Chapter 10

Things Fall Apart

Disclaimer: Sands does not belong to me. I'm sure he's grateful.

Author's Note part 1: Well, I survived Hurricane Wilma with only minimal damage, so I consider myself lucky. Thanks to everyone who wrote to offer support. Thank-yous also to everyone who has written to review this story. And special thanks to my wonderful beta reader Melody for keeping me sane.

Author's Note part 2: The title of this chapter is of course one half of a quote from W. B. Yeats. "Things fall apart; the center cannot hold." From his poem, "The Second Coming."

Unpleasant things lie ahead, and the last of the secrets are revealed. Readers, ye be warned.

Sands lay in the space between sleeping and waking. He was perfectly comfortable.

He did his best thinking when he was in this particular place. He had been lying in bed one night, for example, when he had suddenly realized that he was sick and tired of working for the Mexican government.

His association with the government had all started out innocently enough. Nicholas had not been his only contact within the former president's Cabinet. A single phone call had set things in motion, and within a month of leaving Culiacán, he had been safely ensconced within the sheltering arms of bureaucracy.

He had come to his new job with a lot to offer. Insider knowledge. Contacts. Informants. The dirt on other spies, both American and Mexican. Enough lowdown to wipe the remains of the Barillo cartel off the map. The old president had been duly grateful, never knowing that his new American employee had once tried hard to have him killed.

For his part, Sands had gotten what he wanted most – the trust of men in power, and knowledge. More dirt than he had ever imagined. Secrets and lies and cover-ups aplenty, enough to bring down the entire government should the truth come out. It was the same all over the world, of course, but here he was privy to more information than he could ever have gathered working for the CIA. He had stockpiled his secrets carefully, figuring sooner or later his ass would be on the line for something and he could cash them in.

After the elections, however, things had turned sour. The new president was determined that his country would not be embarrassed by ghosts of the failed coup. The fact that it had happened was public knowledge and nothing could change that, but the sordid details could be kept from coming to light.

And so last summer, the order had come down. Erase everyone associated with the coup. Erase the coup itself. It never happened.

In the beginning Sands had taken to his new job with gusto. He killed his government contact first, the one who had put in him touch with Nicholas, ironically. He made it look like an accident. After that it was time to purge the military, and all those who had supported Marquez in his crusade to take the reins of power. Juan Garcia had helped there, and when the purges were done, the general had retired to his lovely villa on the shores of Lake Chapala.

On down the list. Everyone who had helped him set things up, who had caught one of the shapes he had thrown. And as the list shrank, his own name came ever closer to the top.

Two months ago he had returned to Culiacán. Chiclet had refused to go with him, and so he had been forced to rely on one of Garcia's men as his eyes. The whole thing had pissed him off and left him feeling generally out of sorts. So when he had finally found his target, instead of pulling the trigger, he had offered the man a cigarette.

Ramirez had been instantly suspicious. Sands had just shrugged and inhaled a lungful of smoke. "They want me to kill you, Jorge old buddy."

Predictably, Ramirez had been furious.

Sands had stood still, in what he supposed was Ramirez's bedroom. His thoughts had come fast, one on top of each other, burying themselves in their eagerness to get his attention.

He could not kill Jorge. Not after what Jorge had done for him. He would be a rotting corpse in an unmarked grave were it not for Jorge. He owed the ex-FBI agent a life.

Besides, he was tired of this. Killing was only fun when he decided who died and who lived. Assassination was not really his thing.

So he had put away his gun. "You should think about running," he had said. "Maybe go back to Texas. Stay there for a while. Visit old friends, or something." And he had let himself out the way he had come in, through the back window.

That had been the start of it. After that day, he could barely hold back his disgust at his current employers. Governments were the same the world over. This government's official language was Spanish and their flag was different colors, but nothing had really changed. It was the CIA all over again. Go here, do this, spy on that group, kill him, watch her. Boring, boring, boring.

He was done working for the bad guys. It was time to work for the good guys. Time to restore the balance.

He told Chiclet his plan. Next on the list – and last, except for his own name – was the great El Mariachi. This was where it would all go down.

It had all been simple enough. Find El Mariachi. Find someone else to plant the bomb in the cantina. Tell the military it was only a fake bomb threat and not real. Make them think he would use the bomb threat to empty the cantina and then make his move on El. Try hard not to laugh as he said all of the above.

Chiclet had never been comfortable with the whole bomb idea. He had made Sands promise that he would be allowed to go inside the cantina and warn everyone. Since Sands didn't give a shit about anyone else in the cantina one way or the other, he had agreed. As long as he had El Mariachi in his sights, everyone else could go fly a kite.

The big night had come. The house lights had gone up, and the show had gone off without a hitch. Just as he had planned. He had whisked El away from the cantina and it had gone so smoothly that in hindsight, he should have known that sooner or later something would come along and fuck up his plans. Something always did.

But he hadn't known that then, of course. He had been focused on the task at hand. The drop-off, when he was supposed to turn El over to the government troops responsible for his execution. Manuel and his men had been on loan from retired General Garcia's troops. They had come to the drop-off point fully expecting Sands to do his part, just like everyone had planned.

Only, the plan had changed. Killing them had been on the agenda that night. He had just forgotten to tell them that.

Oops.

So, off they had gone to the cheap motel in Guadalajara. Where Ramón had been waiting, out of contact with everyone, completely oblivious to the death of his fellow soldiers. His only instruction had been to attack Sands, and to make it look real. Stupid asshole had died without even knowing he had been used.

Then it was off to the prison, and the meet with Garcia he had arranged on his cell phone during one of the times El had been dicking around in the swimming pool with Chiclet. Really, it had been too easy. Sure, Garcia and the president's men had not been very happy with him over the murder of their buddies, and they had been really pissed that the bomb in the cantina turned out to be real, but he had convinced them that it had been necessary. A man like El Mariachi could only be taken if he let himself be taken, he had said.

They had believed him. Or else they hadn't, but they had pretended to. Either way, the end result had been the same. He supposed Garcia had planned to kill him right alongside El. If he had been in Garcia's shoes, certainly he would have done so. Garcia had a little more honor, however, so maybe he would have been given an extra day, or something. One final meal for the condemned, that sort of thing. He'd never know now.

Now it was all over. Every string pulled. Every shape thrown.

And everything was fucked seven ways from Sunday.

He knew Chiclet was dead, oh yes. Even in this blissful, wacked-out state of semi-consciousness, he knew the boy was dead. He knew it, and he accepted the blame. El Mariachi was not a very smart man, but about this one thing, El had been dead on the money. Chiclet's death really was his fault.

He hadn't told Chiclet the new plan. That was the reason why it was his fault. He had told Chiclet about Ramón and the knife fight, but the boy had still been scared shitless, thinking he was really in danger. Chiclet had nearly blown it that morning, urging El to rush in and save the day, when El had only been meant to watch from afar and get more and more curious about what was going on. After that episode, he couldn't take the chance that Chiclet would screw things up again.

So he had said nothing about the new plan. Chiclet had thought that once they got El Mariachi into Garcia's clutches, it would all be over. Chiclet had expected a few shots to ring out, and then lunch to be served.

He had told himself that he was staying silent in order to protect Chiclet. El Mariachi might not be smart, but he was crafty. El would have seen right through Chiclet, had the boy known what would really happen at Garcia's villa. For the plan to work, Chiclet had to be kept in the dark. Blind, if you pardoned the bad analogy.

And that was where it had all fallen apart. Instead of ducking and taking cover when the bullets started flying, Chiclet had just stood there with his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide in shock, unable to believe what was happening. Or so Sands imagined. Really, it didn't matter what he had looked like. Surprised or not, ready to jump in and start shooting or not, Chiclet was still dead.

He sighed, coming more awake. He didn't really want to, but he couldn't stay here much longer.

A moment later he was wide awake, and damn glad that he was. There were voices over his head. People were standing there, looking down at him.

Now that he was fully conscious, he was aware of his body again. Christ, he hurt. El had a thick head, but he had some pretty thick fists, too. The sensation of drying blood on his face was unpleasantly familiar. His arm throbbed where the bullet had torn through skin and muscle on its brief tour of his anatomy; he was thankful it had gone in and out again instead of deciding to stick around.

The voices drew closer. There were two of them, a man and a woman speaking Spanish. They sounded old. He wasn't surprised. The area around Lake Chapala drew lots of rich retirees ready to leave the rat race of the big cities behind.

His first, instinctive thought was to shoot them. He hated being stared at. Especially now, when his sunglasses were missing and the whole world could look through the holes in his face. But he forced himself to lie still and forget about the guns. The simple truth was that he needed help right now. Who better than a pair of innocent old farts?

He shifted a little, and let himself groan. Immediately the old folks stopped talking to themselves. One of them leaned in a little closer, giving him the whiff of antiseptic cream. "Señor? Are you all right?"

Do I look all right? he wanted to ask. I've been shot, beat up, and I have no eyes. And my best friend just got killed because of me. Yeah, I'm just peachy.

Aloud he said, "Who's there? What do you want with me?"

"Oh." The old woman's voice turned soft. "You poor thing. Come with us." Her next words were aimed at her partner. "Roberto. Help him up."

The old man tutted.

Sands bit his lip to keep from smirking. Then he wished he hadn't. It really hurt.

"Ow."

They took him back to their house. He told them he had been beaten and mugged. That it had happened before, that was why he carried the guns. He was afraid. A blind man was a target for criminals, and he was always worried about what would happen to him.

Roberto and Elena Sanchez were impressed by how well he spoke Spanish. He told them he had always found it easy to learn another language, and this much at least was true. He told them he had come to Mexico because he had wanted to experience a simpler life. Then he had lost his eyes, and he had decided to stay.

Elena patted his hand as she wiped the blood from his face. She had wanted to call a doctor, but Sands had begged her not to. He could not afford a doctor, and anyway didn't all doctors have to report gunshot wounds to the authorities? It was better this way, no doctor, no police.

His saviors gave in when they saw how frightened he was. Roberto bandaged his arm while Elena brought him something to drink and several of the painkillers she took for her arthritis. He swallowed them gratefully, hoping they would knock him out quickly; he was a good actor but all the same, he was getting tired of having to pretend all the time.

While the old folks were still fussing over him, he sank into sleep.

It took three days for El's wish – I want you to suffer – to come true. But when it did, it happened with a vengeance. And right up until the moment it happened, Sands thought he was doing just fine, thank you very much.

He didn't do much at first. Just lay around and concentrated on healing. The gunshot wound was located eerily close to the one he had received on the Day of the Dead three years ago. He found himself flexing his arm often, just so he could feel the pain and remind himself that this was a brand new wound, not the ghost of that old injury.

He recovered quickly. The knife cuts from his confrontation with Ramón had been shallow, and they were almost completely healed. His bruised knuckles stopped aching. By the third day he could eat without wincing in pain, and his nose no longer felt like it was the size of his entire head. He wondered if El was as badly beat up as he was, and found himself wishing he could redo the fight, just so he could get in a few more licks.

His benefactors left him alone, mostly. He pretended to sleep when they checked on him, even manufacturing little snoring sounds. He did not want to answer any more of their questions, or hear stories about their nauseatingly cute grandchildren. He wasn't even interested in letting someone lead him through the house so he could learn where everything was. Why bother? He wouldn't be here that long, anyway.

Nights in the Sanchez house were filled with the sounds of old people sleeping. Lots of snoring and coughing and farting, and the toilet flushing every hour as one or the other would get up and go pee. It was enough to drive Sands crazy. He lay on his borrowed bed and felt very lonely, and very cranky, and very sorry for himself.

What the hell am I doing here? he thought. I don't belong here. Time to blow this popsicle stand.

He sat up, one hand reaching automatically for his sunglasses and making sure they were on straight. "Chiclet?"

And everything crashed home.

Chiclet wasn't coming, because Chiclet was dead. He was never going to sing along to the radio again. Or try to belch the alphabet. Or grouse about the smell in their motel room. Or ask if he could have a beer, just this once, please? Or take Sands by the hand and say, "Okay, the door is straight ahead. Just five steps."

Because Chiclet was dead.

Darkness surrounded him, a suffocating hand clamped over his face. He turned his head, seeking to escape it, but it followed him wherever he went. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wanting to stand up and get out, needing to be on the move, but fear held him in place. He didn't know where he was, or where to go, or even where the fucking bathroom was. How was he supposed to know what to do next?

And here was the thing, the thing he was only beginning to understand. He had never felt blind with Chiclet. Being around Chiclet had given him back his eyes. But now Chiclet was gone, and he was drowning in the dark, and no hand was going to reach out and take his and lead him back into the land of the sighted.

Because Chiclet was dead.

He jumped in fright as something began making an awful, choking noise, and then he realized the noises were coming from him, and even worse, that he could not stop them. He jammed the back of his wrist in his mouth to try and dam the cries, but they would not be silenced.

Pain knifed through him, doubling him over. He slid off the bed and into a loose heap on the floor. He could not stop sobbing. And he had to admit, it was kind of funny, really. It had only taken three years, but he had learned something new today. He could not cry. Not for real, the kind of crying that produced tears. There was nothing left, nothing in the holes where his eyes had been. Nothing left.

Chiclet was dead and he was blind and that was never going to change. Chiclet was never going to take his hand again. He was never going to see again. He was trapped here in the dark, and no one was ever going to let him out.

The only person who had ever cared, who had ever been totally on his side, was gone. He couldn't even really remember what Chiclet had looked like. The one and only time he had seen the boy, he had been in a hurry to get rid of him. I don't ever want to see you again. By the time he had left Culiacán, his memory of the boy's face had already been fading, and it was all but gone now. Not that Chiclet had still looked the same, he knew that. The boy had grown up a hell of a lot while riding with him. But he had no idea if Chiclet had been turning into a handsome young man, or just one of those gawky, weird-looking kids who needed another five years to grow into their face.

Chiclet would never grow up now. Because he was dead.

Sands buried his face in his hands. The sunglasses dug into his fingers, a hateful reminder of his blindness. He ripped them off and tossed them aside, uncaring where they landed. This proved to be a mistake. The feel of his empty sockets was unbearable, and he pulled his hands away from his face, utterly revolted. For the first time in a very long time, suicide seemed like a viable option.

And still he could not stop sobbing.

"Señor?" The old fart spoke hesitantly, afraid of disturbing him.

It was like throwing a switch. The grief receded and Sands was in control again. Cold all over, but firmly in control.

He stood up, one hand resting on the edge of the mattress. "I'm fine," he said.

Roberto gulped audibly, but said nothing. No doubt he was transfixed by the ruin of Sands' face.

"Where's the missus?" Sands asked.

"Still in bed," Roberto said. "I just-- I heard-- I wanted to make sure you were all right."

"I'm fine," Sands repeated. "Where are my shades?"

Footsteps shuffled across the carpet, coming toward him, then veering off to his left. Old knee joints popped as Roberto squatted down to pick up the sunglasses. While he was thus occupied, Sands turned around and reached under his pillow. His hand closed over steel, and he pulled out the gun.

Roberto squeaked in terror. "Please, señor!"

"Just do as I say," Sands ordered. He held out his hand. "Give them to me."

More shuffling footsteps, then the sunglasses touched his palm. He took them back, feeling much more himself once their familiar weight had settled on the bridge of his nose. "Let's go wake up Mrs. Sanchez."

"Please, no," Roberto implored.

"You don't want to fart around with me, old man." He made a "go on now" gesture with the gun. "Do it."

Whimpering in fear, the old man shuffled off. Sands followed him, using the sound of slippered feet as his guide. He bumped into a few walls anyway, but he did not mind so much. He had a purpose again, and that made everything just fine.

He was going to Culiacán. He had some things to take care of there. First he would pay his pay his respects over Chiclet's grave. He knew El would have returned the body. There had probably already been a funeral. He would stand over the freshly-turned earth and say his good-byes. After that, he owed it to Chiclet to visit the boy's family. He would tell them how brave their son was. He would tell them what assholes they all were for letting him go and not fighting to keep him. Then he would leave town, and never think about the boy again.

And once all that was done, he was going back to that little town outside Guadalajara. He was going to finish what he had started. El Mariachi was soon going to be one very dead mariachi.

Then he was through. He was going to leave this fucking country. He was sick of it all. He had had enough of Mexico to last a lifetime.

However long that might be.

"Let's go, Pops." He would have been just as happy to shoot the old folks as leave them, but he needed their eyes for a little while. "We're going for a ride."

"What?" Roberto quavered. It sounded like he was crying.

Sands smiled. "We're going to Culiacán."

The church bells were tolling two o'clock when they arrived; Roberto was a slow driver. Sands had been forced to make the old lady ride in the trunk to ensure the old dude didn't get it into his head to alert any other drivers as they headed north toward Culiacán. He hadn't liked doing it, though. Not that he cared about the old lady, but if he pushed the old man too far, Roberto might suddenly decide to be a hero, and that would only get them both killed. And since he needed them, Sands was reluctant to shoot them just yet.

"Take me to the cemetery," he said. He had decided he would pay his respects first. It was the least he could do for the boy who had saved his life so many times over the years that he had lost count.

He told Roberto to cruise around and look for the newest grave, one that would lack a tombstone, but would be covered in flowers that hadn't yet begun to rot. After a few minutes, the car came to a halt. "I see one," the old man said dully.

"Good," Sands said. He made Roberto give him the car keys. "Lead me to the grave, then you can come back here and take a stroll with your lovely lady."

Roberto made an anguished whimper, but did as he was told.

The grass was short, and crunched under Sands' feet. He held onto Roberto's skinny arm and let himself be led through the cemetery. Flowers scented the air, and every step he took strengthened their bouquet. Yes, this had to be it.

"What does it say?" he asked. "Does it say anything?"

"No," Roberto said. "There is no marker. Just flowers like you said. And a few things, like a teddy bear."

Stupid. It was too soon for an engraved stone. But this was a child's grave, all right. Sands let go of the old man and held out the car keys. "Go," he said. "When I call, you come get me, or I'll shoot you both in the head and find someone else to be my chauffeur."

"Sí, señor." The old fart snatched the keys from his hand and hurried away as fast as he could to rescue his wife.

Sands knelt down, carefully brushing the ground with his fingertips. He touched several flower arrangements before he found the place where the sod had been laid down, covering the grave. He heard the sound of a trunk being popped, and then the murmuring of low voices. He registered all this, then promptly ignored it.

"Chiclet." He shook his head. "Stupid kid. You should never have come with me."

He thought of the way Chiclet had liked to sing along with the radio, especially his favorite song, the one that mixed up the French and Spanish lyrics. He remembered Chiclet crying, soon after the Day of the Dead, and thinking, Who the hell is he crying for? He remembered sitting on the couch, watching soap operas while Chiclet explained what was happening with suitable melodrama and the two of them cracked up over the horrible dialogue. He remembered a seaside town on the Gulf of Mexico, wading barefoot in the surf, and Chiclet saying, "Wait, there's a broken shell. Don't step there."

Pain knifed through his chest. The grief wanted to take over again. He could not let it. "Sorry, kid," he said. And then stopped. He didn't know what else he could say. Apologies would not bring Chiclet back. Nothing would.

He stood up and turned around so he could call for the old folks, then went very still. Something was not right.

He could not hear them talking anymore.

An instant later something slammed into him from behind. Someone, actually. He was thrown to the ground, a heavy body on top of his.

A voice yelled out in Spanish. A knee dug into his back. Hands grabbed his wrists and twisted them up behind his back.

He fought in silence, not bothering to waste his breath cursing his attackers. To no avail. Someone pulled his gun from its holster and then he was weaponless. Thin cord was looped around his wrists and then he was tied, helpless, a hand grinding his face into the grass.

Footsteps approached, each one slow and measured, and accompanied by the jingling sound of little silver chains. "I knew you would come back here."

"Good for you," Sands said, spitting out a blade of grass. "You're very clever."

The hands holding him down shifted a little. One of El's mariachi buddies, probably. The third man was standing nearby, reeking of cheap wine and shuffling uneasily on the grass. "The police are on their way," El said. "I am sure they will be very happy to see you."

Some of the fight left him. A Mexican jail. Oh, this was just great. A bitter laugh escaped him. As CIA, he had been immune from such indignities; diplomatic credentials went a long way toward keeping a man from being thrown behind bars. But he was disavowed now. The asshole currently in the White House wouldn't even lift a finger to save him.

"People always talk," El said. "Isn't that what you told me?" The voice came from high above; El was standing above him. "I wonder who will find you there first. Cartel? Your soldier friends?" The mariachi made a small sound of satisfaction. "Or maybe you will just rot in a cell for the rest of your life."

Chains jingled as El crouched down beside him. "You really didn't see it coming, did you?" the mariachi asked spitefully.

Terror jolted through Sands. He would never forget what had happened the last time he heard those words. The fear gave him new strength. He struggled with all his might, but the mariachi kneeling on his back held on tight, keeping him pinned to the ground.

Sirens floated up in the distance, converging on the cemetery. The third mariachi walked off, probably to comfort the old folks he had traumatized in order to get here. The one on top of him never even moved.

The worst of his panic melted away. Sirens meant police, and that meant El had played by the rules. He wasn't about to lose any more body parts. "What goes around, comes around, hey El?" He started to laugh. He couldn't help it.

Life really was funny sometimes.