6. Casa del Sands

Did I mention that Señor Caliente, in addition to being taller than me, outweighs me by a good few pounds? I drag him out to the Batmobile, which I'm relieved to see, is still A) there, B) intact. I'm loading him into the back seat (and debating the merits of tying his hands in case he comes around), when a boy runs up to the car, exclaiming "Señor, what's wrong?"

What next?

He skids to a stop when he gets a look at my passenger. "That's not Señor Sands! That's his car - and those are his-" He's pointing at the PSCS and glaring at me. "What did you do with Señor Sands?"

"You're that kid who saved his life," I surmise, remembering the story Sands told me about the Day of the Dead and its aftermath. "Manuel, right?"

"Manolo!" He's indignant. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything to him, kid. I'm trying to find him. I found his glasses," -My command of Spanish is NOT up to explaining sonar to an eleven-year old "- and this guy in the plaza back there."

Manolo looks at the unconscious man and back at me. "What are we going to do?"

We? What we? Ain't no we here... It's twilight in Culiacan, and I've been up since before dawn in a time zone where it's now been dark for quite a while. I'm too tired to argue with the little fucker. "Climb in."

I may be tired, but I'm not about to show either one of these jokers where the warehouse is - and besides, Sands's place is closer. "You have any idea who this guy is?" I ask Manolo. This turns out to be a good question; the kid does know, and is only too happy to tell all.

So this is El Mariachi, the angst-ladden crusader of Sands's tale. Sands didn't mention his raw animal magnetism - from which I conclude that Sands is totally straight in that particular respect and doesn't have a clue. Well, if he and Sands are working together, hopefully when he regains consciousness at Casa del Sands it'll clue him in that I'm on their side. Hopefully.

Manolo has a key to the house, which saves me the bother of BE on the Batcave. We haul El Mariachi inside and dump him on the floral sofa. Not much has changed since I was here last, but I see a guitar case propped against the end of the sofa and make a note to check that out later. I ask the kid nicely to find us something to eat. Two reasons: one, it'll keep him busy, and two, I'm freaking starving.

Meanwhile, I prowl through the four-bedroom house, which is a little scary. Going down the hall from the main living area on the right, are: a bathroom, linen closet (empty), clothes closet (ditto), and at the front corner of the house, the master suite. Sands apparently does not regard lightbulbs as an essential on his shopping list. Only one bulb in the overhead fixture works, and it's about 20 watts. Sands's possessions are arranged in a rigid geometry that enables him to find things by touch.

Across the hall, the other three bedrooms are in a row, going back toward the common area. The room directly across from the master suite is - I can only call it an armory. The windows have been bricked over. Sands has a frightening amount of ordinance for a guy who can't see what he's shooting at. The middle bedroom is an impressively stocked infirmary - either that, or Sands plans to perform some serious interrogations. Interestingly, this room is the best-lit in the house, with screw-in fluorescent bulbs. The last bedroom has a reinforced door. The light doesn't come on when I flick the switch. At first, in the twilight that seeps in from the hall, I think it's a guest room, but your standard guest room doesn't have the window bricked in or bolts on the wall. No, this isn't hospitality - it's solitary confinement, Lucifer-style.

Going back to the infirmary, I grab supplies to try and patch up the mariachi. (Sands just called him "El", but the guy's gotta have a real name.) I rinse away as much of the blood as I can. It looks like he literally dodged a bullet - there's a crease slightly above his left temple. When I check his pupils, they're both the same size, which reassures me. He's going to have a helluva headache when he wakes up, but I don't think he's majorly concussed.

Manolo has heated up a can of soup while I busied myself with my patient. (I am not going to think about playing doctor with him, I'm not, I'm not...!) I thank the boy and start spooning it up, realizing I haven't had anything since an early morning bagel...seventeen hours ago, my watch informs me. No wonder my brain is stuck in neutral; my blood sugar is probably down around my ankles.

The kid's English is pretty good. He tells me the señor sent him by bus to the town of guitar makers to find El Mariachi. Bad things are happening in Culiacan, and Señor Sands thinks the big Mexican will help him with the troublemakers. By the sound of it, Manolo has a heavy case of hero-worship for Sands - he doesn't seem to string together more than two sentences without refering to "Señor". He wants to know what "we" are gonna do.

It takes some convincing to make him understand that I need to get some rest and figure out who's behind all this before I can do anything. We. Shit. What do I look like, his damn babysitter? This reminds me of the "techno twink" comment. How the hell did I wind up trying to save the ass of a man who called me a twink with only the help of a guitar player and some prepubescent Sands-wannabe?

"Come back in the morning and we'll make plans," I finally tell Manolo. "Not before eight! Ocho," I add for emphasis. If this little twerp shows up on my doorstep at six a.m., I'm going to waive my usual policy toward noncontracted civilians and pop him so I can go back to sleep.

Once he's disappeared, I try to get ahold of RC. No luck; I get an "out of service" message. Looks like I'm on my own. Next on my agenda: investigate that mysterious guitar case, which, when the latches are released, proves to hold...a shiny black guitar. Surprise, surprise. How mundane. Unless...

Wrapping my hand around its neck, I try to lift it out. It won't budge. I twist the knobs and pegs and nothing happens. I prod the hinges on the back of the case, examine the handle. I shake it; something rattles. Turn it upside down; nope, but it's officially the heaviest freaking guitar I've ever seen. I glare at it. I don't for a minute believe it's simply stuck in the case; exasperated, I bang my fist down on the shining wood, and a spring-latch clicks.

Bingo.