14. / Family Business

"Good evening, Ernesto," Lisiado greets the eldest Gomez brother as he swaggers into the office. "Ramirez. I hear condolences are in order. I'm very sorry to hear about your father."

Momentarily startled by his sudden appearence, Ernesto glares at him. "What the hell are you doing here, Lisiado?" he demands. "I haven't summoned you."

Summoned him. As if he's an unruly pet dog. Without asking, the advisor reaches into the humidor on the desk and helps himself to one of Nestor's excellant Montecristos. He reaches for the paraphernalia and trims it as he smiles at Nestor's back-stabbing heir. With a mental apology to the late patriarch, he takes one of the old-fashioned wooden matches from their lidded box and strikes it against the edge of the fine mahogany desk.

"We need to talk," he says, drawing carefully on the cigar. Even if he doesn't actually smoke it - he's out of the habit, he realizes as his head spins - it smells wonderful.

"And you barged in here at this hour to tell me what?"

"Esteban and I are going to be taking over the Culiacan operation," Lisiado says calmly. Shouldn't his lungs be shrinking, shouldn't he be gasping? Why this sudden rush of well-being, of omnipotence? "Don't expect us to pay tribute. It's a shambles; it'll be years before there's any kind of profit."

"He's loco," Ramirez says to Ernesto, who merely stares at him in disbelief.

"Why shouldn't I just shoot you?" asks Gomez, watching him as he assays another puff. "And that little pest Esteban?"

Lisiado smiles patronizingly to cover up what he's just realized: he doesn't have his gun. It's lying under the pile of clothes he discarded for the shower. Age and treachery, he reminds himself. Not guns, brains. His skin tingles with the surge of power he feels. Ernesto is a callow lad compared to him. "It would not be in your best interests. You want Guadalajara, fine. Culiacan is ours now."

"Listen, Lisiado -" snaps Ramirez. "You don't know how short your time is." His gun is out and aimed at the older man, but Lisiado disregards him, locking his gaze with Ernesto. I don't need a gun for this, thinks the elder man. I know things he doesn't; I am older and wiser. At the crack of a gunshot, he braces himself - he's miscalculated - but it's Gordo Ramirez who makes a gasping sound as blood blossoms from his torso. Ernesto's second-in-command topples to the floor, gun clattering to rest beside him.

With a hot surge of joy, Lisiado knows his little brother has changed his mind. Manito is looking out for him. As soon as Lisiado realizes he hasn't been shot, his eyes target Ernesto Gomez, who's still gawping at the sight of his fallen lieutenant. "What, surely you didn't think I came back here all alone, did you? If you kill me," Lisiado says conversationally, "you'll have nothing but trouble in Culiacan. They killed Barillo and they've hurt us twice. You don't even know who they are - but I do."

"Bullshit. You're bluffing!" One of Ernesto's hands has gone below the level of the desk, and Lisiado's pulse thunders as another shot rings out. This one blows a hole in the padding of Ernesto's chair. Gomez jumps back, chair wheels scraping the hardwood floor. Lisiado can see both of his hands, empty.

"I've made contact with our adversaries in Culiacan, and I've made a deal with them, contingent on me advising your brother. What, you thought Nestor kept me around just to have someone to play backgammon with? You forget; I know this business."

Under the guise of reaching for an ashtray - he can't bring himself to tap ash onto Nestor's prized Persian rug - he glances toward the open French doors. Moonlight glints off metal and a dark figure lurks beyond the glow of light from the room. "Besides, you'll have your hands full here," Lisiado continues with assurance.

"In just a few days, you've lost most of your major assets - Eduardo, Ramirez, your father and me. Of course, you only counted your father as an obstacle to you taking power, and me as a mere crony of his, but between the two of us, we shared more years of business experience than you've been alive. Now?" He shrugs. Puffs. "It's just you and a bunch of drunken louts who, you'll notice, haven't come running to see if you need help."

He walks over to the gun on the floor and retrieves it. Ernesto is as pale facing him as Esteban was confronting a house full of corpses. "Lisiado, for god's sake!" Ernesto croaks. "You're married to my sister, that makes you family. You can't kill me!"

"I could," he chides, and there was a time when he would have, without a second thought. The argument that he's family is spurious - no, what sways him is the potential for a disastrously unqualified successor who won't co-operate with his agenda. Perhaps, at some point in the future, they can work together, regardless of their animosity. Or he can set that mad American Sands on him, which could be amusing to watch.

"Make no mistake about it, Ernesto, I could kill you with no more regret than you feel for killing your father. Probably less. But I don't want all this." He indicates the office. "Culiacan will be a far more interesting challenge for me." He takes a step toward the French doors. "Oh, and Ernesto? My name is Cesar. Remember that in the future." The new head of the Gomez cartel operations in Culiacan exits the library that once belonged to Nestor Gomez with a last glance at the backgammon table by the window. An era of relative peace in his life has just ended.

Cesar strides across the patio and a stretch of lawn to Manito. As he draws closer, he discovers that the figure dressed in black is familiar, but not his brother.

"Dolores?" he whispers as she plucks the remains of the Montecristo from his hand.

"Those are very bad for your lungs!" she says severely, throwing it down into the dewy grass. Then her gun comes up again. He turns to see Ernesto's form standing in the doorway, aiming the gun he must've had in his desk drawer. Dolores shoots. The figure ducks or falls back - Cesar doesn't know or care which. "I think it's time to go," she says to him, and he nods.

"You left your gun under your clothes," she says as they hurry toward the jeep. "It's a good thing I threw them in the dirty clothes hamper!"

"Who do you think is going to do that laundry when we're gone?" he teases her - and feels the sobering thud of a bad situation avoided by inches. If it wasn't for Dolores... He owes her his life again.

A shadow to one side of the path moves. "You see, you didn't need me at your back after all," says the man he just gave up on. He knocks his wife's arm up as she's about to shoot at the unexpected - and to her, unfamiliar - voice.

"It's alright, zamira mia - he's on our side."

"More or less," Manito answers. "You go ahead. I'm going to go see how many Gomezes we're down to." There's a stealthy rustling among the foliage, and a moment later, a tall figure approaches the French doors and enters the library.

"Who was that?" demands Dolores as her husband hustles her toward the jeep.

There's an introduction he hopes to avoid for as long as possible. Either she'll recognize Manito as the man who shot him - which would bother her a great deal more than it does Lisiado - or she'll see the family resemblence to Ché and spill the beans to one and all. "One of our new associates from Culiacan. His name is George."

"I'll drive," Dolores announces as they reach the vehicle. "You rest. You look tired."

"Did you remember any of your little lace goodies?" he asks, relaxing in the passenger seat as his wife speeds away from Guadalajara.

"Of course, my love. I brought everything that makes us happy. I brought Ché's robots, and the nighties you like to see me wear, and I hope some of my orchids survive in those bags." She pats him on the arm. "We'll have wherever we end up sleeping looking like our bedroom in no time."

He contemplates his return to the Brazilian bordello. Ah, well. There are worse fates. "Dolores, my songbird - zamira mia..."

"Yes, my darling Cesar?"

"Have I told you lately how very much I love you?"

Epilogue:

Friday morning

Daylight creeps past the green motel draperies as Dolores lies in bed, cradling her husband's body. She traces the scar tissue on his ribcage, old white splotches paler than the rest of his tawny skin. His linen shirt, torn off in the heat of passion hours ago, is crumpled at the foot of the bed. He snores loudly.

She may be 'only' a wife and mother, but she will always protect the ones she loves. Cesar occasionally neglects her in his absorption with business, but she knows ways to get his attention, how to keep him coming back to her and only her. His intimate smiles still melt her heart. Watching him sleep, his breath rasping, she marvels at how strong he is to have survived so much. Her long hair brushes his cheek, tickling his face. He snorts it away. Dolores looks at the clock. He's had a good long rest, and now it's time to discuss the future with her husband.

Purposefully, she extends a skilled hand to awaken him with one of the techniques she knows will get his attention. It's time for that talk about their son...

THE END

Author's note: Special thanks to Dawnie-7 for staying with me and reviewing faithfully. I realize that the relative lack of Sands in this tale diminished its readership, but I really wanted to explore some of the unanswered questions left by "Desperado", such as why El didn't know 'Bucho' was his brother and how they became estranged.

I DO have more ideas coalescing for Sands, El and Kate (Wow, is she going to be in for a surprise...). Cesar, Dolores and Che will also appear from time to time...and we haven't seen the last of Marisol or the surviving Gomez...es? either.

Mexico isn't through with me yet...