Should Old Acquaintances be Forgot
Disclaimer: I do not own El or Sands or any of the characters in this story.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sands meets up with old friends, and embarks on a new quest
Author's Note: The bathtub scene is directly inspired by one of my all-time favorite Johnny Depp movies. Give yourself points if you can guess which one.
This will be the last update for a few days, until I can get moved into my house and settled in. Look for chapter 13 hopefully on Tuesday. Thanks to everyone who offered me words of encouragement. You guys are the best.
And Happy Birthday, Melody!
****
Walking with his hand on the kid's shoulder was the worst kind of deja vu. Memories were returning to him, things he had forgotten about or not thought of in years.
Is someone following you?
Well, it's a little difficult for me to tell right now because I'm kind of having a bad day.
The burning pain of being shot, and the laughable terrible moment when he had tried to see the wound in his arm, completely forgetting that he had no eyes and would never see again.
This is it, kid.
I don't hear you running.
Oh yes. There was a fiesta going on in the little brick house on Memory Lane, and he was the uninvited guest.
He could feel the muscles bunch and knot in the kid's shoulder as the kid looked behind them, obsessively checking to see if El was following them. And didn't it just feel like the Day of the Dead all over again. Except this time he was not scared, and this time he would not miss.
But El did not come after them. The kid said, "He's gone."
Sands nodded. "Good." He spoke in Spanish, as comfortable with it as he was with English and the other two languages he spoke fluently. He was good with languages, and picked them up easily. He just preferred not to speak them, seeing nothing wrong with good old American English. "Take me to the church."
"La iglesia?" the kid repeated in bewilderment.
"Sí," Sands said. He felt confident in choosing that as his destination. The church was the last place El would go.
The kid led him toward the church. Sands walked beside him, letting the kid be his eyes. As he moved through the unfamiliar streets, he filed away the information his other senses told him. He counted steps, listened to traffic patterns, smelled the aromas coming from various shops, and felt the pavement change beneath his feet from asphalt to dirt and back again. All this happened automatically, in a part of his subconscious mind that no longer needed to be told what to do. Should he need to navigate these streets alone, later on, he would be able to do it with confidence.
The top part of his mind, the thinking part, was busy exulting in El's meltdown.
He had seen it coming ages ago. El was self-destructing, and in rather spectacular style, too.
So okay, maybe he had been a little slow at first to figure out what El was up to. That was all right. Once he had understood the mariachi's motivations, everything had clicked into place. El was in a very dark place now, darker even than the world that he himself inhabited. Except El was trying to get out, whereas Sands had long ago embraced the darkness.
El had used him as a way of trying to escape the darkness. But he had not allowed himself to be used. El had tried to provoke him so he would fight back and give El an excuse to kill him, but he had not played the game. He had remained passive, and so El was still in the dark.
He knew what El was feeling right now. Or rather, not feeling. Although he wasn't sure why it was such a big deal. There were no advantages to being all warm and fuzzy inside. Objectivity and aloofness were much better states of mind to cultivate. They were the traits of a survivor, of someone who played to win.
But apparently El didn't get that. Or wouldn't get it. Either way, the result was the same. So instead of following his original plan and taking his revenge on the mariachi, he had stayed quiet and done nothing, in anticipation of the day when El reached critical mass.
That day was today. There was no doubt about it. El had asked him to kill a fucking kid, for Christ's sake!
And people called him insane.
"We're there," the kid said.
"Oh good," Sands said. "Is he back there?"
The kid looked around. "No."
"Even better. Take me inside."
The kid – whom part of his brain had already dubbed Chiclet – led him up a set of stone steps, and through the double doors. Inside the church it was cool. The air smelled of incense and desperate prayer. It was quiet, too, which was good. He would not have wanted to walk in right in the middle of a Mass.
He sat on a pew near the back. The kid sat beside him.
He wondered about that kid, Chiclet. Still selling gum, four years later. Still willing to help him.
Quieres mas chicle?
An icepick of cold slipped into his heart. When someone asked, "Do you want more gum?" that meant you had already bought some. It meant you were a repeat customer.
He turned toward the kid. "Did you know him?"
"No," Chiclet said. "Yes. I mean, no. He bought some gum from me yesterday. I remembered him."
Sands frowned. El was more messed up than he had thought, if the mariachi had gone to all that trouble to make sure he had the right kid. "How's sales?"
"Señor?"
"You know what I mean," Sands said. "Gum for the stupid tourists, sure. What about your real customers?"
The kid said nothing. Sands shook his head. What a fucked-up country this was, when even kids worked for the cartels selling their product.
"I don't," Chiclet said. "Not yet, at least."
"But you will," Sands said. "When you've proven your salesmanship skills."
"Sí," the kid said miserably.
"Jesus," Sands said.
The kid did not respond. He was probably hanging his head in shame, Sands thought.
Well, there was nothing for it. When he had first taken up his new occupation as a blind gunfighter, he had brought hell to this corner of Mexico, but he had not been back since. Apparently it was time to clean house again.
It pissed him off to think of the kid selling drugs for the cartel. Because the kid was really all right. The kid had saved his life on the Day of the Dead, finding help first from Ramirez and then from a doctor. And the kid had been willing to kill El Mariachi in order to help him yet again. No one had ever done that for him before, stuck their neck out like that for him. Even his own country had abandoned him. So he was oddly touched by the kid's gesture.
"Oh!" the kid said softly.
Sands tensed. He listened hard. A set of footsteps was coming down the aisle toward him, but there was no familiar jingle of chains. "Quien es?"
"Es Jorge," the kid said. "El puede ayudarnos." He can help us.
He frowned. "Jorge Ramirez?"
"Sí."
"Shit," Sands said.
"Well, well," a voice said from his right. Jorge Ramirez, retired FBI agent. "Didn't think I'd ever see you again."
"Some of us are more lucky, I guess," Sands said tightly.
Ramirez huffed. "What are you doing here?"
It occurred to him that Ramirez could be a good source of information. He smiled. "Feel like a little inter-agency cooperation?"
"What do you want?" Ramirez said flatly. He sounded as hostile as he had at the start of their lunch in the café that day, when he had said he was retired and would not go after Barillo.
Of course, they both knew how that had turned out.
He started to speak, but Chiclet beat him to it. The kid spilled everything, starting with El Mariachi's return and ending with the episode in the alley. Twice during the story his voice cracked and tumbled into the deeper registers of an adult, and Sands had to bite his lip hard to keep from grinning. His own adolescence was vague and barely remembered, but he hoped the kid was doing all right. He wondered if acne was a problem here in Mexico.
"El Mariachi," Ramirez said.
"Esta loco," the kid said emphatically.
"Are you all right?" Ramirez asked him.
Silence followed this question, and Sands wondered if the kid was crying. He supposed he ought to have asked if the kid was okay, but it had never occurred to him to wonder. His life was threatened hourly; the novelty of having a gun aimed at him had long ago worn off.
The kid babbled on again, about how scared he had been, how he hadn't thought he could pull the trigger, how surprised he was that he had done it. Sands sat through all this with growing impatience. Listening to the kid, you'd think he was the first one in history to try to shoot someone.
"What has happened to him?" Ramirez asked. "Something has done this to him."
"Or maybe," Sands said brightly, "he was always a few jokers short of a full deck, and no one ever realized it before. I mean, honestly. Who walks around in that outfit all the time?"
Ramirez let out an angry hiss. "I'm sure being in your company for so long had nothing to do with it."
That pissed him off. He was the one who had been beaten up out there in the alley. He was the one had been El's fucking slave for three months. El had been messed up long before they had embarked on their strange and twisted journey.
Surprising him again, the kid came to his defense. "He didn't do anything wrong," Chiclet said. "He wouldn't shoot me, even though El Mariachi hurt him."
Ramirez made a sound that clearly indicated his lack of sympathy for Sands.
"Look," Sands drawled. "Why don't you just tell me what you know about the cartel in this area, and I'll be out of your hair before the day is done? How's that sound?"
It was an offer Ramirez couldn't turn down. He waited for the FBI agent to start talking, but it was Chiclet who responded. The kid turned to him and grabbed his arm. "What if El Mariachi tries to kill me again?"
And whoa, what was this? He actually felt sorry for the kid. There was no mistaking the fear in the boy's voice, or in that panicky grip on his arm. This kid, he thought, had once sat beside him in the back seat of a taxi. The kid had refused to shoot the man following him, but the kid had also given him that man's gunbelts, which he wore to this day.
"El was never going to let you die," he said. He tried hard to keep the usual edge from his voice, and remind himself that he was speaking to a kid. A kid whose voice was changing, but still just a kid. "He told me to kill you because he knew I wouldn't do it. And then he would have an excuse to kill me. And then, because he would still be fucked up in the head, he would have an excuse to kill himself. Savvy?"
The kid's breathing quickened. It sounded like he was about to cry.
Ramirez swore in soft Spanish. "Come on," he said. He patted the arm of the pew.
"Go with him," Sands said. He gave Chiclet a nudge. "He'll keep you safe."
"You too," Ramirez said.
Startled, Sands blurted, "What?"
"You're coming with me," Ramirez said. "I'll tell you what I know, and you can leave first thing in the morning. But tonight, I don't want you two here in town."
"Why, Jorge, I didn't realize you were running a motel up there," Sands smirked. But he was already standing up, pushing the kid ahead of him. The prospect of staying the night in Jorge Ramirez's house was incredibly appealing. Actually, the thought of spending the night anywhere that did not include El Mariachi sounded like heaven right about now.
"Shut up before I change my mind," Ramirez said.
"Ah," Sands said with a grin. "Still feeling guilty over abandoning me to bleed to death, aren't you?"
There was a long silence. Then Ramirez said quietly, "Yes."
Sands did not have an answer to that. So he just put his hand on the kid's shoulder again and let his saviors lead him from the church.
****
Ramirez's house smelled like taco soup. A cheap clock hung on the wall, ticking out the seconds. No carpet, all wood and tile floors. The bedroom where Sands was to stay was not large, but the bed was comfortable and the water in the bathroom was hot. He decided he could have done a lot worse than come here.
So because he owed Ramirez, he told the FBI agent the truth. "The Colombians have a contract out on me."
Jorge was making dinner. Something that smelled good and involved the chopping of many vegetables. The sound of the knife slicing through peppers did not hesitate, but Ramirez sounded wary as he said, "How do you know this?"
"Because two of them tried to kill me a few months ago," Sands said. He sat at the kitchen table, smoking. The kid was watching TV in the living room.
"You are a very wanted man," Ramirez said. "Everywhere I go I hear talk about you."
"Yeah?" Sands exhaled smoke through his nose. He liked the idea of men talking about him, spreading his legend. "What do they say?"
"Oh, you know," Jorge said lightly. "It's all bullshit."
"Bullshit doesn't have Colombian drug lords hunting them down," Sands said. He stubbed his cigarette out on the table.
Evidently Ramirez did not see this, for the tone of his voice did not change. "Sometimes it does."
"So what do you know about the cartel in this area?" Sands asked. He wondered if he could ask Jorge to come with him. The man was a good shot, and a damn good agent. And he was a bit of a legend himself, having captured two high-profile criminals during a stellar career.
"Not as much as you think I do," Jorge said. He dumped vegetables into a skillet, and the sound of sizzling filled the kitchen.
"Liar," Sands said. "Say, did you get a commendation for taking out Barillo?"
"I did," Ramirez said. "Although officially, it never happened."
"I bet," Sands said. The smell of cooking made his stomach growl. For too long he had been grabbing quick meals in cheap restaurants or eating in a stuffy hotel room while El went out and did some reconnaissance. It was nice to be served a home-cooked meal for a change. "What about my lovely little agency?"
"Oh, they sniffed about," Ramirez said. "They didn't look too hard, though. Just long enough to say they couldn't find you. Then they packed up and went back home."
"Assholes." He tapped another cigarette out of the pack and put it between his lips. He raised his lighter and was chagrined to discover his hands were shaking.
Well, why not? It was one thing to suspect his own government had disavowed him, but another altogether to have those suspicions confirmed. He had always known they had hated and feared him, and here was his proof. At a time when they should have done everything they could in order to bring him in and contain him, they had let him twist in the wind.
It would be sweet beyond compare to walk into Langley now and show them all that he was still alive. To hear them stutter and stammer before he put a bullet in their heads. To smell their fear. Yet the idea of returning to the U.S. was just not that appealing. Not even to take his revenge. He wasn't an American, not anymore. But he wasn't a Mexican, either. Hell, he didn't know what he was.
And sitting around on his ass wasn't going to help him figure it out. "So what do you know, Jorge?"
****
The kid stayed through dinner, then Ramirez took him home. Sands took the opportunity to move through the house, learning the layout and position of every piece of furniture. He ran his hands over the spines of the books on their shelves, and tapped out meaningless messages on the computer keyboard. So many avenues of communication in the modern world, and they were all closed to him. All he had left was his guns.
But oh, how they sang.
Ramirez had told him about the cartel presence in Culiacan. They were strong and growing stronger. The largest threat in northern Mexico. They owned the city and the surrounding areas. And they were on high alert.
"I should have come here years ago," he had said over dinner. But he knew the reason he hadn't. Being back here was stifling. On every street corner there were memories waiting to be rediscovered. The ride to the house had nearly undone him. Sitting in the back seat of Jorge's car with the kid beside him had made him pant with remembered fear. This place was not good for him. He needed to get the hell out, and quickly.
He drew a hot bath in the guest bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub while the water poured out. His father had been fond of pithy little sayings, and one of Sheldon Sands Sr.'s favorites had been, "What doesn't kill us makes us stronger." As a kid he had always sneered at the phrase, but now he could see the point it was trying to make. Maybe it was good that he had come back here. He could face his demons and hopefully lay the nightmares to rest. He could go on with his life and not be afraid anymore.
The tub was full. He took off his clothes, then carefully set an ashtray and a glass of tequila on the edge of the tub, within easy reach. He slid into the water, groaning a little as the heat came into contact with the bruises left by El's temper tantrum in the alley.
"Sands?" Jorge was back. The FBI agent's voice got louder as he neared the guestroom.
"In here," Sands called. He walked his fingers along the edge of the tub until he found the glass of tequila, and drank half of it in one swallow.
Ramirez knocked on the door, which he had left ajar. "I have news."
"Yeah?" He set the glass down.
"El Mariachi has left." Ramirez remained outside the bathroom, and his voice was slightly muffled. Which was just as well. Jorge didn't have any bubble bath, and if he had come inside he would have gotten quite an eyeful.
"How do you know?" Sands asked.
"I spoke to a friend, who saw him leave. He was driving a black convertible."
That was El's car, all right. He took another drink of tequila. "When was this?"
"Around four o'clock, my friend said."
"Did you tell the kid?"
"Yes." Ramirez hesitated. "He will not soon forget today."
Sands snorted. "Who would?"
"I just thought you should know." Ramirez walked away.
Sands tipped his head back against the tile. So El had gone. That was good, but the question was, for how long? El had been chasing him for over a year. He found it hard to believe that the mariachi would quit now.
Then again, El's sanity was in doubt these days. Perhaps El had decided it was best to get away from him. He was a bad influence maybe. Sands chuckled to himself. As if psychosis was contagious.
In the end, it didn't matter where El had gone, or why. The important thing was that El was gone. Period. End of story. Now he could get on with his business. There was cartel here that needed to be eliminated. He had a job to do.
Faintly he heard the sound of canned laughter. A TV show. Ramirez was in the living room, watching a lame sitcom. For years he had lived out of motels so cheap the walls were thin enough to hear the TV in the next room, or the arguing, or the sex. But this sound was different, for some reason. This was not some stranger in a strange place. This was a man he knew, in a house where he had received a hot meal and been given a bed to sleep in.
Maybe, he mused, he could make this place his base of operations. He didn't necessarily have to leave at the crack of dawn. It would take time to scout out the area and learn about the cartel and its activities. It would be useful to have this house to come back to. In the morning he would ask Jorge about staying on for a while.
There was no shame in it, he told himself. He was just using Jorge, the way he had always used people. Taking advantage of the situation. After all, it wasn't like he wanted to stay.
No, he didn't want to stay here at all.
******
