El Club Dumas

El left his car, a black jeep, parked in front of the first bar, and walked to the second bar on the opposite side of the street, and down about two blocks. He collected stares from young boys, some of whom dropped their games and ran away. A yellow, flop-eared dog barked at him, though his long feathery tail wagged.

"It wasn't my fault!" El said to one boy, who promptly scampered off. He smiled to himself, remembering how often he had protested that to Buscemi, all those years ago. His smile faded as the melancholy set in that came whenever he considered any of his many dead friends.

Buscemi had not abandoned him as he sought revenge on Bucho's cartel, also dispatching any other cartel presence he encountered along the way. The gringo had been his friend, closer in many ways than a brother, but he'd been frightened by the darkness he'd seen in El. El had been frightened by it, too, but had been helpless to end it. Until Carolina, but by then Buscemi was dead.

Now a second gringo had landed on El's doorstep. One he trusted like a brother, which is to say, not at all.

"What are you still doing here?" Sands asked again a month later as he slouched over the plate of food El had served him at the kitchen table.

"What else would I do?" El stirred the meat and vegetables he was preparing for Sands's third helping. "You're the one who said I have nothing to live for."

"Yeah, well, the tables are turned now. Laugh it up."

"If we had cocaine," El asked, " would you want it?"

Sands's head snapped up. "What the fuck!" His whole body tensed, as if someone had shot at him.

El paused, glancing uneasily at him. "I just wondered."

"You don't … you don't have cocaine." Sands's breathing quickened.

"No, of course not."

Sands sagged, trembling slightly. "Don't fuck with me like that. I swear to God I'll kill you if you do that again."

Chagrined, El took the skillet from the stove, and shoveled the fried food onto Sands's plate. "I thought it would be out of you by now."

Sands shoved the plate away. "That's not the point! You don't know. You don't know shit. It's like being in Paradise and then being kicked out. Nothing's ever going to be worth shit. And it's fucking dark here."

El thought about that. He thought he might feel the same way, under the circumstances. He wondered what would have happened if he had turned to drugs to lessen his grief rather than to guns. A lot of people might still be alive. Then he remembered Sands's energy and strength, not to mention immense mood swings when he'd been hopped up. No, El decided, even more people would be dead.

"So you will take your share of the diamonds and go find cocaine when you are ready to leave here?" he asked, making no judgment.

"I … don't … let's talk about something else, okay?" Perspiration beaded on Sands's too pale face.

"Look at you," El said in wonderment. "You still crave it." The discussion alone seemed to be causing Sands pain.

"Oh shut up."

"Is it as bad as before?" El asked.

"Nothing could ever be that bad. Christ. Did I thank you for what you did?"

"No."

"Good. I'm going back to bed."

Sands left the kitchen, navigating confidently, so El finished his dinner.

El passed two German luxury cars parked outside the other bar. The dog, which had been following him, barking with some excitement, lifted his leg and peed on one of the tires. This place was called El Club Dumas, and was definitely owned by someone wealthy. Calling it a "club" was giving it airs, but it was a themed bar, festooned with movie and book memorabilia from The Three Musketeers and other works of Dumas's that El didn't know.

Conversation ceased as El entered. He paused at the threshold, partly to take in the setting for combat planning, and partly for effect. In another bar, he'd be challenged at gunpoint to open his guitar case before being allowed to enter, but this place was too suave for such blunt tactics. The patrons regarded him with hostile curiosity. These men were hard-core, not like the villagers in the first bar. Expensive watches winked on their wrists, and Italian shoes squeaked on their feet. No one this far off the beaten path had this kind of wealth from legal sources. A smile twisted his lips and he walked, spurs jingling, up to the bar. The yellow dog trotted in behind him.

"Cerveza," he said. The bewhiskered bartender responded slowly, to show he was not intimidated, pulling a slow draught from a handle with no beer logo on it. The local, cheap stuff.

"Gracias," said El. He pretended to take a drink. The bartender exchanged glances with one of the other patrons at the bar, and then glanced at the phone.

El leaned on the bar and took a swig from the bottled water he'd brought in. "Make a call, if you need to," he said.

The bartender scowled, then pasted a smile on his ruddy face. "How is the beer?" he asked.

"This beer?" El asked. The man nodded. Everyone watched. El pretended to take another drink of the beer, wiped the froth from his face, and dumped the beer out on the floor. "It stinks."

For a frozen moment, nothing happened. Then the bartender chuckled, and the other men relaxed. Hyper-aware of every movement in the room, El saw one slick-haired young dandy reach for . . .

A cell phone. No need to shoot him yet.

Watched avidly by everyone in the place, El took his bottle of water and guitar case and started for a table. He had to step around the yellow dog, which was lapping at the beer by his feet. The man with the cell phone turned his back and tried to be inconspicuous as he placed his call.

This place had large windows, another indicator of affluence, so El was able to find a table at the front that gave him a view down the street to his jeep and the other bar. He sat, finished his water, and positioned his guitar case.

When he glanced back toward the bar, he saw the yellow dog cease his eager lapping and keel over into the puddle of beer.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, you guys! I try to answer individually, but Morinen and DeppDRACOmaniac, I didn't have any email address for you.

DeppDRACOmaniac asked:
1. Will there be lots of Sands in this story? PLEASE tell me there will be!
Oh, yes. What fun would a story be without him?

2. Will Sands recover? (yes I know I'm obsessed with him...)
Yes.

3. Will El die! (yes I know random switch.)
Er, I didn't have any plans for it, and it would be tricky to do since he's my POV character. However, I don't yet know where the story is going, so I can't make any promises.

4. This isn't going to get corny is it... sequels get corny...
I can't make any promises there, either. I'll try not to be any more corny than canon, though.