25. Going With the Flow

I'm getting two signals from George, one that's the unit responding to a solid object in its vicinity, the other... "Did RC give you something electronic?" I ask him. "Something to wear or carry?"

"Just this." He indicates a small silver tag clipped to his jacket. "It's supposed to help keep Sands from shooting the wrong people."

"Hey, I've never shot you yet," says Sands with mock-indignation.

"I appreciate that," says the Mexican ironically. He strolls up behind me and gently begins to massage my shoulders. I lean back against him, trying not to think about the aches and pains I've been feeling today. Jet lag, a bullet wound, electric shock and the horizonal boogie - all guaranteed to make a gal feel sore if she's a little out of shape. He's nuzzling the back of my neck, and I just want to go limp and purr. When you're as tense and tender as I am right now, a good backrub can be better than sex - although I wouldn't say no to either one, if he was the one suggesting it.

Beating my head against a wall won't do any good. Beating RC's head against a wall might. I can't believe I've been carrying the stinking thing around for six months, unaware. It explains everything. How Sands found me at the cafe and how he knew it was me in El Dorado. That's why he almost shot me Sunday morning at the house - he didn't have the PSCS on.

Taking a hammer to the ornamental key fob is tempting, but thinking about it, I think I'd rather have Sands know it was me than not know. I tuck the keys back into my pocket; I'm safer with them there than in my bag. "I think I've got it all sorted out," I say, and hand Sands the primary unit. Watching him adjusting the unit, I see his whole demeanor change. He's more relaxed - and at the same time, he stands a little taller. "I don't know how you do it," I tell him. "I nearly gave up completing the sonar project, because there's so much input to try to sort out."

"I'm really glad you didn't," he says soberly. "I'm twice as blind, without the gear."

At least he's not trying to pretend it's all his natural ability. He's honest...in his own way. "You've got sonar navigation down to an art." Obnoxious sleaze-weasel though he may be, he's got some good moves. I owe him for taking out Scarface, if nothing else. I may not like him personally, but I can work with him.

"It's not like I have a whole lot of choice, Kate. I can't just take off the unit and open my eyes. All I can do is listen to what it tells me and go with the flow."

I nod and realize again what a dumb reflex that is around him. "I think you were a vampire bat in a past life. It would explain your charming personality."

Sands grins that cocky grin of his. "Yeah, well, charm I've still got. Can't always tell when it's working, but I've still got it."

"Come on," George says to me, firmly. "You need to get some rest." He's right. I'm making inane small talk with Sands; it's time to go. I don't argue with him. I have just enough presence of mind to grab my overnight bag on the way to the door

"Where are you going?" RC asks when we walk out into the bay.

"Kate needs to rest," George says, his arm around me.

My boss gives us the hairy eyeball. "Kate?" I don't say anything. Can't say anything because if I do, I'm liable to go three for three and start crying again. RC must see something in my face. "I suggest you don't go to Sands's place. And that thing is pretty conspicuous." Yeah, the GT350 is a whole lot of car, and the locals probably know it as one of Gomez's rides. "I suggest you take the jeep." It's an admirable attempt at diplomacy - otherwise known as the fine art of letting others have your way. I nod and pull out my keys. That's something else I'd like to make a stink about - the bug on my key ring - but at the moment, I just don't have the energy.

"Maybe you should let me drive," George says, and I'm far gone enough to hand over the keys without protest. He drives us to a cheap rooming house in Culiacan. It's old, but clean, and there's a bed. That's all that matters. He's brought along his guitar case, and as I stretch out, trying to still my mind enough to sleep, he releases the black guitar from its mountings and begins to play softly. He sits on the end of the bed, picking out the notes in the early afternoon light. The guitar isn't just for show: he really can play.

I recognize the tune. "What's that song? You sang it to me in El Dorado."

" 'Estados Unidos Mexicanos'. Our national anthem."

"George Washington," I say, half-asleep. Odd, him knowing about George Washington. After all, Washington was as American as cherry pie. How many famous Mexicans can your average American name? "Pancho Villa," I mumble.

"What?" He looks up from the fretboard, startled.

"Your real name isn't Pancho, is it?"

He laughs. "No."

"Uh, Santa Ana?"

"Sorry, no." He's amused.

They gave us a little Mexican history in Spanish 101, which I admit was about twenty years ago. I tax my char-broiled brain cells to come up with more names. "Juarez?"

He stills. "You know Juarez?"

What do I know about Juarez? He was a great leader. There's a city named after him. And...he wasn't Spanish. His heritage was through the native tribes of the region. He really was a son of Mexico. What was his full name? Not Jorge. I know that isn't right. Then I remember.

He nods when I say it aloud. After a moment, he begins to play again, and I let the music carry me away to dreamland.

Yes, boys and girls, I am going to commit the heresy of giving El Mariachi a real name. Stay tuned.