II.
The door closed, muffling the receding sounds of jangling chains and one spur that rattled, rattled, rattled in counterpoint.
He counted to forty-seven, then counted to forty-seven again and listened hard before bracing his palms against the sagging mattress and pushing himself up. He automatically put up a hand to keep the gauzy bandage around his eyes from slipping, but it had been snugly bound and showed all indications of staying compliantly in place. Just as automatically, his other hand slid beneath his decidedly un-fluffy pillow (something else to suggest to the management) to emerge with one of his guns.
His head only pounded moderately now when he sat up, and it was tolerable. Liberal application of painkillers had helped quite a bit with that (though there were still times he was surprised to find there weren't actually barbed hooks digging into his face). Holding his breath was no longer a necessity, hadn't been for a whole two days, some kind of record there, but the one good thing he'd found out of doing it so often was that it made it easier to listen for returning mariachis.
Which shouldn't be happening too soon. He'd been sure to make his shopping requests quite specific. El had given him a long silence and muttered something unfriendly in Spanish, but El had gone.
Standing, he reached out immediately for the rickety bedside table, keeping his fingers along the chipped edge so as not to knock over the pill bottles and plastic cups. He didn't usually get out on this side, since the rug was here, but following the wall on the other side meant taking the long way around.
Following the table and then following the rug when he ran out of table, he made his way towards the far end of the small room. There was the slightly larger (wasn't saying much) table against the wall, the lone chair, and there behind it (bump against his boot), where he'd heard the other man set it down more than once, was what he sought.
He tucked his gun into his waistband and knelt to pull out the guitar case. He popped the catches, then hesitated, hands on the scratched textured leather (hadn't he read a story once, something about a woman who safeguarded her treasures by keeping a live asp coiled in her jewelry box?—but that was, well, stupid. And anyway, El would have scorpions). There was only the sound of street traffic and the whistle of wind through the slightly propped-open window, so flipping up the lid was easy. Taking hold of the guitar at base and neck, he lifted it out and set it on the seat of the chair.
It was heavier than he'd anticipated, even knowing what was inside. But that was good. A weapon should have some heft, so that it sat just so in your grip, so that you knew it was really there.
He touched the body of the guitar. The varnish was glossy and even. It was cool and not sticky with dust, as everything else in the room appeared to be (everything within reaching distance, that is). He skated his hands over the entire face. No nicks, no lumps in the finish. Three—no, four—faint thin indentations here and there, but they were not unexpected; this was a working instrument, after all. You probably wouldn't even notice them, just by looking.
Of course, he was ahead of "just looking" these days. Far ahead.
It was a well-tended thing, as it should be. After all, it was undoubtedly mostly to blame for why El was still walking around in one piece after all these years. Any self-respecting gunfighter (and he generously conceded El probably qualified) knew to look after his own weapons, if he had any inclination towards living another day. What he was discovering now by touch was only proof. Attentive hands had cared for this guitar, had wiped it down after battle and diligently patched up the combat scratches, had cushioned it against falls and blows and a hundred accidental everyday knocks.
The top felt like a sheet of room-temperature glass (he was tempted to say like ice, but here?). He pressed one palm to the belly of it just below the bridge, very lightly, and wondered what it would look like if it were made of glass, unbroken and offering no handholds, no latches, a featureless indifferent window. Let me in.
Oh, who was he kidding? This thing had a latch. He found the edge, there (no cracks in the glue seams either) and, just like the rumors all said, with a little pressure eased up the top. After an initial snick, it rose silently and effortlessly on what had to be well-oiled hinges.
Now, this next part was the part the rumors weren't clear on. Probably because there were no survivors to tell the stories.
The familiar scent of gun oil floated out. Of powder, too. Well, at least it didn't sound like anything was alive in there.
He reached in, sliding his fingers cautiously down the width of the rib, and encountered the smooth nap of velvet an instant before touching the business end of a cartridge. The metal was cold and matte, the bullet narrow-tipped, its case long. He found the stiff strip of leather that held it in place against the side, next to all its brethren. Rifle loads, for the guitar itself, no doubt. Belini had mentioned it, gleefully passed along the speculation, the first time (the penultimate time) they'd met. Sands knew about the mariachi's handguns, since those rarely left the mariachi, but he had yet to see the rifle in action.
Not that he would ever see the rifle in action, fuck you all and your little doctor, too. Especially your little doctor, actually, and with several repeat performances if time permitted.
He unclenched his hands and took a breath (see, he had it down cold now) and ran them along the curve of the side, discovering more little line-ups of cartridges. There were a few spent casings scattered among them, their empty necks leaving faint circles on the pads of his fingers. The inside of the back was mostly an uninterrupted stretch of velvet with some empty straps, though he easily found the shallow depressions in the fabric that showed heavy objects had rested there. He traced the outlines, the ridges and dips. Intaglio of Two Guns, In Velvet, Avec Guitar.
He continued exploring. When he reached the inside of the top, he jerked his hand back almost before he felt the sting.
"Shit!" He had what seemed to be a shallow cut on the side of his index finger. Okay, so maybe El didn't need scorpions, if the guy digging through his weapons cache was doing it in the dark.
He considered a moment, then located one of the empty casings and pulled it from its loop. He probed the inside of the lid with it, feeling it rasp as he dragged it against the nap of the fabric until it stopped, hearing metal clink against metal.
Aha. He followed the outline as best he could around more leather strips, but he didn't have to go far to figure out the shape of the knife. The thin blade was broad and tapering and symmetrical, the hilt shaped like a short cross, the entire thing about six or seven inches long. There were several identical ones strapped beside it. Oh, right, Belini again.
Carolina.
He bared his teeth in a soundless snarl, only just remembering to return the casing to its loop before snapping closed the face of the guitar.
Shit. A polished wooden shell, a velvet lining, a lid that swung open. This wasn't a guitar.
It was a fucking coffin.
He wanted to drop the thing back into its leather case and make sure the locks were good and tight. Or else just drop the thing and listen to it smash merrily on the floorboards. His next step then would be to throw himself right out the window, because there was no way El would let him out of this room alive.
He grabbed for the neck, and let go immediately at the tiny, muted sound that resulted. For a long moment, he did not move.
Then he reached forward, and set his fingers on the steel strings again. He did not pluck them.
He counted them, one two three four five six, thinner to thicker as he pulled his hand back towards himself. Touched the wood between them, found the frets and, if he concentrated, the small rounds of mother-of-pearl that labeled them, set flush with the surface.
How hard could he push on the strings, without sounding them? He pressed them with the tips of his fingers (they pressed back), swept his way slowly down the neck, feeling the spaces between them widen ever so slightly as he continued. You would need calluses to play properly. El knew these strings, could play them properly, did play them properly. He was only brushing his way along them in silent echo.
At the edge of the abyss that was the soundhole, he hesitated.
Then he reversed direction, back towards the headstock. He found the metal tuning pegs, and counted those too, just because he could.
He fitted his fingers around the flat head of one peg. If he turned it one way, and kept turning, the string would eventually begin to sag, like the business assets of a whore who didn't know she was past her prime. And if he thought that was too dull, and turned it the other way, it would simply snap. Robin Hood would have to get a whole new bowstring.
He had a sudden urge to turn all six pegs just a little, a different randomly-chosen amount for each one. Not enough to be visible, because sometimes subtlety was key. Just enough to make El sit up and take notice, and maybe frown in puzzlement over why his beloved instrument was so mysteriously oddly out of tune. Just enough to say, Sands was here.
The sudden thud of footsteps (jangle and rattle) on the stairs brought his head up swiftly. He nudged the case lightly with his knee (he had been careful not to move it from its spot), deposited the guitar back in it, flipped the catches and scrambled back towards the bed. (If an agent stumbles slightly on the edge of a rug and no one is there to see it, did it really happen?)
The lock was turning even as he stretched himself out on the mattress. The door scraped open, then closed, and over the rustle of several plastic bags, El growled, "I found your cigarettes."
"Gee, thanks, El. You're a real pal, did I ever tell you that?"
He winced a little as he sank back onto the rock-hard pillow. He tried to look on the bright side: at least it wasn't too fluffy, thus saving him the effort and the expense. Ammunition didn't just grow on trees, you know.