Chapter 5
El Learns a Secret
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez is god. I worship at his feet.
Note: This chapter contains naughty language and some violence. It also contains the moment you have all been waiting for.
At a quarter to six, El finally grew tired of waiting for something to happen. He was feeling physically tired as well; it was nearing the time he normally started to think about going to bed. He was going to have to find some way to keep himself awake all day. He could not afford to show any weakness in front of Sands.
He let himself out the door and went to stand against the balcony railing. Sunrise was an hour away, and it was still dark. The pre-dawn air was cool and comfortable, a gentle reminder why he had chosen this area of the country as his new home. The motel courtyard was empty, lit by a single lamppost situated beyond the fence encircling the pool. Lights shone in a few windows, but most of the motel was still asleep. Beyond the pool, an expanse of grass led to a laundry room where a bundle of dirty linen was just visible atop a washing machine near the door.
Sands was nowhere in sight.
El stood against the balcony railing, wishing he had another cigarette. Soon it would be time to wake Chiclet. And that was why he had come out here. He wanted fresh air while he thought about Chiclet, and a conversation he had not been meant to hear. The boy was the key, he was sure of it. He just needed to get Chiclet alone.
He had gone into the bathroom around midnight. He had let the water run in the sink for a time, then quietly turned it off and crept toward the door. He had leaned his ear against the peeling paint, and he had heard voices.
"He's going to find out," Chiclet had said.
"Of course he will," Sands had said. "But later, hopefully, rather than sooner."
"You should just tell him."
"I am not telling him anything. And neither are you." Sands had paused. "Turn up the volume. He's listening."
Chiclet had cranked the volume on the TV then and El had no longer been able to eavesdrop, but he had heard enough. Sands did indeed have a secret, and Chiclet knew what it was. Sands would never tell, but with enough coaxing, the boy could probably be persuaded to talk. El just needed to find the right method, and enough time alone with the boy. Once he got Chiclet on his side, he would feel more comfortable about the whole situation.
Movement down below caught his attention. Someone was walking along the lower level of the motel, coming toward El. The man walked slowly, his head down. He was still wearing those stupid sunglasses, and he was smoking.
El pursed his lips. He suddenly found himself wondering if Sands had made a phone call. Perhaps he had walked down to the motel lobby and used their phone. Perhaps he had decided to take back his actions of the night before, and offer up El Mariachi for real this time.
Or maybe he had just wanted some fresh air, too.
Sands walked on. He looked different without all his guns. Smaller. It was strange, El thought, but he seemed diminished somehow without any weapons to back him up. This Sands bore only a superficial resemblance to the one in Culiacan who had offered El a bite of his pork and a cell phone.
The door to one of the rooms on the first level opened. A man stepped out. He wore blue jeans and a white T-shirt. He had dark hair cropped in a severe crew-cut, and he was barefoot. The TV in his room was still on, and for a moment El heard the voice of a reporter from an early morning news program, before the door closed and the sound was shut out.
The man looked to his right. Up above on the balcony, El stepped back so he would not be in sight. He counted to five, then moved forward again.
Crew-cut was now following Sands.
Curious, El waited to see what would happen.
Sands kept walking. He did not slow his stride, but his head came up. One hand twitched toward his hip, and the guns he no longer carried. For a moment an expression of anger flickered across his face, then he was calm again.
The man in the white T-shirt moved to his right, onto the grassy area of the courtyard. He squatted down and pulled up one leg of his jeans. From a sheath strapped to his ankle, he pulled out a knife. Even under the poor lighting in the courtyard, the knife looked very sharp.
Sands stopped walking. He turned around.
The man with the knife eased forward. Sands said something, so low that El could not make out the words.
Crew-cut attacked. He moved with speed and grace, a knife fighter in his element. El watched as Sands let him come on. Only at the last moment did Sands twist away, and the man in the white T-shirt skipped right on past him.
Now Crew-cut was in constant motion. He circled Sands, his knife hand high and ready. On the concrete of the sidewalk, his feet made no sound. His shadow swooped and dived over the doors and windows of the rooms on the first floor. When he stepped on the grass, the legs of his jeans grew dark with morning dew.
Sands turned in a smaller circle, always a beat behind Crew-cut. He held his hands up, ready to defend himself. In contrast to his normal behavior, he moved awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Apparently, El mused, learning to fight with knives was not part of a CIA officer's education.
Crew-cut lunged forward. Sands dodged the first attack, but then Crew-cut danced to the right, and this time Sands was too slow. The knife slashed along his arm, cutting the fabric of his sleeve and revealing a flash of skin red with blood.
Sands jerked back with a hiss. "Fucker!"
Crew-cut did not respond to the insult. He just slipped around behind Sands, the knife ready.
Watching the fight, El was baffled. He could understand luring men into false confidence, but this bordered on the ludicrous. Sands behaved like a drunk, or a blind man, lurching about in circles, acting as though he could not even see his attacker.
It seemed impossible that Crew-cut could fall for such a ruse, but he did. He came in again, attacking low, sweeping the knife at Sands' chest. Sands leaped back with another curse. He lashed out with his fists but missed by a wide margin. The man in the white T-shirt ducked the blows and swiped the knife sideways. A second cut joined the first, this one low on Sands' abdomen.
This had gone far enough. Whoever the knife fighter was, he had found them, and that alone was reason enough to stop him. El started to draw his gun, then hesitated. It was almost six o'clock in the morning. A gunshot fired now would create panic and bring the police to the motel. He and Sands and Chiclet would be on the run, and in their haste, they would probably run straight into the waiting arms of the cartel surrounding the city. The man with the knife had to be stopped, but as quietly as possible.
What he wouldn't give for one of Carolina's throwing knives, he thought.
He had just made up his mind to head for the stairs when he heard a door open behind him. He turned and crouched low, his hand pulling his gun free, moving of its own accord.
The boy stopped dead when he saw the gun aimed at him. "What are--" he began.
"Sshhh!" El pressed a finger to his lips. If the man in the white T-shirt heard them, he would target them next. There was always a chance that the man was here only for Sands. El had no intention of revealing himself unless he had to.
He glanced over the railing and frowned. Sands was bleeding in three places now, and while Crew-cut was nursing a bloody nose, he was still hopping nimbly around, not even winded yet. It was patently obvious that unless El intervened soon, the fight was going to end with one very dead American.
Not that this was necessarily a bad thing, El mused.
Chiclet walked forward, brow furrowed, wondering what he was looking at. "What is it?" he whispered. He peered over the railing. His eyes bulged. He grabbed at El's sleeve. "Help him!" he cried, managing to keep his voice down in an impressive act of self-control.
"Sands can take care of himself," El said. Perversely, now that the boy had shown up, he felt less inclined to step into the fight. His first instinct was to protect Chiclet. The boy might have skill with a gun, but he would have no chance at all against a grown man wielding a knife.
"No, he can't!" Chiclet implored. "You have to help him!"
El dragged him back from the railing. Below he heard the sound of a fist meeting flesh, and someone grunted. A split second later metal clattered on concrete as Crew-cut dropped the knife.
"You see?" El said. "He is doing just fine."
"Let go!" Chiclet struggled to free his arm from El's grasp. He was almost as tall as El, but many pounds lighter. When physical strength failed him, he tried another tactic, his hand snaking downward and reaching for El's pistol.
El let go of him, twisting his hips and stepping backward so the boy could not grab the gun. "What are you doing? Do you want to alert the entire motel that we are here?"
"Shoot him!" Chiclet hissed. "You have to help Sands!"
"Why?" El asked. He glanced around, mildly amazed that so far no one had yet seen the drama being enacted in the courtyard. The outer façade of the motel pressed against his back. If he were to reach out just a few inches to his left, he could touch the window of someone's room. Whoever was staying in there, he hoped they were soundly asleep.
Chiclet stared at him in mute agony. He moved closer to the railing and glanced over. Anxiety drew lines on his face, making him look much older than his age. El heard metal scrape concrete, and he knew someone had just picked up the knife. Judging by Chiclet's expression, it was not Sands.
Chiclet bolted. El lunged for him, but the boy moved too fast; his hands only closed on thin air. "Come back!" he cried as loudly as he dared, but Chiclet paid him no mind. The boy raced around the corner, headed for the stairwell that would take him down to the first floor.
El ran after him, cursing the boy's impulsive loyalty. If Chiclet got hurt, it would be his own damn fault – but El would still blame himself.
Youthful fear gave Chiclet speed. There was no chance of catching him. El jumped down the steps two and three at a time, then leaped the last few stairs and landed hard on the sidewalk. Fiery pain shot through his ankles, and his knees buckled. He groaned, but forced himself to stand up and move faster. Even so, he was several paces behind Chiclet when he finally rounded the corner of the building.
The fight was nearly over. Sands was backed against the wall, his hands raised in front of him as though he intended to stop the blade with his bare flesh. Crew-cut was feinting forward then drawing back, taunting his prey. Blood dripped from the knife onto the sidewalk. When El came around the corner, he was looking up in surprise at the teenaged boy who had suddenly entered the picture.
"Stop!" Chiclet shouted.
Crew-cut's gaze went from Chiclet to El, and his dark eyes went very wide. "It's you!" he gasped.
The instant the words left his mouth, Sands leaped at him. He seized Crew-cut's chin in one hand and slapped his other hand flat on the side of the man's head. Crew-cut squawked in terror and brought the knife up, but it was already too late for him. One swift wrench of Sands' wrists, and he was dead with a broken neck.
Chiclet ran up to Sands. "Are you all right?" he cried.
Sands stood over the dead man, breathing hard. His hair hung in his face, and his sunglasses were askew. He reached up with a shaking hand and straightened them. "I'm fine," he snapped. El wondered who he was angry with – the man who had nearly killed him, or himself for almost being killed.
"Who was that?" Chiclet asked. He took Sands' arm, then let go as Sands hissed in pain and drew back.
Slowly El walked toward them, looking all around for signs of further danger. Yet no one was running out of their room. No lights were springing on behind windows. For the time being, they were safe. No one knew that a man had just been murdered.
There was blood on the green-painted stucco, where Sands had been leaning on it. It looked black under the orange light of the courtyard. El stared at it, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu, remembering a street in Santa Cecilia, and a boy leading him to safety along an empty street while his blood decorated a stone wall.
Chiclet had slipped an arm about Sands' waist, offering his support to his injured friend. He glared up at El. "You take care of this," he said, nudging Crew-cut with his foot. He did not look at the body.
El blinked in surprise. He had not exactly thought the boy was squeamish, but this callous reaction was not at all what he had expected. Thirteen-year olds were not supposed to be so hardened to death. Especially when their friend was the one who had done the killing.
"Good ol' El." Sands smirked. "Here comes the cavalry, and all that. Only you're just a little too late. Were you busy placing a bet against me?"
"You were doing just fine," El said.
"Fuck you," Sands said wearily.
Chiclet gave El another dirty look. Something about his innocent anger made El feel ashamed of himself. Then an instant later the shame was replaced by annoyance. He would not let the boy make him feel guilty. Why should he have been expected to come to his enemy's aid? Had the situation been reversed, he had no illusions about what would have happened. Sands would have stood there and watched him bleed to death, and enjoyed every minute of it.
Sands and Chiclet began walking down the sidewalk. Or rather, Chiclet walked. Sands limped. He swayed, and bumped into Chiclet. The boy was knocked to one side, then he righted himself. "It's not far to the stairs," he said. "Eight steps. You can do it."
Blood spattered the sidewalk, too, not just the wall. El frowned. He could see no means of washing it off, and removing Crew-cut's body was his first priority, anyway. It had to be after six o'clock now. It would not be long before the first early risers left their rooms, ready to check out and begin a new day.
There was no way out of this, El realized. Every room in the motel would be searched, every guest questioned. The police probably had Sands' description, and quite possibly even his own. Their only chance now lay in escape. They could check into a different hotel, a more expensive one. The cartels would expect them to continue to use cheap motels like this one. If they defied expectation, they could stay in hiding, and eventually leave the city unnoticed.
"Hurry," he said. "We have to leave. Now."
"Then leave," Chiclet muttered. He did not even glance up.
Sands groaned something that was undoubtedly an insult. He staggered forward another step, and then his knees buckled. Taken off guard, Chiclet had no time to catch him.
Sands hit the ground hard, first on his knees, then on all fours. His sunglasses were knocked off. For a moment he swayed like he might get up, then he collapsed facedown onto the pavement.
Immediately Chiclet crouched over him. He shook Sands' shoulder. "Señor. Wake up."
Sands did not stir. His hair covered his face, but he was obviously unconscious. El let out his breath. "We have to go," he said. "We will find a new place to stay. We can call a doctor for him."
"No," Chiclet said immediately. He stayed where he was, protecting his friend. "No doctor."
They could argue about it later. Right now there was no time. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to flee, to get out before someone saw him. El walked forward, hoping he could prod Sands awake. He did not want to carry the man unless he absolutely had to.
"Wait." Chiclet pointed to Sands' sunglasses. "He needs those."
A puddle of blood was starting to form on the sidewalk beneath Sands. El stopped in front of Chiclet. "Let me," he said.
The boy did not move. He remained in his crouch, staring stubbornly up at El. Tears of fury glinted in his dark eyes. "I told you he needed help. This is all your fault."
That absurd sense of guilt crept back. "How is this my fault?"
"I told you," Chiclet said. He took a deep breath, then let it out in a plaintive sound of misery. "Look." He reached down and gently drew Sands' hair back. "He can't see. He's blind."
El looked down, and he saw.
Horror blasted through him. Every fiber of his body turned cold. Even his brain went numb, so he could scarcely form a coherent thought. He could not stop staring at the hollows in Sands' face, those dark holes where his eyes should have been.
"Barillo's men did this to him," Chiclet said. "He didn't want you to know." His tone became accusatory again. "I told you he needed help!"
It didn't seem possible. Sands moved with such confidence, with such grace. He walked through crowded cantinas and empty motel rooms with ease. He had stood at El's side and wielded a gun as skillfully as anyone. How could he be blind?
El sank to his knees on the sidewalk, unable to tear his gaze away from Sands' face. How could he not have known? It was too incredible. He had sat right next to Sands in the back seat of the car for hours. They had sat awake through the night and talked like old companions. And he had never known, never guessed the truth.
Little things began to click in his mind, things that had nagged at him as being strange at the time, yet not strange enough to warrant investigation. Chiclet announcing their new parking space. The careful way Sands walked across the motel room, his fingers barely touching the surface of the dresser. The fact that he had not turned to look behind him, when El had pretended to see something in the parking lot behind the cantina. His awkward performance against the dead man with the knife.
Suddenly it all made sense. "I didn't know," he whispered.
"Don't stare at him!" The tears were gone; Chiclet looked ready to pounce. "He hates being stared at!"
El gave himself a small shake, finally looking away from the horrible sight of Sands' missing eyes. Now he knew why Chiclet had followed Sands out of Culiacan. And with that knowledge came another, more bitter truth. No matter what he said or did, he would never gain this boy's trust or loyalty.
"All right." He swallowed hard, trying not to look down again, but unable to help himself. There was something horribly compelling about those empty eyesockets. "Help me get him up."
Together they managed to get Sands off the ground, Chiclet glaring at him the whole time, mutely accusing him of not being gentle enough. Still trying unsuccessfully not to stare, El finally maneuvered Sands into lying facedown over his right shoulder in a position that made it easy to carry him.
He stood up with a grunt. Slender as he was, Sands was still heavy. "Come on," he said. He glanced one more time around the courtyard, wondering who would be the first to find Crew-cut's body. "Someone will come soon."
Chiclet hurried to follow him. But first, the boy stopped and retrieved Sands' sunglasses. "I'm ready," he said.