Chapter 15
A Gathering Storm
Disclaimer: If I said El and Sands were mine, would anyone really notice?
Rating: R for language
Summary: El calls for some backup, and tensions flare between friends.
Author's Note: For everybody who wanted to see Fideo and Lorenzo, this chapter is for you. However, I was in a dark place when I wrote this, so I'm warning you in advance that there's some heavy angst in this chapter.
Also, don't be confused by the chapter number. There is no chapter fourteen. That's the Interlude. I numbered this one fifteen just to keep up with ff.net.
****
The summer passed.
El sold him the house for one dollar. The lawyer from Texas balked at drawing up paperwork over so ludicrous a sale, but in the end he did as he was told. On his second visit Sands had pulled him aside and very quietly told him that he thought El was insane. The best thing to do, he had whispered into the guy's ear, was to play along with whatever El wanted.
Garcia had gulped, and nodded. "Thank you for warning me," he had said.
Sands had patted his shoulder. "Any time."
The money Ramirez left him was placed in several accounts. Every Sunday he made El go into town and buy a newspaper, and then read him the financial news. He told El where to distribute the money, and the calls were made on Monday morning. He was good at making money -- by the end of summer he had nearly doubled the ten thousand dollars.
El marveled at his ability to find money where none had been before. Sands just shrugged. He knew his luck would run out eventually; he had been out of touch with the rest of the world for too long. Sooner or later his knowledge of world markets would be depleted. He just hoped he would have made enough money before that happened.
Money. He had always had it, and being without it made him feel suffocated. Money was essential if you wanted control. Some days the thought of the money he had lost when the CIA froze his bank accounts nearly made him choke. All those years of careful embezzlement, small deposits that no one would notice, watching the money slowly add up… it was all gone.
Thinking about it was enough to send him flying into a rage. But that summer, a strange thing happened. Whenever he felt pissed or scared or depressed or just plain psychotic, he forced himself to hold back. Often this took more effort than it seemed worth, but in the end he always did it. Every time he wanted to release all the anger and pent-up crap building inside him, and fling it at El with all his might, he made himself remember one thing.
El had come back for him.
The mariachi could have left him in Durango, to die a slow death at the hands of men like Boston. But El had come back.
When there had been no reason to, El had come back.
So, with a tremendous effort, Sands kept his cool that summer. He smiled and acted like he was fine, and at night he lay awake in bed, shaking with barely-restrained fury. He dreamed of walking out the back door, into the backyard and beyond -- walking until he had left the house far behind and he was alone and then throwing his head back and screaming until he had no voice left. Some nights the temptation was so strong he had to go sit in the corner until it had passed, and he could smile again without it looking like a silent scream.
El, of course, suspected none of this. Which was just fine with Sands.
The kid came around often. He had a name, but Sands always just called him Chiclet. El didn't think that was very funny, but the kid loved it. He said when he grew up he was going to make people call him Señor Chiclet. Sands approved of goals like this one.
The kid was learning to play the guitar. It amused Sands that the kid wanted to learn from him, not from the great El Mariachi. He had endless fun at El's expense because of this, much to El's annoyance. He never said anything, though, about how much he enjoyed the lessons. Chiclet was the first person in his entire life who had accepted him without question, who had never demanded anything from him. He berated himself for it all the time, but the truth was, he liked hanging out with the kid. The hours he spent with Chiclet were the closest he came to feeling normal during that terrible summer.
One day he let the kid remove his sunglasses. He heard Chiclet start to cry, then a small hand touched his face. He sat still under that innocent touch, even when the kid unknowingly hurt him by coming too close to the sensitive nerve endings which were all that remained of his eyes. He had barely put the sunglasses back on when he was enveloped in a sticky hug. Instinctively he recoiled from the embrace, but when Chiclet backed away and he was alone again, he found himself almost wishing he had returned the hug.
He still refused to show El how to play slide guitar. He suspected El knew how anyway, that the mariachi had taught himself during the year they had been apart. He thought El only asked him to make him feel useful, and that pissed him off. He didn't need anybody's charity, even if it was only over some stupid guitar lessons.
From time to time, then with increasing frequency as the summer wore on, rumors reached them, talk of a subtle shift in power in Mexico. The cartels were waging war among themselves, fighting over the territory that had been ruled first by Barillo and his underling Bucho, and then by Ramon Escalante. Cartel members began to appear in Culiacan. There were mysterious disappearances, shooting deaths.
And then one day, Chiclet showed up with the news that a woman had moved into the village. An American woman.
A blond American woman.
And just like that, everything changed. The calendar said it was late August, but for Sands, that long horrible summer was finally over.
****
The next day El went into town to check things out. He was only gone an hour. When he came back, his step was slow and measured, a sure sign that he was pissed. "It's her," he said.
Sands took a long drag of his cigarette. "What the hell is she doing here?"
"I can bring her in," El offered.
"No," Sands said. He had no idea what Belinda Harrison was up to, but he was going to find out his own way. If she had not attacked them already, she was obviously expecting them to approach her, and he had made it a point in life never to do what was expected of him. "I don't play by anyone else's rules," he said.
For two weeks there was no other word. Harrison lived in the village, and bothered no one. She shopped at the market, ate at the cantina, and went home alone. There were rumors that a man was with her, but no one had seen this man. Even El, who followed her home several times, could see no signs of anyone else at her house.
"I don't like it," the mariachi said. "She knows we are here. Why is she waiting?"
"To keep us off guard," Sands said.
"I should have killed her," El said.
This surprised him. He had long believed it himself, but he had never expected El to agree with him. He had been under the impression that El didn't like to kill unnecessarily.
El sighed. "We will never stop running, will we?"
He thought this one over. He had bought this house knowing full well he would probably never really call it his home. The childhood house in Indiana; the apartments, first in Chicago and then in DC; they all felt a million miles away, places he had never truly visited, except in hazy, half-remembered dreams. He would never have a real home again.
"No," he said.
"Did you know," El said, "I knew an American once. He was a very good friend to me. I thought of him as a brother. He tried to get me to stop chasing after Bucho. He tried to make me see how empty my quest for vengeance was, but I would not listen to him."
Sands said nothing, refraining from uttering the sarcastic comment that had leapt to his tongue the moment El spoke. He had actually heard this story before – several times.
"I will call Lorenzo and Fideo," El said. "If she is laying low in the village this long, she must be planning something. We will need help."
"What?" Sands sat up a little straighter. "You're kidding, right?"
"No," El said, very seriously.
"You actually think your mariachi buddies are going to give a damn about me?"
"I know they won't," El said. He stood up. "But they give a damn about me." He walked into the house, leaving Sands on the porch.
****
The mariachis arrived two days later. El went into town to meet them and bring them back to the house.
Sands was standing on the porch when they arrived. He had planned this very carefully. He was at a distinct disadvantage when it came to meeting people, so he took control of the situation as best he could. Today he stood at the rail, with his back to them, so they could not see his face. Not yet. Let them wonder what he looked like for a little while longer.
He could hear them long before they reached the back porch. One of them wore a jacket with a jangling zipper. The other had a loose heel on one boot, and it clunked when he walked. Sands could have shot them each a dozen times before they even got near him, just based on their clothing alone.
They were talking amongst themselves. Or rather, El was talking.
Sands listened in astonishment. El Mariachi was talking. Not only that, he was laughing. In the time it took for El to walk through the house and step out onto the porch, Sands heard him say more in one breath than in all the time he had known the man.
His hands gripped the porch railing tightly. This was not, after all, unexpected. El had a history with those two mariachis. They had shared experiences and stories. They had known each other for many years. Hell, they had probably gone to Mariachi College together.
Still, a hot dart slipped into his chest, making him scowl fiercely. Christ, was he actually jealous?
He sighed. It would seem that he was. This was just great. This was all he needed. Like he wasn't already nervous and feeling like shit.
The screen door opened. El walked out onto the porch. The two mariachis stopped just behind him.
"That's him?" asked one. He sounded short, dumb, and ugly. He also sounded slightly drunk and smelled of booze. "You took on an entire cartel with him?"
"I knew you were reckless, but holy shit," said the other. This one sounded taller, marginally less dumb, and just as ugly as his buddy.
I do not believe this, said the voice in his head. He had tried so hard over the summer --really he had -- to ignore that voice, but now it was back with a vengeance, forcing him to listen to it. You really are jealous. What the fuck's the matter with you?
He gritted his teeth. So he was jealous. So what?
I give up, said the voice, throwing up its hands in exasperation. You're a lost cause, buddy.
"Fuck you," he whispered under his breath.
El said his name. Not, thankfully, those two most hated syllables in all the English language.
Just, "Sands."
He stood a little straighter – fuck 'em all -- and slowly turned around. Every day he was forced out onto the stage and under the spotlight, so really this was just another performance, but this one was different. This had to be one of his best. Nothing else would satisfy.
He took a slow breath through his nose. Everyone always worried about what he could hear. No one ever stopped to wonder what he could smell, or realized how he used scents to help him understand what was happening around him.
Which was not really surprising, considering that he was surrounded by fuckwits.
"So," he said brightly, "which one of you fine gentlemen has the bottle?"
In the silence that followed, he could practically see their stupid faces agape with astonishment. He smirked a little, and leaned back on the porch railing. "Well?"
"I do," said the dumber mariachi.
"Good. Would you be so kind, as to hold it up?"
"Hold it up?"
"Yes," Sands drawled. "Hold it up. I want to see what you're drinking."
Now the silence was positively charged with stupid bewilderment. Sands grinned, unable to help himself.
The dangling zipper on the mariachi's jacket made a small sound as the man raised his arm.
Chains jingled as El took a prudent step away.
Sands cocked his head. He wanted more than anything to announce what was in that bottle, but he didn't dare. If he didn't get it right, he would ruin everything.
"Wait a minute," said the dumb mariachi, in a tone of slowly dawning realization. "You can't see what I'm drinking. You're blind."
"That's right," Sands said. "I am." He drew his pistol and shot the bottle right out of the mariachi's hand.
Glass shattered. Cheap wine – he knew the label, now that he could smell it better -- sprayed everywhere. The short, dumb mariachi dropped the remains of the bottle and did a funny little jig of terror. The other mariachi cursed quite loudly in Spanish.
El did not move, but Sands knew he was smiling.
"You could have shot my hand off!" shouted the dumb mariachi.
"I could have," Sands agreed, and put his pistol back in its holster.
"Jesus God," said the other mariachi. "What a shot! Were you a sniper?"
The question startled Sands. No one had ever asked him that before. Perhaps this one wasn't a complete fuckwit. "No," he said. "I was too young for Vietnam. But I was top marksman at the Academy. You must be Lorenzo."
"Yeah," Lorenzo said. Clothing rustled and a porch board squeaked underfoot, indicating he had leaned forward to hold his hand out for a shake.
Sands did not shake hands. He turned his head toward the dumb mariachi. "And you are Fideo."
"Wow," said Fideo. "You'll have to show me how you do that."
****
That night he was treated to an impromptu concert. The three mariachis brought out their instruments and played. Chiclet sat in one corner, clapping time and singing random scraps of lyrics.
Sands sat by himself in the doorway to the porch, the screen door propped open behind him. They had asked if he played, and he had said no. He had waited with bated breath for El to deny this, but El had kept his secret. Which was good. If El had talked, he would have been forced to kill the man. So he felt a grudging gratitude to El for keeping quiet.
That pissed him off. He didn't want to be grateful to El for anything.
"Señor Sands." Chiclet tugged on his sleeve, making him jump with surprise. He hadn't even heard the kid come up to him. "Why won't you play?"
"Because I'm not one of them," Sands said in annoyance. He had always hated parties. He didn't like the sweaty clumps of people, the loud music, the bowls of food where everybody put their hands. He much preferred quiet settings, dark corners, and one-on-one conversations where he could control what was being said.
And he had had enough. All summer long he had been nice and sweet and polite, and a man could only take so much. This afternoon, he had reached the end of his patience. He had felt it snap the moment that glass bottle had shattered in Fideo's hand. The voice in his head had been talking non-stop since that moment, driving him crazy, reminding him that he was crazy, and wasn't it high time he did something about it?
"I think you play better than they do," Chiclet said loyally.
Sands sighed. He knew the kid was just trying to make him feel better, but that sort of patent lie just pissed him off even more. "What are you still doing here? It's late. Go fuck off, go on home. Don't you have school tomorrow?"
The kid laughed. "It's Saturday!" He skipped off. His feet left the floor as one of the mariachis caught his hands and swung him around. His childish laughter rose into the night air.
El approached him next, and he scowled. Goddamnit, were they all going to bug him tonight?
"Before we came back here," El said, "we went by Harrison's house. She was at home, sleeping. We saw no one else."
"I don't think there is anyone else," Sands said. Out on the porch, Chiclet and the mariachis were dancing, something involving a lot of stomping around. They were giving him a headache. "She may be spreading that rumor herself, just to make us think there is."
"Tomorrow we will go down to the village again," El said. "We will wait for her to leave, and then we will enter her house. We will find out once and for all what she is hiding, and what her plan is."
"You won't find anything in the house," Sands cautioned. "She's better than that."
"We will know for sure tomorrow," El said. "Will you be all right by yourself?"
"For Christ's sake!" Sands snapped. "I don't need a fucking baby-sitter. Besides, Chiclet will keep me company."
El clapped a hand on his shoulder. Intellectually he knew it was just a friendly gesture, but at the moment it was the worst possible thing El could have done. He had told El time and again not to touch him, but the man never listened. This was the last straw.
Every ugly thought and feeling he had repressed all summer rose up with a wild howl, demanding to be heard. Snarling, he jerked away from El. "Get away from me. Go play another fucking love song to your dead wife."
A long, long silence drew out. Then El said, very coldly, "I am sorry for you."
Incredulous, he stood up so he was toe to toe with the mariachi. "You are sorry for me?" The restless energy that always coincided with his madness came over him, making him practically bounce. He wanted El to hit him, so he would have an excuse to hit back.
"Because you have never known love," El said.
"Oh please!" Sands scoffed. If El was trying to make him feel bad, this was most definitely not the way to do it. "There is no such thing as love. It's a made-up word for a made-up feeling that people sing about in country songs -- or mariachi songs, if you prefer -- and write bad poetry about. And in the end you're left feeling like shit. I mean, look at you." He waved a hand at the mariachi. "You of all people ought to know that. Look what happened to you after Carolina died."
El hit him. He had expected it – hell, he had even wanted it -- but the blow still caught him unprepared. His head snapped to the side, pain flaring in the barely-healed injury to his cheek.
Without hesitating, he hit right back, sending El reeling. He felt the old familiar ache in his knuckles that came from striking someone in the face.
Inside his head, the voice of his madness cheered. Get him! Show him! Show them all!
Out on the porch, the music came to an abrupt halt.
"No!" Chiclet ran forward, placing himself between the two men. He stood with his back to Sands, and despite his rage, Sands could still feel slightly touched that the kid was willing to defend him against a man like El Mariachi.
This did not, however, mean he was any less pissed. "Look at you!" he shouted. "You can't even stand to hear her name! She messed you up, my friend. So don't tell me that love is good. Because I'm not buying it." He paused, then added in a snide tone, "Still dream about her death every night?"
El's voice dripped with fury. "Probably about as often as you dream about losing your eyes."
He gave El a chill smile. "Touché. However, I only dream about that once a week now. I guess you can't say you're as lucky."
"You," El said in disgust, "are a piece of shit."
"Yeah?" He grinned, the arrogant grin that everyone had always hated, the one that hid what he was truly feeling. "Newsflash for you, El. So are you. I'm just the only one of us honest enough to admit it."
He put his hands on the kid's shoulders, pushing him out of the way. "Go home, Chiclet." He turned around to go inside, then paused.
"All of you, get the fuck off my porch," he said. "This is my house. No more parties."
He went inside.
****
Later, El came to him. "I am not going to apologize to you."
He was sitting in the kitchen, smoking. Normally he didn't smoke in the house, but tonight he didn't give a shit.
"Well, good," he snapped. "I'd hate to think we were actually getting along again."
El was silent for a long moment. Then there came the sounds of chair legs being scraped across the floor. El sat down. "Why do you make everything so difficult?" he sighed.
"Oh, is this another session with El Mariachi, premiere psychologist?" he asked. "Shouldn't I lay down on the couch while you ask me about my mother?"
El said nothing. He knew the mariachi was waiting for him to answer the question, so he folded his arms, refusing to speak.
The voice inside, however, wanted to talk. No surprise there. Hell, all it ever did was talk. It's all we have! the voice shouted. We have to do it. There's no other way
Then, quietly, slyly, They don't understand that, but I do.
"It's all I have," he muttered under his breath.
"That is not true," El said.
Shit. He curled his hands into fists hard enough to hurt. He was really going to have to work on not saying things like that out loud. "If you tell me that I have lots of things in my life, but that if I can't see them I really am blind, I'm going to strangle you with your own guitar strings," he threatened.
"But you do," El said.
"Fuck you!" he shouted. "You don't know what I've got! You don't know anything about me!"
"Yes, I do."
"Yeah? What do you know about me?"
"I know that you're scared. I know you're angry. I know you've spent all summer fighting your insanity, and it's killing you."
The utter audacity of this statement took his breath away.
And then it hit him. El had known all along. All this time he had thought he was being so clever, and fooling the mariachi. But El had known.
Abruptly the fires of his rage were doused. He felt very cold all over.
The voice inside said, Listen to him. He's right. You can't beat me. And you know it.
It was true. Lord knew he had tried, all summer long. But some things in life were just not meant to be. And apparently reacquainting himself with sanity was one of them.
Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
He stood up, drawing his gun and aiming it at El's head. "Wrong again, fuckmook. I embrace my insanity." He pulled the trigger.
Footsteps came running from the hall. The swinging door was shoved open. "What the hell...?"
"Go back to sleep," El said. "We are just talking."
"Doesn't look like talking to me," Lorenzo said.
Sands did not move the pistol, but he growled, "You want me to 'just talk' with you?"
Lorenzo left the kitchen.
"Do you want to know how close you came?" El asked. The mariachi sounded a bit breathless, which was good, but not good enough.
His hand began to shake. He didn't need El to tell him. He had moved the gun infinitesimally at the last second; he knew he had missed El by less than an inch.
"You don't know me," he said again. To his horror, the words came out small and petulant, and not at all the resounding declaration he had meant them to be.
El stood up. "Whose fault is that?" he asked. He walked out of the kitchen.
The swinging door flapped back and forth gently. El's jangling footsteps receded, then were gone.
Oh Christ, he was far gone. A year ago he would not have hesitated to shoot El. Hell, even three months ago he probably would have done it. And tonight he had meant to do it. There was no doubt of that. But something had prevented him from doing it. Something he could not even identify, the same something that had battled so unsuccessfully against his madness.
A something that did not want to go quietly.
"Stop it," he whispered. "Just stop it. Both of you. I can't take this anymore."
The voice in his head just laughed nastily.
Sands gripped the gun in both hands and jammed the muzzle under his chin. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely work one finger around the trigger.
Do it! cheered the voice of his madness. Go on, do it! Pull the trigger!
He pushed up, forcing his head back.
Do it, the voice whispered. You know you want to. What are you waiting for?
His finger tightened about the trigger.
In the end, what stopped him wasn't the thought of what Chiclet would do, or what El would say. It was the memory of Fideo saying, "You took on an entire cartel with him?"
Because, by God, the fuckwit was right.
He had destroyed an entire drug cartel, with the help of only one man.
He had done that. No one else.
Slowly his finger uncurled from the trigger.
Come on, you pussy!
"No," he snarled. He jerked the pistol away and laid it on the table.
He began to tremble all over. He slumped forward, bowing his head into his hands.
No way. He was not going to take the coward's way out. Fuck them all. If he was going to go out, it wouldn't be like this. Belinda Harrison was out there. The CIA was out there. Every drug cartel in Mexico was out there. Plenty of chances to die, equal opportunities all around.
He drew in a deep breath, and stood up straight. He reached for the gun, found it, and put it back in its holster.
He walked from the kitchen and turned left, heading for his bedroom. He told himself that he would turn in at the doorway, he would, he was not going to keep walking, out of the house and into the backyard and beyond, he was not.
Of course he was going to stay here, because where else did he have to go?
******
Author's Note: Sorry about this chapter. Like I said above, I was in a dark place when I wrote it. It does raise interesting questions about Sands, however. Can he ever be "cured"? Would he even want to be? I don't really know the answers, and I don't think he does, either.