Chapter 7

Killing Time

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, except in my imagination. That honor belongs to Robert Rodriguez.

Author's Note: I have been horrible lately, and forgotten to thank my wonderful beta reader, Melody. She keeps me honest, and this story would not exist without her.

I think you are a dangerous man. I think you are hiding something from me. And I think I will stay with you, until my curiosity is satisfied.

He had said it. Now he had to abide by it.

He sat in a plush armchair, nursing a glass of water. It was almost midnight now, and he was very tired, but he knew he would not sleep this night.

He watched as Sands squirmed around in the bed, trying to make himself more comfortable. The former CIA officer cursed and threw a pillow to the floor, then at last settled himself in a reclining position that allowed him to lie back on some of the thicker pillows while still giving the appearance of being alert and awake. He was obviously hurting, but he showed no sign of giving in to his pain.

El had to admit – and with less reluctance than he would have believed possible – that he respected Sands. Not many men could survive what had happened to him. Even fewer would be sitting here today, arrogant as ever, unbroken and unwilling to concede defeat. The only problem was, respect alone didn't get you much. He had respected his brother, after all. And at the end of the day, Cesar was still dead.

There was pity mingled with that respect, too, but he was not allowed to act on it. Sands would not tolerate pity of any kind. He had seen that already. He would be expected to provide assistance when necessary, but nothing beyond what was absolutely required. Tonight's performance had taught him that. He could help Sands walk across a room once, but only the one time. After that, he was no longer needed.

Whatever else Sands was, he most certainly was not a coward.

"How's Chiclet?"

"Tired," El said truthfully. "He fell asleep around ten-thirty."

Sands nodded. "Good."

"Tomorrow morning I will go to the hotel gift shop and get you some aspirin," El said. "But you need antibiotics. And you--"

"No doctor," Sands said curtly.

El shrugged and did not argue the point. It was not like he cared whether Sands lived or died, he told himself.

Sands shifted his weight a little, wincing with pain. "Damnit," he muttered.

El finished his glass of water. The hotel room was very nice. There were two large, comfortable beds and lots of closet space. The towels were actually soft. The TV had fifty cable channels and assorted video games, much to Chiclet's delight. Sands had enough cash on hand to pay for the room for a full week, and El had no qualms whatsoever about spending that money.

"So, El. Still have that guitar case full of guns?" Sands practically threw the question at him.

"Yes," he said.

"Good for you," Sands said. "Where is it? Back home at Casa Del Mariachi? Hidden under the floorboards, maybe?"

"It is in a safe place," El said.

Sands made a rude noise. "That's great." He sounded like he longed to give El a good eye-rolling.

El said nothing. He wished Chiclet would wake up. The boy didn't talk to him, but that was all right. The silence between Chiclet and himself was comfortable. Not like these silences, when it seemed like the entire world was hanging on what they said next.

"So!" Sands said brightly. "How the hell have you been, El?"

The too-loud cheer in his voice made El wince. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Well, I was trying to make conversation," Sands said slowly, like he had decided El had the mental capacity of a two-year old. "But I guess it's a little too much to expect from you. I know how much you hate words with more than one syllable."

"I see you haven't changed at all," El said sourly. He considered accidentally bumping Chiclet awake, then pressed himself deeper into the armchair.

Sands shook his head, smiling despite himself. "Look who's calling the kettle black."

"You are wrong," El said. "I have changed."

"Yeah? How?"

He was not sure what to say. He was not even sure he wanted to explain himself to Sands. It did not seem worth the effort involved. Sands would never understand, anyway. He could not, for instance, say that he was once again only a mariachi, and not a killer anymore, because Sands had never thought of him as just a mariachi. Nor could he say that he had made his peace with Carolina's death, because Sands had never known Carolina.

"I do not believe in God anymore," he said, surprising himself.

"But you did, once," Sands said.

"What?"

"You said 'anymore.' That implies you did believe once. When did you lose your faith?"

El closed his eyes. He did not want to answer the question, but he had brought it up. He had only himself to blame. "When Carolina. . .when my wife and daughter were killed, and I could not save them. I have not believed in God since that day." He looked at Sands. "For a time I went through the motions, but I found no comfort in them. The last time I was in a church was when I killed the men you sent to test me."

Sands nodded. "Back when you still had your faith, and I still had my eyes. These were the good ol' days, hey, El?"

Since he had shared something, he figured it was time for Sands to reciprocate. "How did you lose them?" he asked.

Sands dropped his false cheer. "Let me tell you something, El. You may think--"

"Never mind." El held up his hand, a useless gesture but one he could not help making. He rose to his feet and picked up the ice bucket. "I will be back."

Before Sands could protest or ask where he was going, he left the room.

The hallway was carpeted in a soft diamond pattern. El headed for the ice machine, which was situated in a little alcove six rooms down on his left. He didn't really need ice. He just needed to get out of that room for a while. He needed to escape the accusing glare of those dark sunglasses.

Sucks to be blind, doesn't it? Sands had said in the car, just before they had gunned down the men from the cartel. At the time he had thought Sands was merely mocking his fear of the blindfold. He knew better now, of course.

Curious, he closed his eyes. Immediately the walls of the hotel corridor drew in closer, and the floor tilted under his feet. He could still hear the ice machine humming in its alcove, however. Feeling confident, he began walking toward it.

After a few steps, he began to grow nervous. The wall on his left seemed much closer now, but it didn't seem like he had been walking crookedly, so why should that be? He passed a room where the television was on, and the dim sound of canned laughter momentarily overruled the hum of the ice machine, disorienting him. How far away was it now?

Stubbornly he kept walking. He held the ice bucket with both hands in front of him, just in case a solid wall should materialize in the hall to impede his progress. It wasn't so hard to walk in the dark, he thought. He just had to remember to stay straight, and to listen for the ice machine.

His left shoulder brushed the wall. He jerked back with a reflexive, "Huh!" His left hand rose from the bucket and felt the air in front of him. When his fingers found the wall, he walked on, more assuredly now. He no longer needed to concentrate on the humming ice machine.

A few steps later, his fingers encountered nothing but air. And now that he was listening for it again, he could hear the ice machine. El opened his eyes, nodding in satisfaction. There. Not hard at all.

Except you could see the hallway before you shut your eyes, whispered a voice in the back of his mind. It sounded reproachful. Worse, it sounded a little like Carolina.

Yes, all right. So he had cheated. He would never know what it felt like to be Sands, to wander blind down unfamiliar hallways.

He had no regrets.

He set the bucket on top of the ice machine. The hallway was empty. He could see the elevators from here.

Nothing prevented him from leaving.

And yet, he couldn't.

El frowned, trying to make sense of his own behavior. He had played along with Sands and pretended to be part of the plan. And it had worked. He was standing here, alive and well. Now he was free to make his escape. All he had to do was walk a short distance down the hall, get on the elevator, and walk out the front doors of the hotel. He could be halfway across Mexico by sunrise, with only a single stop to make a phone call and alert the police to Sands' location.

Yesterday this idea would have given him great satisfaction. Now he simply stood beside the humming ice machine, unwilling to pursue it. He did not want to call the police. He did not want walk away. And he didn't know why.

Was it pity that stayed his hand? Curiosity? The desire for revenge? Or did he want to learn more about Sands' plan, so he could really nail the bastard when he sprang his trap?

He didn't know the answers. It bothered him that he could not say for sure why he was still standing here. He had always been quick to make a decision, and quicker to follow through on that decision. Now it seemed he could not do either of those things.

He sighed. He was not going to get his answers from the ice machine. He filled the bucket and turned around to go back to the room. He walked with his eyes open this time, and he did not once glance at the walls.

They were staying in Room 672. He knocked once, then slid the room key out of his pocket and let himself in, trying to be quiet so he would not wake the boy.

"It's only me," he said as the door closed behind him.

Sands gave him a mirthless grin. "I knew you'd be back," he said.

They stayed in the hotel for five days.

Spending so much time with Sands was not as agonizing as El had expected. He wasn't sure what to make of that. Part of him was relieved. The rest of him was simply suspicious.

After a while he realized it was the silences that made the days pass by so easily. Sands did not talk much. Neither did Chiclet. Watching the two of them, El understood why they were so close. When you didn't have to speak, it was easier to be with someone.

They watched a lot of TV. Chiclet went swimming in the hotel's fancy pool. Once or twice El joined him, but only in the afternoon, when most of the hotel's guests were out playing at being tourists, and there were few people present. He spent one evening in the lounge, drinking steadily until he could barely feel his feet. He wandered the corridors that night, unable to remember which one was his room, and feeling stupidly lost.

For his part, Sands was perfectly content to sit on his bed and do absolutely nothing. The blankness of his sunglasses was unnerving. El could never quite tell when he was asleep. In fact, after the first two days, it seemed like Sands never slept at all. El wondered if it was difficult to sleep without any eyes, but he was not curious enough to ask.

On the fourth day, Sands rose from his bed and walked straight out of the room. Not once did his step falter. When he reached the door, he fumbled for the handle exactly one time, then his hand closed over it. El watched him go, knowing that the next time Sands went out the door, and every time after that, he would not miss the handle.

He looked over at Chiclet, who was immersed in a video game involving lots of kicking and screaming. Chiclet was the key to Sands' behavior, of course. At some point when El had been in the shower or drinking at the bar or anywhere other than in this very room, Chiclet had told Sands how many steps there were to the door. Sands had probably walked the route, memorizing it until he could do it without guidance. All in an effort to show El that he was not helpless, that losing his eyes had only slowed him down, instead of stopping him.

No. El amended his line of thought. Sands did not do these things to prove his point to El. He did them to prove his point to the whole world. To the cartel that had ripped out his eyes in the first place. To the Americans who had abandoned him here. To everyone who had ever looked at him with disgust, or pity, or both.

And that, El decided, was a good a reason as any to explain why he was still here. Because what good was making a point if no one was around to get it?

On the fifth day Sands was gone for more than an hour. El was beginning to feel the first pangs of suspicion when the door opened and Sands limped inside. "I did some nosing around," he said. "Made a few phone calls." Seated in front of the TV, Chiclet perked up with interest. "The coast is clear. Tomorrow morning we'll check out."

"Where are we going?" Chiclet asked. He paused his latest game, something about stealing cars, and looked at Sands.

Sands leaned back against the door and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. "Well, that all depends on our new mariachi friend."

El scowled. "What does that mean?"

"It means, are you in, or are you out?" Sands rocked slightly on his heels. A small bandage on the side of his neck was the only visible sign that he was still recovering from his injuries. He had discarded the sling two days ago, complaining that it was annoying as hell and that he was going to use it to strangle the next person who insisted that he keep wearing it.

"You have been taking advantage of my hospitality," Sands said in the reasonable tone of voice that made El's shoulders tense. "This is one of the nicest hotels in all of Guadalajara, and you've been awfully free with the mini-bar and the room service. So either you are one hell of a leech, or you've decided to cast your lot with the crazy blind man. Which is it?"

"I am not a leech," El said reflexively, before biting his lip. Damnit. Five days of near-silence had made him forget how quickly Sands could provoke his temper.

"Then you're in," Sands said. "Good." He pushed himself off the door and walked over to the bed. He sat down, wincing a little. "Here's the plan."

Chiclet turned off the videogame. He had been sitting on the edge of the second bed, but now he scooted around so he could face Sands. El remained where he was, in the comfy armchair near the closet.

"The men we killed last week were pretty low-ranking. The kind of guys who can be relied on to make a pick-up, and not much more. Mr. Knife-Fight was one step above them." He smirked. "We're moving up the ladder, boys."

"You should start from the top," El said. "That is the best way."

Sands pointed a finger at him. "Give the mariachi five points. Of course, you would know all about that, wouldn't you? You don't get much more goal-oriented than killing your own brother."

With an effort, El held his tongue.

"I happen to know many things about the leader of this particular cartel," Sands said. "Where he lives. Where he likes to eat lunch. His favorite porno shop. All very useful information. I thought we could pay him a visit." He smiled, a short, cold smile. "But first, I thought we'd make a pitstop so El can retrieve his famous guitar case full of guns."

"No," El said.

"No?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I do not play with that guitar anymore," El said quietly.

"Not even for a special serenade?" Sands asked.

"Not ever again," El said.

Sands mulled this over, then nodded. "All right. Well, we've got plenty of guns anyway."

"Where does this man live?" El asked, using the question as a distraction. He did not for a minute believe that Sands had given in so easily, but he was grateful for the reprieve. He did not want to discuss that famous guitar case. He did not want to even think about it.

"Oh, in a little exclusive villa near Lake Chapala," Sands said with a lazy wave of his hand. "But we're not going there. That would be suicide."

"Then where are we going?" El asked. He was reminded of the days before the coup, when he had taken orders from Sands over a cell phone. He didn't particularly like being in that position again, but that was the price he paid for choosing to stay, he supposed.

"It just so happens that our man – who is named Juan Garcia, by the way – has a nephew in prison. This nephew was working for a rival gang, so he doesn't merit a Get Out of Jail Free card bought with drug money. But Uncle Johnny faithfully visits him every month on the fifteenth. Which also just so happens to be tomorrow."

"You want us to gun him down as he is driving to the prison?" El asked in disbelief.

"No." Sands gave him that cold smile again. "I want us to gun him down as he is walking out of the building."

Stupid, El thought. Stupid, stupid.

He should never have agreed to this. He should have been miles away from here, asleep in his small house, while the noon sun beat down on the landscape. Instead, he was here.

"Here" was the blazing hot rooftop of the bank situated across the street from the prison. From here he could look down on the entire street, its traffic patterns, its potholes. He could see Chiclet seated in the passenger side of the Chevy, which was parked in front of the bank. The boy had a baseball cap pulled low over his head, and his nose was buried in a comic book. He looked like a normal teenager waiting for his parents to come out of the bank and drive him to baseball practice.

Sands was sitting at a bus stop half a block from the prison. Despite the heat, he was wearing black. His sunglasses were firmly in place. A newspaper lay on his lap.

Inside the prison, shadowy figures approached the glass door. El snuggled the rifle a little tighter against his shoulder.

"I take it you have no objections?" Sands had asked, as he had handed over the rifle. El, who had resented even the implication that he might be squeamish, had said stiffly that he had not a single objection. So now here he was, playing at being a sniper.

Already he knew he didn't like it. Gunning down a man in cold blood was not his style. It never had been. If he could, he intended to simply wound his target. Not that he had mentioned this to Sands, of course.

Sands would be the distraction. Juan Garcia would leave the prison. Sands would walk over to him and start talking. El would take down his target. Chiclet would slide into the driver's seat of the Chevy and start the car. Sands would get in the car. Chiclet would drive into the alley separating the bank from the laundromat next door, and El would jump down onto the roof of the car, and from there, onto the street. Chiclet would drive away.

In theory, it was a sound plan. To El, who had seen many saner plans fall to pieces, it was also lunacy.

Everything started out okay. The door to the prison opened, and three men emerged into the daylight. They were all dressed in somber suits. The one in the middle was older than the others; his hair and mustache were white.

Sands folded the newspaper and set it down on the bench serving as a bus stop. He strolled toward the prison, calling a greeting. He swept a slender black cane before him, the prop of blind men throughout the world. To Sands, it really was nothing but a prop, but he wielded it with ease, the same way he handled everything he touched.

All three men turned. The two bodyguards looked wary. Juan Garcia's eyes narrowed.

El looked through the rifle sight and reminded himself to keep breathing. One of Garcia's bodyguards was in his way, and he had to shift a little to his right to keep the sight clear.

Sands smiled as he drew nearer. He was still talking.

Garcia made a motion, and his bodyguards stepped forward. Immediately Sands raised his hands and drew back. At this distance, and with the sunglasses covering half his face, it was hard to tell, but El thought he looked scared.

And then everything happened at once.

Juan Garcia said something, an angry something El could not hear. The bodyguards seized Sands. Brakes squealed as a vehicle came to a stop. El lowered the rifle so he could see better. The bodyguards hustled Sands toward a white van parked directly in front of Chiclet's battered Chevy. The van's side door was flung open.

A dark blue sedan had followed the van. Juan Garcia got in the passenger side. The van door slid shut, and the bodyguards – and Sands – disappeared from sight.

The two vehicles took off, nearly running a red light in their haste to depart the scene. El watched them go, noting absently that neither one had a license plate.

Down below, Chiclet hurtled out of the Chevy. He glared up at El, his eyes wide with panic. "Get your ass down here!" he yelled.

Too shocked to be offended at being ordered around by a teenager, El just nodded and began to break down the rifle.