants and examined his arm. The bullet had gone in and out just above his wrist, tearing out a bloody chunk of his arm with it. Blood ran from the wound, and tears of pain misted his eyes.
Be thankful you didn't peek your head over the roof, he thought. You'd be dead now.
He scampered across the roof, following the incline, using his good hand to aid his climb. At the peak of the roof he paused, listening again. He couldn't hear anything, so he carefully let himself down the front side of the roof, lying flat on his back on the slate and inching downward a little at a time, leaving bloody handprints behind him to mark his progress.
When he neared the edge of the roof at the front of the house, he stopped again. He rolled onto his side, close enough to the edge that he could have peeked over, if he had wanted to. He did not peek. He just waited, and listened.
And there came the footsteps of the last man. He was trying to be quiet, but not very successfully. El was able to tell exactly where he was.
He let himself drop from the roof. The man below heard him coming and whirled around, bringing his gun up, but he was too slow. El had timed his jump perfectly. He collided with the man, and they both plummeted to the ground, El on top and using the man to break his fall.
The man hit the earth hard, and the breath whooshed out of his lungs with a sour smell of beer and spoiled meat. He lay stunned, unable to move as El plucked the gun from his hand.
"Muchas gracias," El said, and shot him.
He hurried around to the back of the house, holding the gun with his left hand, pressing his injured arm against his chest. He wanted Carolina then, wanted her badly. She had always treated his wounds rather roughly, but afterward she had held him, and he had felt safe, no matter where they had been.
No one was moving in the backyard. El went quickly toward the bushes, then stopped. The first man he had shot, the one who had held the rifle, had a knife sticking out from between his shoulder blades.
Sands was lying on his back next to the man, one arm outflung. He had found his sunglasses, but he had not put them on. They dangled uselessly from his fingers. Blood covered the left side of his face and ran into his hair. It was impossible to tell if he was conscious or not, but he was so still El did not believe he was aware of anything.
El threw another glance about, part of him unable to believe that there were no more men out there to kill, then knelt beside the CIA agent. He reached out and gingerly gave Sands a shake.
He had expected Sands to come awake immediately, to strike out at him, even. But Sands did not move.
El sat back on his heels and reconstructed the scene. The man with the knife in his back had fallen forward when El had shot him. Both he and Sands had fallen, and quite probably both had lain there for a while, the entire time El had been in the house, perhaps.
Then the other man had begun to stir. El's shots had not been fatal, and the man had seen Sands. He had attacked. Or maybe he had just coughed, or groaned aloud. Whatever he had done, the sound had woken Sands.
And Sands had killed him.
El shook the CIA agent again. "Get up."
Sands twitched, and made a sound that vaguely resembled speech.
"Get up," El said. "We have to go."
Sands tried to speak again and failed. Instead he held up his right hand, middle finger extended.
El grinned. He gripped Sands' wrist, and after a moment, Sands returned the clasp. El pulled the man into a sitting position. "They're all dead," he said. He paused, then added, "Including the man we came to see.
"But," he said. "I took their wallets, and there is a large desk in the living room, with papers. We may still be able to get the information we want."
Sands was clearly not happy with sitting up. He touched the fingers of one hand to his temple, and groaned. He swayed and nearly fell over, but despite this, he started to pull free of El's grasp.
Although his arm was screaming with pain, El held on for a moment longer. "Are you all right?" He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and started to dab at the blood on Sands' cheek.
The CIA agent hissed and flinched away. "What are you doing?" he slurred.
"You need stitches," El said. "That will scar."
Sands shrugged, and then winced. "Well, gosh, El, it's sweet of you to worry, but I think I'm already as disfigured as I'm going to be."
El sighed. He thrust the handkerchief into Sands' hand. "Keep it."
Sands cocked his head. It was a gesture that, if he had been able to see, would have allowed him to give El a puzzled look. He yanked his hand free. "Why El, I didn't know you cared."
For some reason, that pissed him off. He had been acting out of genuine concern, and Sands had thrown that back at him like it was worthless. "Of course I care," he snapped. "Why wouldn't I?"
"Well, don't," Sands snapped back.
"Huh?" He was too startled to say anything more coherent.
"I said, don't. Don't care."
El just shook his head. He could understand Sands' fierce desire to be independent, but he thought that refusing to accept help when it was offered was nothing short of stupidity. He was as proud as any man, but he had never turned down aid, no matter who had offered it.
"Seeing this side of you is like seeing the softer side of Sears."
El blinked. "I don't know what that means," he said.
Sands sighed. "It means cheap, derivative, and a poor fit. It means, caring doesn't look good on you, so stop it. Just stop it."
El rose to his feet. He stood still as Sands put his sunglasses on, then leaned over and retrieved his knife from the dead man's back.
He stood there, blood raining down from the hole in his arm, while Sands tried to get up and fell back with a frustrated groan.
He stood there, staring at the red flowers on the bushes, and he waited.
He had to wait a long time. By the time Sands finally reached out a hand, El had almost given up on him. He turned around so he could help the man up, and then Sands spoke, in a voice that was no more than a whisper, and called El Mariachi by his name.
****
A Note On Names. First, I just could not bring myself to give El a name. I think Bucho calls him Miguelito at the end of Desperado, but I've never been sure of that, and I'm not about to break with canon by giving him a name he doesn't really have. So I figured it was best to keep it off-camera, so to speak, by not putting his name in the actual dialogue.
As for Sands. . . The first time I saw OUATIM I was almost positive I had heard his name correct, but it seemed too weird to be true. Subsequent viewings confirmed my suspicions. Does everyone agree with this? What amuses me is that the name is so prissy, so not what I would have expected, that I truly wonder if this is something Johnny Depp made up, versus being in the script. I suppose we'll never know, but it's fun to imagine.