Chapter 15
Playing by the Rules
Disclaimer: El and Sands belong to Robert Rodriguez, god of Mexico. I merely worship in his temple.
Author's Note: Dare I say it? The end is in sight, guys. There are only a few chapters left in this story. If all goes well, I hope to have the entire story finished and posted by Christmas.
For the first week nothing happened. The landlord pounded on the door one morning, demanding the rent, which was a day late. El paid him and then quickly closed the door again, shutting out the outside world.
Sands slept a lot those first few days. Or so El assumed. Either that, or he just lay very still for hours at a time. Which wasn't outside the realm of possibility, since even when he was awake and sitting up, he didn't move around very much. El walked him through the apartment, but he either did not care to learn where things were, or did not have the energy for it.
Nor did he say much. Had El not known better, he could have almost thought he was sharing an apartment with a deaf-mute.
During the second week, things began to seem more normal. Or as normal as they could be. Sands regained his strength, and he moved around the apartment, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence. He talked more, and on the ever-increasing occasions when his voice dipped into the old sarcasm, it sounded more natural, and less forced.
Those two weeks were hard for Sands. They were even harder for El.
Despite the fact that he was the one making up the rules, El wasn't quite sure how to play this game. He had never done anything like this before. And he had to win. His opponent was an expert at manipulation and deceit. He had to be better. Faster. Smarter.
The first rule as El knew it was patience. This was also the hardest rule to keep.
Even when Sands wasn't doing anything, he tried El's patience. El didn't understand him. Look at you! he wanted to shout. What the hell happened to you?
Sands' behavior was baffling. Sometimes he seemed almost normal. He would roll a cigarette, cursing when his broken fingers hindered him, and then sit there and smoke and trade quips with El like nothing had ever happened. Other times he was silent and withdrawn, and nothing El did could coax him out. It made no sense, and El was well past the point of frustration trying to figure it out.
But he remembered the first rule, and he stayed patient.
The second rule was similar to the first. Kindness. The one thing Sands wasn't expecting. The one thing Sands didn't know how to cope with. Although it almost killed him, El never let himself slip and speak harshly, and he kept his hands to himself even when it seemed Sands was just begging for a punch in the face.
The third rule was more flexible. It stated that he could ask questions, but not about the things he really wanted to know. So for instance he could ask about the circumstances surrounding the Day of the Dead, but he could not ask Sands to tell him the government secrets he so desperately wanted to hear. Soon he would ask, but not yet. It was not time.
For his part Sands indulged El – when he felt like speaking, that was. Which wasn't too often. But he willingly enough told El what had happened on the day of the failed coup, and described how it had all fallen apart around him. He told El about Ajedrez, giving El a moment of nasty surprise when he realized the woman who had saved his life after his escape from Marquez's villa was the same woman who had betrayed Sands. Still later Sands told him that he had been blinded on Barillo's command, and that a doctor named Guevara had done the deed, although that was all he said, leaving out the details. And on further reflection, that was just fine with El.
Since the rules of the game demanded that he play nice, he returned the favor and told his side of the story. He talked about his fight with Cucuy's goons, and the wild motorcycle chase culminating in his capture and imprisonment at Marquez's villa. He thought about saying that Ajedrez was the one who had helped him return to Culiacán, then decided against it. Instead he told Sands about his decision to help El Presidente, and how he had accomplished that goal while also taking his revenge on Marquez.
This was on their fourteenth day together in the apartment. Sands was curled up on one end of the couch; El sat on the other end, two cushions separating them. Sands nodded. "I thought you were dead," he said. He did not say when he had learned otherwise, or what he had thought upon discovering the truth.
And this was one of his talkative days.
It was almost six, and El was starting to think about dinner. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "Should we move into the kitchen?"
Sands tilted his head back against the couch. "You can cut the crap, El. I know you don't give a shit about me."
El made a face – one good thing about living with a blind man was that he never had to worry about his expression giving him away. "You are wrong," he said, making sure he kept his voice light. "Besides, I had a wife and daughter once. Maybe I just miss having someone to take care of."
"Yeah, right." Sands sounded tired. "I know what you want." But he did not argue the point, and a little while later he even came into the kitchen to help El with dinner.
The next day, Ramirez called. El went outside so he could talk in relative privacy, but he still kept his voice low. The old Sands would have shamelessly eavesdropped, but he could not be sure about this new Sands. Still, it was better not to take any chances. "Where are you?"
"Monterrey," said Ramirez. "I don't like it. Too many tourists."
El had never been there. "Have you heard anything?"
"I know they had a roadblock set up around Culiacán," Ramirez said. "But I imagine you already knew that."
El nodded. "They do not seem to be looking here any more."
"They'll assume he's gone into hiding," Ramirez said. "Probably they're checking out every place he ever went while he was working for them. You haven't contacted the boy's family, have you?"
"No." As much as he wanted to, he did not dare see anyone from Chiclet's family. Men would be watching, waiting to see if Sands attempted to shelter with them. It was too risky, and El had no intention of bringing further pain into their lives.
"Good. Have you learned anything yet?"
"Several things," El said. "None of which are things I want to hear."
Ramirez sighed. "Has he figured out what you're doing yet?"
El thought about this. Sands was incredibly clever, and even a year in prison had not dulled his ability to detect bullshit. Had El still doubted this, all he had to do was remember Sands' comment from yesterday. I know what you want.
So yeah, Sands had it figured out. But the thing was, El thought maybe he didn't care. He knew, and he didn't care. He had been treated so badly in prison that he was grasping eagerly at any kindness offered his way. His life was so miserable now that a lie was preferable to the truth.
"He knows," El said.
"Damnit," Ramirez swore.
"It does not matter," El said. "I will still get what I want."
On the sixteenth day he could no longer stand to stay in the apartment. He walked out the front door, counted the steps to the car, and then came back inside. "Come on," he said.
Sands was on the couch, doing his best impression of a marble statue. At El's sudden command, he managed to look even more immobile. "What?"
"I am tired of sitting still. We're going for a ride," El said.
Sands looked as though he wanted nothing more than to blend in with the couch and evade detection. "No, I'll stay here," he said.
El stalked forward. With every step he took, Sands shrank a little further into the cushion at his back. "El…"
El seized his arm and lifted him to his feet. "We are going," he said firmly. He walked Sands toward the still-open door. "It is time we left this place."
Sands did not balk until they reached the front step and he felt the warm sunlight on his face. Then he abruptly dug in his heels and tried to pull his arm from El's grasp. "No," he said. "I can't."
"It is easy," El said. "Two steps. Then a set of stairs. Four of them altogether. Then another six steps to the curb. Then three more to the car door." He let go of Sands' arm and gestured at the car. "Simple."
Sands shook his head. "I can't," he repeated. He spoke lightly enough, but it was forced. El could hear the tremor behind the words.
He thought back to his experiment in the Plaza Genova, when he had walked down the hall with his eyes closed. He remembered his doubts, the way he had worried that he was going to walk into a wall, or trip and fall. And he had been able to see the hallway first. He had been able to open his eyes whenever he got bored with experimenting.
Sands could not. Sands was forever trapped behind darkness. Sands was never going to get to peek at the hallway first before walking down it.
Standing there, trying to imagine that horror, El felt something stir in his chest. He did his best to ignore it. "I just described it to you," he said. "I don't know what else you want me to do."
Sands gave him a brittle smile. "How do I know you're not going to just toss me down those steps? Or that you won't let me walk into a lightpost or something?"
El was honestly puzzled. "Why would I do either of those things?"
"You tell me." Sands favored him with that harsh laugh, the one El had never heard him make until two weeks ago. "Have you ever heard the phrase, 'walk the gauntlet'?"
El had. "Yes."
Sands spoke with none of his usual flair. There was no emotion in his voice at all as he said, "The guards used to line up in the hall and make me walk between them. I couldn't see them. I never knew what to expect. Broken glass on the floor. Someone's lighter." He lifted the sleeve of his T-shirt, revealing an old burn scar on his upper arm. "If I got too close to them, out came the batons.
"Or here's a fun game, if you're looking for ways to practice creative sportsmanship. You could play this one with your mariachi buddies. Push the blind man around between you guys. One point when you hit him. Two points when you make him fall down. Whoever gets the most points gets to beat the shit out of him until he passes out."
El was horrified. That thing that had been twisting in his chest suddenly stabbed him harder. He realized it was sympathy. Not pity, but true sympathy. And it was mixed with anger. Aimed not at Sands, but at the ones responsible for the way Sands just stood there, telling him these awful things.
He suddenly wished he could go back to the prison. He wanted to find the guards and teach them a thing or two about being helpless.
He understood now. He got it. He knew why Sands was so afraid, why Sands had no interest in doing anything, why Sands did not want to leave the apartment and its familiar rooms. Four years after being blinded, Sands had finally learned to fear the darkness.
The rules of the game required him to say something nice now, but he found he did not care about the rules. He wanted to say it. Because he believed it.
"I will never do those things," he vowed. And he meant every word.
"Fuck that," Sands said. "I'm going back in." He turned around and began feeling for the door, a tight expression of annoyance on his face.
"Sands." El took his arm and turned him around. "You can do this." He tried to sound encouraging. "Just one step at a time."
"Really?" Sands sounded incredibly impressed. "So that's how you do it! Silly old me. I didn't realize they walked differently in Mexico. My bad." The false cheer fell from his voice. "Fuck you, El."
After two weeks of silent brooding, it was almost a relief to see Sands get angry about something. And El was not about to give up. It was high time Sands left the apartment and rejoined the world. "It is all right to be afraid," he said. "I don't--"
Sands decked him.
El never even saw it coming. One minute he was standing on the front porch, trying quite calmly to have a conversation. The next thing he knew, his jaw was flaming with pain and he was staggering backward. His right foot slipped onto the step below, and his ankle twisted beneath him. He flailed out, almost caught the black iron railing, and then fell down the four steps leading to the sidewalk below. He landed on his ass, and very nearly did a complete backward somersault before he was able to get himself under control and sit up.
"Shit!" he hollered.
Sands smiled, a barely-there lifting of one side of his mouth. "Okay. Now I know where I'm going." Holding onto the railing, he came down the steps and then stopped. Even on flat ground, he did not let go of the railing – walking down those stairs had been very difficult for him, no matter how easy he had made it look. "Thanks for the tip."
El stood up. His jaw hurt. His ass ached. His right ankle was throbbing. But he felt stupidly pleased about it all. "Any time," he said dryly.
Sands flinched back a little, obviously not having expected El to be so close. His hand tightened on the railing. "So now what?"
"We go," El said.
He drove north, following the road that paralleled the coast. It felt good to be out again, breathing fresh air and feeling the sun on his face. He turned up the radio, tapping along with the music on the steering wheel.
Sands did not speak, but El thought he was glad to be there, too.
Sinaloa was a pretty state, El thought. It was a shame so much of it was overrun by cartel. He drove until they reached a town with the name of Guayabo, which translated to "guava tree." The town was situated right on the water, and it had at least one outdoor café. Hungry and ready for a break, El decided to stop.
"Where are we?" Sands asked.
El told him, including the translation. Sands pursed his lips. "I know what it means," he said with disdain.
A waitress seated at one of the outdoor tables was watching them, perhaps hoping they would not get out of the car and make her work today. El looked at Sands. "Where did you learn to speak Spanish?" he asked.
Sands shrugged. "I pick up languages easy," he said. "It's part of that whole 'being a genius' thing."
El had no answer for that. He wasn't sure if Sands was being serious or not.
He got out of the car. The waitress sighed and heaved herself to her feet.
Sands was slower to leave the car. "Where are we?" he repeated.
"A café," El said. He looked for a name on the building but did not see one. "It seems like a nice place to eat."
"Oh, I'm sure it is," Sands sighed. "Very well. Lead on."
El guided him to one of the tables. The waitress watched all this with interest. She dropped two menus on the table, then reached up and adjusted the big red and white umbrella that provided shade. She pulled a pad from her apron and tapped it with her pencil. "Something to drink?"
It was nice to eat a meal someone else had cooked for a change. Even nicer to eat it while sitting outside, pleasantly shaded from the November sunshine. El had two beers and even ordered dessert.
Sands seemed to feel the same way. He ate with more appetite than El had ever seen, chasing down all the pork on his plate. He was relaxed in his chair, some of the miserable tension gone from his face. He even made a few jokes, once making El almost choke on his beer as he fought to keep from laughing loudly.
When they were done eating and had smoked a few cigarettes and sat there long enough to earn a grumpy look from their waitress, El suggested walking down to the water. He had not seen the Pacific in many years, and he felt like standing on its shores. The last time he had done so, Carolina had been with him. It was time for him to face the ocean again.
Sands visibly winced at El's suggestion. "I don't know about you, but I'm comfy right where I am. I think I ate too much, anyway. I don't feel like going for a walk."
"I ate more than you did," El pointed out. In fact, he noticed for the first time that even after two weeks of freedom, Sands was still too thin. He frowned. "Come on. It isn't far."
"Fine." Sands scowled. "But you owe me one."
Signs posted along the road indicated the way to the beachfront. El walked slowly down the center of the sidewalk, favoring his right ankle. Sands kept pace beside him, using the sounds of footsteps and jingling chains to guide his own steps. He was obviously unhappy, but equally determined to do this thing and succeed.
And El wanted him to succeed. When they reached a wide plaza, he stopped walking and simply stood there on the corner. "Listen," he said. "Tell me what you hear."
He had half-expected another punch to the face. Instead Sands surprised him by taking a small step forward, cocking his head ever so slightly, and listening.
They stood that way for a long time, until El began to suspect that Sands was not really listening, but only mocking him. Then Sands stirred. "Open-air market," he said. "Pedestrian only. The cars turn at this corner and can't go straight. You got your basic big building on the right. Church, I'm guessing? Flower vendor. Little old lady. Probably wearing a black shawl over her head. Jewelry and beads next to her. Another little old lady. Guitar fellow next to her. You're probably drooling over his merchandise. Someone's selling tacos, and someone else has lemon ice or lemonade. Is that good enough for you, El?"
"Actually," El said, "the woman selling flowers is not wearing a shawl."
"Fuckmook," Sands muttered. "Are we going to stand here all day or what?"
"We can go," El said. "But do you understand now? You don't need me. Or anyone. You never did. You can do this."
The old Sands would have offered to poke out his eyes so he would know just how stupid that statement was. This new Sands just shrugged, and did not say anything.
They crossed the plaza and followed the lane that led to the beach. The smell of the ocean was strong, and white gulls circled overhead. El felt his pulse quicken in response to their loud cries. It almost seemed that someone else was walking beside him, a step behind him on his left. He could not see her, but he could smell her perfume, and hear her light footsteps.
The Pacific was very blue. El stood on the sand and gazed at the dance of sunlight on the water. The ocean breeze lifted his hair and gently played with it. Foamy waves rolled up the shore, trying to nibble at his boots. He closed his eyes, and she was there.
She smiled up at him, her eyes sparkling with life and laughter. Their daughter stood next to her, grinning at the sea, wanting to splash in the waves. He ached to join them.
Carolina shook her head. He knew what she was saying. It is not time yet.
She reached down and took her little girl's hand. Together they walked down the sand, toward the waves. Their daughter skipped happily, tugging at her mother to come faster, mama, faster.
They stepped into the water and faded. El opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to clear away the tears.
How did I get here? he wondered. He deliberately refrained from looking at his companion. At the moment, he needed to be alone with his thoughts.
All he had ever wanted to was to live in peace. To make his music. To live with the woman he loved. But everything he had found had been ripped away, and so he had tried to fashion a life with what remained. It would never be the same, though. Whatever happened now would forever be a pale second best.
He could live with that, he had long ago decided. Not that he had much choice. Still, he could accept second best. At least it was something.
So how then, did he come to be here? Standing on the shores of a great ocean with his mortal enemy.
No, El clarified. He is not my enemy. Not anymore.
Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he had spent too much time living in the past. Maybe it was time to let go. At some point a man had to stop letting the past rule his actions, and look to the future. He had to stop wanting to take revenge, and start living his life.
But I can't do that. They won't let me.
This was the last time, he vowed. The last revenge. The last days of dwelling in the past. When he had exposed the government's secrets, when he had forced them to admit that he was untouchable, then would he be free. He would have his libertad, the one thing he had told Carolina he wanted, all those years ago.
And then, maybe then, he could start living his life again.
On his left, Sands discreetly cleared his throat. His head was tilted back a little. "You know, I'm not sure what I think about all this. Standing here at the water's edge with you…I almost feel like one of us is expected to kiss the other."
El stared in shock. He knew it was a joke, but he was not at all amused by it. "Don't even think it," he growled.
Sands chuckled. "Oh believe me, I'm not. I just thought I should point out the romantic aspect to this scene."
For a moment, El hated him again.
Now that the peace had been spoiled, he supposed it was time to walk away. He glanced up the beach and spotted a wooden bench a few yards again. It was coated with sand and unshaded, but the ocean breeze kept the worst of the heat at bay. "Come on," he said. "There is a place to sit."
They walked up the beach. With footsteps muffled by the sand, it was harder for Sands to stay with him, and El had to verbally guide him most of the way. When they neared the bench, he said, "Just two more steps. You're almost there," and lowered himself onto his seat, hoping the sound would serve as the final marker for Sands.
Instead Sands walked right into the bench, smacking his shin loud enough to make El cringe. "Son of a bitch!" Sands shouted, leaning down to grab his leg.
El winced. "I'm sorry," he said.
"Jesus, El, you call yourself a guide? A dog could do better than you. Wait, dogs do do better than you. That's it. I'm ditching you. I'm going to get myself a dog. Maybe I'll name it El, to remind me what an asshole you were." Still rubbing his shin, Sands sat down.
Now was the time to ask, El thought. Here, in this place neither of them had ever been. Before bitter words and angry actions forever erased the possibility of friendship between them.
"You know what I want to ask you," he said.
Sands nodded. "I know. I'm just surprised it took you this long."
El gazed out at the water. There were a few families on the beach, but not many. He rather liked it. With no one in his immediate sight, he could almost pretend they had the entire beach to themselves. "I wanted to give you some time."
"Why?" Sands asked. He leaned forward and waggled his left hand at El; the last two fingers were still taped together and healing. "Why would you even care?"
Even though they both knew the truth, El could not bring himself to say it out loud. He had to keep playing the game, continue pretending. So he said the only truth he could safely admit to. "What Archuleta did to you was wrong," he said. "What we did was wrong."
Sands gave him a sick smile. "No, see, you're wrong. I did deserve it. You want to know why?"
If it will lead to you telling me what I want to hear, you can tell me anything you like, El thought. "Sure," he said.
"Because I killed Chiclet," Sands said.
El didn't know what to say. He agreed completely, but he could not say so. The rules of the game did not permit it. Plus it would be cruel, and he was tired of that kind of thing. He only wanted peace now.
"I had plenty of time to think in there," Sands said. He traced a pattern he could not see on the weatherbeaten surface of the bench. "When you're stuck in a cell all day by yourself, there isn't really anything else you can do. So I sat there and I thought about Chiclet. And after that, I thought about all of them, all the ones I had killed. Did you know I shot some waitress just because she spilled coffee on me?"
El had not known this. He tried to think of something supportive to say, but he could not. Supportive was the last thing he was feeling right now. Appalled anger was much more accurate.
"So yeah, I deserve what happened to me," Sands said. He spoke matter-of-factly.
A month ago El would have been certain of this. Now he was not so convinced. "I think maybe you only deserved some of it."
"And this?" Sands tapped the frame of his sunglasses. "Did I deserve this?"
"I don't know," El said. "I don't know what kind of man you were before the coup."
"Not the kind you would have wanted to know," Sands said with a humorless smile.
"But the kind a ten-year old boy wanted to know," El said.
Sands' smile vanished. "I suppose so." A hint of the old drawl covered his words, reminding El just how dangerous Sands had been – and could be, once again.
"Are you sorry for it?" El asked. "For what happened to Chiclet?"
"Am I sorry?" Sands repeated. "Christ, what kind of question is that?"
"One I want answered," El said. He needed to know. A brave young man had died because of Sands' arrogance. If Sands could not feel any remorse, there was no hope for him at all.
"Yeah, I'm sorry," Sands said. He drew that pattern on the wood one last time, then went still. "I know it was my fault. Hell, I knew it right away. That was why I went to Culiacán. To talk to his parents. Tell them what a good kid they had." His voice shifted down into the lazy tones that meant he was one step away from killing someone. "Then I was planning to look you up and kill you, but of course that never happened."
Sands smiled. "You want to hear something really funny? I was going to leave Mexico. I had decided. After I talked to Chiclet's family and blew your head off, I was getting out. I was done."
El was stunned. "You were done?"
"Oh yeah," Sands said, still with that bitter smile. "Time to live my own life, that kind of thing. Too bad you had to come along and fuck up all my plans. Again."
It was almost enough to make El laugh. All along they had both wanted the same thing. And he had never known it.
He frowned. "Are you telling me the truth? Or only what you think I want to hear?"
"Oh, it's true," Sands said. "I'm not much for lying anymore."
"Unless it suits your purpose," El said.
"Well, yeah."
Despite himself, El chuckled. They were alike in so many ways, he thought with some amazement.
He couldn't decide if that bothered him or not.
"So," Sands said brightly, "what happens after I tell you everything you want to know? Do you shoot me in the head? Or do you just get in your car and drive away?"
El said nothing. The last option was exactly what he had always planned on doing. But he suddenly realized it wasn't much of an option anymore.
He couldn't leave Sands alone. Not like this. Not now. The guilt he still felt would not let him. If he left, Sands wouldn't make it. Oh sure, he'd get by for a few weeks, scavenging what was left in the cupboards, skulking through the halls, too afraid to set foot outside the apartment. But then the landlord would come up again demanding the rent and when Sands didn't have it, he would be evicted and tossed out onto the street. Where he would be dead within a day.
The simple truth was that El couldn't leave. He was too involved now.
It pissed him off a little. When had his clever game become real? And why hadn't he realized what was happening?
"I know what you me want to tell you," Sands said. "What I don't know is why. Why you want to know my secrets. Why you want to know them badly enough to spring me from jail and allow this" – he held up his injured hand again – "to happen. So enlighten me, El."
"It was not my idea," he said, somehow needing to make that clear. "I was approached by a man one night. He said his name was Jorge Ramirez. He said he had left Mexico when you warned him, but that he was tired of living a lie. When he tried to return to his home, assassins attacked him. He knew he was still a target of the government. He believed you were the key, the one who could make it stop."
"I get it," Sands said, not without some smugness. "You thought I would spill my secrets so you could blackmail the government into erasing your name from its list. Then you could go on your merry little way."
"Are you saying that is not possible?" El asked. His heart was beating faster. It was not true, he thought furiously. It could not be true. He could not have done all this for nothing.
"Oh, it's possible," Sands drawled. He was grinning. "I just don't think you have any idea what's involved here."
"Then enlighten me," El said, throwing Sands' words back at him.
"Not until you answer my question," Sands said. "What happens after?"
Now was not the time to think about it. The game was over, anyway. He didn't even know if he had won or lost. Nor did he care. "I don't know," he said. "But I promise I will not kill you."
Sands seemed to consider this, then he nodded. "That's good enough for me." He took a deep breath.
"Okay. The following Secretaries of State are on cartel payroll…"