Chapter 13
Learning
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns El and Sands. That means I do not.
Rating: R for language, not-so-much implied sexual situations, and darker themes
Summary: El learns, and the boys play.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to Gloria for the information on gambling in Mexico. I was originally going to go one way with this chapter and the next, but the information she provided allowed me to go another way – and in the end I think the story is better for it.
And I've been terrible for not thanking my beta reader, Melody, for her help with the past few chapters. And also for making me sit down and finally watch Dead Man, which nearly gave me a heart attack. There ought to be a law against men looking so damn beautiful. I think all of Johnny Depp's movies should be filmed in black and white with lots of close-ups. Wow.
Finally, some people thought the previous chapter was the end of this story. I can say for certainty that I have no idea when the ending will be. I honestly have no idea where this story is going, or how long it will take to get there. But when it does end, you will all know for sure, trust me.
****
So they were together now. But being with Sands, El quickly learned, came with its own set of rules. Rules he had to follow.
Rule number one, above all others, was that nothing happened without Sands willing it. No sex, no kissing, no touching. No nothing. If Sands said no – which he did fairly often – he meant no. He was not being coy or seductive or funny. He was deadly serious. And if El broke the rules, then El would be punished. Usually this meant a punch in the nose, but one time it meant a pistol digging into his crotch, and after that El respected the rule.
Rule number two was just as ironclad as rule number one. No matter how much he might ask, beg, or cajole, El would never get to be the giver in their relationship. Mostly he did not mind this, but he did wish sometimes that they could switch positions, for variety if nothing else. But Sands was adamant, and El did not push too hard. He suspected this rule was one that would never be broken, even if they were to spend the next fifty years together.
Rule number three was no talking. He was allowed to ask, "Do you like that?" and "Should I stop?" but nothing more. No names. No endearments. No, "Are you all right?" And never, never, "What are you thinking?"
Rule number four was really only an adjunct to rule number three. They did not talk about it outside of the bedroom. No references to "last night." No hints of "later tonight." No nothing.
Rule number five was related to rules three and four. They simply did not talk about anything at all – nothing important, anyway. Sands might choose to speak of something, as he had when they had revisited the ranchhouse in Durango, or when he had so casually mentioned the genesis of his insanity, but that was his choice, and his alone. El's job was just to listen, and be grateful to hear the words. And with every shared confidence, he felt new hope that Sands was learning to trust him more, that they might indeed have a future together.
Rule number six was one El found out the hard way, and it was very simple: When it came to dealing with Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, there were no rules.
****
They decided one afternoon to go to an ancient Indian temple. The ruins were little more than a tourist attraction, but El wanted to go. They were far south in Mexico now, near the Guatemalan border. They were staying in a small village, and a bus left twice a day on the trip to the ruins.
The temple was just as amazing as El had anticipated. He spent hours exploring it, listening to the tour guide, imagining the people who had once walked these halls. Sands walked at his side, incredibly bored, but he held his tongue, allowing El the chance to visit history. Once El caught him running his hand over the rough stone of the temple wall, a strange expression on his face, but he did not say anything, and El did not ask what he was thinking.
The bus left the ruins in late afternoon. It was crowded, a mix of Mexicans, Americans, and other tourists. The bus was not air conditioned and even with the windows down, very little air came inside. Children were hot and cranky; the adults fanned themselves with their hands or tour programs.
Sands sat beside the open window, a tight expression of annoyance on his face. "Christ, why did I let you talk me into this?"
I don't know, El thought. He had made the suggestion last night, but without much hope. He had been surprised when Sands had agreed.
A man, his wife, and two children were crammed into the seat across the aisle. One of the little boys was asleep on his mother's lap, but the older one was restless and irritable. He slithered out of his father's arms and ran up the aisle. He slid to a halt a few rows ahead, then turned around and came skipping back. When he neared his parents, he slowed down, and looked up at El.
El smiled at him. The boy stared at him through huge dark eyes, then smiled a gap-toothed smile.
The father's arm shot out and he grabbed his son's arm. "Get back here," he commanded in a Spanish dialect very different from El's native speech.
"I want to see," the boy said.
"Don't run around. Get up here. Sit on my lap," the father said wearily. He pulled his son toward him.
"No! I don't want to," whined the boy.
"I said, get up here!" snapped the father. He hauled his child onto his legs and leaned back in the seat, sweat trickling down his face.
The boy began to cry, angry at not being able to roam about as he willed.
Amused by this scene of domestic harmony, El turned toward Sands. He had the sudden urge to talk about his daughter, who had quite often worn the same expression of mulish stubbornness as the boy across the aisle.
What he saw wiped the smile off his face in a hurry. Sands looked as pale and shaky as he had on the morning the cartel had found them.
El glanced over his shoulder at the father and son still arguing, replayed their last words in his head, and felt sick. Oh shit.
"It's all right," he said quickly. "The boy is all right."
Sands did not hear him. A sound escaped him, a small whimper.
"Fuck," El breathed. He looked around quickly at the bus full of people. If Sands freaked out now, every single damn one of them would be back here, gawking and pointing and whispering to each other. He could not bear the thought.
Sands flinched. "Please," he whispered. "I don't want to." He made that small sound again, and began to rock back and forth.
El held a fierce debate with himself. He wanted to take Sands in his arms, but he feared that if he did, Sands would become loud and violent. But if he did nothing, soon other people on the bus would realize what was happening, and the crowd would begin to gather.
With a whispered prayer, El gathered Sands in his arms. Sands did not acknowledge him. He just pressed one hand to his mouth, trying to silence the thin, high-pitched cries he was making.
El's blood went cold. Sands was not just remembering an episode from his past. He was reliving it.
"It's all right," he soothed. He pressed Sands' head to his shoulder, rocking with him. "It's all right. I'm here."
None of this made the slightest impression on Sands. He was lost in his own mind, completely unaware of El's presence, or even who he was.
El closed his eyes. "Just hold on," he breathed. "It'll be over soon. I promise." He spoke not to the man in his arms, but to the frightened, hurt child Sands had become.
He had never asked and Sands had never said, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sands had killed his uncle. And he was glad, so glad of it, but at that moment, El almost wished the man was still alive. So he could hold him down, while Sands killed him again. Slowly. Painfully. Starting with castration.
After a few minutes Sands abruptly went limp in his arms. His hand dropped to his lap. His head lay on El's shoulder, the frame of his sunglasses digging into El's collarbone. The occasional shudder worked through him, but otherwise he was silent and still.
El did not know what to say. He wasn't even sure Sands was entirely with him again.
The bus bounced its way back to the village. Across the aisle, the boy dozed in his father's arms. When they arrived, El pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Sands' head. "We're here."
Sands stirred, moving in such a way that El knew he had been almost asleep. This cheered him slightly. If Sands trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms, even after such a horrible incident, then there was hope for him yet.
Sweaty tourists squeezed down the aisles, getting off the bus. El stayed right where he was, waiting.
Sands sat up, moving out of the circle of El's arms. "I haven't done that in a long time," he murmured. "Did I scream?"
"No," El whispered. He did not trust himself to say more, or speak any louder.
"Good." Sands sighed. "Mind if we stay in tonight? Suddenly I don't feel like dinner." He tried to smile, and the sight of that brave attempt made El feel like crying.
"We can stay in," he said.
"Thank you," Sands said, and although El tried later to recall for sure, he felt pretty certain that was the first time ever Sands had said those words to him, and meant them.
****
They spent two days in their hotel room in that little village. Most of this time was spent talking.
Specifically, with El talking.
He talked about his childhood, his parents, his father the mariachi. He talked about his first guitar, and learning to play it. He talked – with reluctance – about Cesar, the older brother who had grown up to be a drug lord.
He wasn't sure why he talked so much during those two days. It wasn't like Sands asked him to, or even showed any curiosity over his words. But he had to fill the silence of the hours with something, and playing music seemed vulgar, after what had happened, so he used speech instead.
And on the evening of the second day, he was rewarded by Sands saying, "Sounds like a pretty nice life, El."
He chose to ignore the sarcasm. "It was," he said.
"And look where you ended up," Sands said bitterly. "You're a killer on the run from every drug cartel in Mexico, stuck with a blind, crazy American as your roommate and fuckbuddy. Some life you got there."
It was like Sands had just punched him in the gut. "That's not--" he started feebly.
"Not true? No? You sure about that? Because I think the reason you wanted to leave Culiacan wasn't because you were haunted by Fideo's face. I think you wanted to leave because you knew damn well that the cartel would be back, and this time they wouldn't just send a little group of guys. This time every last one of them would be coming."
El just looked at him. He knew Sands was right about the cartel, but, "That isn't what I was going to say."
"Oh," Sands said, his voice heavy with comprehension.
"I do not think of you that way," El said. "And I think you know it. But you can't understand why I wouldn't think that, so you mock me."
Sands shook his head. "Ah, there he is, Mexico's premiere psychologist. I had started to wonder if you had sent him packing."
El did not respond to that. He was too busy trying to figure out just what he felt for Sands.
It was not love, he knew that. What he felt for Sands was nothing at all like what he had felt for Carolina. But that did not make it any less real.
So what was it then?
****
At the end of February and beginning of March they stayed for two weeks in Vera Cruz. When they left, they headed for a small town that had little to recommend it except proximity to the beach and a wide range of good hotels. They checked into their hotel and ate in the restaurant off the lobby. At sunset they sat on the balcony of their room, smoking.
"Why are we here?" El asked.
"All in good time," Sands said. The sinking sun reflected in his wraparound sunglasses. "First, I have a question for you."
"What is it?" El said.
"Why did you come back to Ramirez's house, after you knew I was there? Why did you take me with you?" Sands turned to him. "And be honest."
"I don't know," El said. Before Sands could protest he added hurriedly, "And that is the truth. Up until the day we met Escalante, I asked myself why I did it. I never found an answer."
"Why didn't you just kill me?" Sands asked.
"Because that is not who I am," El said. "I do not kill for no reason."
"I gave you plenty of reasons," Sands pointed out.
"Maybe I felt sorry for you," El said. "Even after all you had done, you did not deserve what happened to you."
Sands scowled and flipped him off. El shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. "You wanted me to be honest."
"And you've been most helpful," Sands said sarcastically.
"What were you expecting me to say?" he asked, genuinely wanting to know. The early days of their relationship had been so dangerous, so violent, that he was curious to know what Sands had really thought.
"I already told you. I thought you were going to turn me in to the cartel. It's what I would have done, if the roles had been reversed."
"No," El said. "I have no business with any cartel."
"Unless it involves lots of guns," Sands grinned.
"Well that is different," El said lightly.
"Sure, sure," Sands said. He dropped his cigarette butt off the balcony and stood up. "Come on, let's go."
"Where are we going?" El asked.
"You wanted to know why we came here," Sands said. "I'm going to show you."
El stood up. "You've been here before," he said. He should have realized it earlier. Since they had left Culiacan Sands had shown little interest in their destination. This town was the first he had specifically named, and requested they visit.
"Mexico was my beat," Sands said with a shrug. "And I walked it. Every dusty mile of it."
"How long were you here?" El asked. "Before the coup."
"Let's see," Sands said, thinking about it. "Two...no...three years, I think. Yeah, that sounds about right."
"Where were you before Mexico?" El asked. Until tonight he had never dared ask Sands a direct question about the past. He wondered just how far he would be allowed to go.
"Oh, I can't tell you that," Sands drawled. "Well, I could, but then I'd have to kill you. Don't you know a CIA agent is supposed to be a ghost? Invisible. No one is supposed to know he was ever there."
El thought about that big cowboy hat Sands had worn in the cantina on the day they had first met, and reflected that here was someone who didn't know how to be invisible. "You're not CIA anymore," he pointed out.
Immediately he wished he hadn't. When he had been packing Sands' things on the morning of the "kidnapping," he had found the agent's CIA badge. It had been laying on the bottom of a dresser drawer, looking far more battered than El remembered it, but still intact. He had stolen a quick glance at the closed bathroom door, wondering how much longer he had before Sands came out, knowing he should leave. But he had ignored all the warnings in his head and opened the badge so he could stare at the photo again. It fascinated him. Over and over he was drawn to the cold stare in Sands' eyes.
The man in that picture had had no concept of compassion. He had not known honesty, or kindness, or love. Looking at him had been like looking at a stranger who just happened to have the same name as the man El now shared a house with.
He had put the badge away, but he had been secretly pleased to have found it. As long as it remained in the drawer, he would be able to look at it again.
"That's not true," Sands said now, bringing El's mind back to the present. "You never stop being a spook. Jorge would have told you. He shadowed his man Billy Chambers all by himself, muttering away the whole time like he was wired up to a group of feds behind him. Old habits die hard, El my dear friend."
But they do die, El thought. And thank God for that.
"Okay," Sands said. "You ready to find out why I brought you here?"
El nodded. "Tell me."
"How much money you got on you?" Sands asked.
El frowned. "Why?" Money was not an object – the dividends from Sands' careful investing still rolled in like clockwork every month – but he had no intention of wasting any of it.
"Because we're going gambling," Sands smiled.
"What?" El frowned. Gambling was illegal in Mexico, as it was in the United States. A man could bet on horse races or football games, but that was about it.
"Casino del Suerte," Sands said. "The Lucky Casino. Right here, in this town. Bet you didn't know that, did you?"
Suddenly the fact that this small town had many nice hotels made a lot more sense.
"It's beneath the nightclub," Sands said. "Very illegal, of course. Very black market. You can buy anything you want there. Booze, drugs, guns, people." He smirked. "Or so they say. Myself, I never bought anything except information."
"People?" El repeated faintly.
"That's what they say," Sands said. He passed through the double doors leading out onto the balcony and went back into the hotel room. "I think it's time we found out."
He turned to face El. "You feeling lucky tonight?"
****
To gain access to the casino, you had to pay the bartender at the nightclub. Then you had to pay the bouncer who came to escort you there. You followed him into a back room, through a curtain, down an unlit hall, and down a flight of stairs Then you had to pay the even bigger bouncer at the metal door at the bottom of the stairs.
Then he opened the door, and you were in.
The casino was big, and it was loud. The nightclub above had been crowded, but there was easily twice the number of people in here, El saw. They packed the gaming tables, stood around slot machines, and wove their way through the narrow aisles with drinks in hand.
Waitresses in short skirts and low-cut blouses carried trays of drinks over their heads. Cigarette smoke hung in a haze just below the ceiling, dimming the lighting in the room. The chime of the slots mingled with the calls of the dealers and the groans of the losers at the tables. In the corners, and at strategic positions scattered throughout the room, there stood men in sunglasses and dark suits.
"You ever been to Las Vegas, El?" Sands asked.
El shook his head. "No."
Sands grinned. "Then you're going to have a blast here."
****
El exchanged money for chips, and he and Sands approached one of the blackjack tables. Five other people were playing, three men and two women. Every one of them had a drink, and several empty glasses littered the table.
The dealer was an old fellow, short and very dark. "You in or out?" he asked in Spanish.
Sands sat and immediately plunked down two chips, joining the game. "Oh, I'm very in," he said in English.
El shook his head. There was one empty chair left, and he sat next to Sands.
As he handed out the top cards, the dealer muttered each number aloud. "Seis, cuatro, nueve, diez, rey." But he did not speak of his own card.
The dealer went around the table a second time, glaring at each player to ask if they wished to hit or stand. When it came Sands' turn, El reached under the table and poked his leg.
Sands had been dealt a six. The second card was the Queen of Diamonds. The dealer frowned.
Sands made a sharp brush-off motion with his hand. Stand.
The dealer had a four. The next card was a Jack of Spades. Followed by an eight. Bust.
Two chips were shoved toward Sands, joining the two he had bet. The agent smiled. "It's gonna be a good night," he said.
On the second round, El thought of an ingenious solution to the dealer's silence over his own card. When the man turned it over, he reached out under the table and traced a seven on Sands' thigh.
Sands jumped, but he recognized immediately what El was doing. When it came his turn, he split his two tens into two bets. The dealer turned over a king for his own second card. House rules said he had to hit on seventeen. The third card was a five. Bust. Sands won with two hands of nineteen.
El chuckled. "You're doing well, my friend."
"What did I tell you?" Sands said in a low voice. "I play to win."
****
Three hours later El had to admit that Sands sure knew how to play the game. They were two thousand pesos richer than when they had walked in the door, and Sands showed no sign of stopping.
Oh, he had stopped, a few times. Twice he had gotten up from the gaming table without any warning, just gathering up his chips and walking away. To El's questioning look he had said, "Know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em. Kenny Rogers. You'd love him, El."
During these breaks they went to the bar and drank. The sheer number of people in the room and the narrow aisles meant Sands could walk with one hand on El's arm, without it looking like he needed the assistance. When they had slaked their thirst, they would return to the main floor, and find a new table to sit at.
Every dealer was different. This latest one did not announce the number of the cards as he dealt. So when Sands got his card, El traced the number on his leg with one finger. When the dealer turned over his card, El used two fingers.
The rest of the time, he just watched. That sense of repeating history was with him again, stronger this time. He was enrapt all over again, perfectly happy just to sit and watch Sands. The quick tapping motion on the table when he signaled the dealer to deal him another card. The sidewise gesture to stand. The way he held the chips, lightly, almost reverently. His short smiles when he won, and the equally brief frowns when he lost.
He would have thought Sands' concentration would have suffered from the alcohol he had drunk, but the agent was as sharp as ever. He lost a few more hands at this table, since he was not able to see what cards the other players had, and the dealer did not announce the numbers, but he was betting big, and his wins more than made up for the losses. It was not long before El realized they were being watched.
He leaned in. "We are attracting attention," he whispered. "The wrong kind."
Sands grinned humorlessly. "Really?"
"We should stop now," El said. He had no grievance with the casino. He had no desire for any trouble. They were both unarmed, but the casino employees wore pistols in plain view.
"All right," Sands said. "Go cash in." He pushed his chair back from the table.
El gathered the chips, stood up and turned to go. He was abruptly stopped when Sands grabbed his arm. "El."
"What?"
"How much is there?"
He made a quick count. "Three thousand pesos."
Sands smiled. "You want to know what the real victory is tonight?"
El knew. But he asked anyway. "What is it?"
"Not one of these fuckers knows I'm blind."
El smiled. "I know."
He walked down the narrow aisle, the pile of chips held carefully in his cupped hands. They were mostly black and pink chips, 100 peso denominations, but there were a few other colors thrown into the mix as well. They were almost pretty, all nestled together in his hands.
The man at the cash window was slow, impervious to the insults of the people lined up waiting for their money. When it came El's turn, he barely glanced at the mariachi, then began counting.
El looked around for Sands. The agent was still sitting at the table, finishing his drink.
"Señor?"
El turned around. Out of reflex his right hand darted downward, seeking a gun that wasn't there.
Two casino employees stood in front of him. They looked at him dispassionately. "Señor, when you have cashed in, would you mind coming with us?"
El glanced up again at Sands. Two more suits were walking toward him. And Sands, unable to see the danger, was completely oblivious.
The man at the cash window thrust a stack of bills at El. "Good night," he mumbled.
One of the suits took the money. "You can have this when we're done," he said. "Now, would you mind stepping this way, Señor?"
El thought fast. He could make one hell of a disturbance in a place like this. Even one overturned table would create a glorious chaos. People would grab for their chips, dealers would rush to protect the cards and the money, and in the resulting melee, it would be relatively easy for two men to sneak out the door.
The problem was, there was a good chance he would be shot before he could instigate that chaos.
A damn good chance.
Seeing no other choice, El shrugged. "Whatever you say."
He pivoted on his left foot, lunging toward the nearest table, his hands already reaching out to seize it and flip it over.
He had barely begun the turn when something struck the back of his head. Bright lights sparked in his vision, and then everything went black.
******
Author's Note: I went to Vegas once. Gambled away all my vacation money in one night at a blackjack table in Caesar's Palace. And I loved every minute of it.