Chapter 16

Down Time

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Wish I did.

Author's Note: I should say here for the record that this story is by no means intended as a statement on the Mexican government. Everything I know about it has come from research on the Internet. This story is nothing but fiction. So with that out of the way, let's get going.

Many thanks to Melody for the last minute beta. You rock, girl!

Night fell, and they were still in Guayabo.

This was fine with Sands. He had no real desire to return to Culiacán, and the apartment where he had been tortured. Not to mention, there were definite benefits to sitting still and talking. Seated, he was equal to everyone around him. Walking, he was at a major disadvantage. So overall, he much preferred using his ass, not his feet.

They were at a little restaurant not far from the beach. Although they had finished dinner some time ago, the staff was obviously in no hurry to clear them out. Mariachis roamed through the room, and Sands would have given a good deal to know what El thought about that fact. He knew El missed being a mariachi. But he wondered if El knew yet that the simple life of a mariachi was forever denied him. He wondered if El was still kidding himself into thinking he could have that life back.

For his own sake, he very much hoped not.

El had been shocked to hear all the things wrong with the men currently in positions of power with Mexico's government. Men being paid by cartels to stay silent and look the other way. Men who freely partook of the cartels' products. Men who took their bribes in the form of money or land. On and on the list went, and Sands did not delude himself into thinking he knew even half of the government's secrets.

Still, what he knew was plenty damning. And in fact he thought it was enough to force the government to back off.

For a little while, at least.

He finished rolling another cigarette, lit it, and popped it in his mouth. "So?"

El huffed, but did not speak. Still thinking, then.

Fine. Sands inhaled deeply and let the smoke sit in his lungs for a while. He was content to sit here all night, if that's what El wanted. Part of him was even hoping El would suggest getting a motel room for the night, rather than make the drive back to Culiacán after too much sun and food and beer.

As reluctant as he was to admit it, today had been a good day. He had finally faced his fear of the dark, and he had emerged the victor. He had won. Today. Tomorrow it would be more of the same. And the day after that. And the day after that. For the rest of his life, he would fight the darkness. But he knew now that he was capable of beating it back. Not with anyone's help, but on his own. As nauseating as it was, El had gotten it right earlier today. He really could do this by himself.

He exhaled a thick plume of smoke. He still missed Chiclet, though.

"This is what I am thinking," El said suddenly, making him jump a little with surprise. Christ, he hated that. It had been one of the worst things about his imprisonment – never knowing when someone was going to speak, or sock him in the kidneys. Not being able to see what was coming really sucked.

"A phone call will not work with these men. Ramirez thought that we would only need to have you contact them, and they would listen to you. But I am thinking now that it will not be enough."

Sands was intrigued. "So you're thinking of something more drastic." He could dig it.

"I am thinking," El said, "that we need to pay these men a visit."

"Ah." He nodded. "Physical coercion plus blackmail. I like it."

"No," El said firmly. "We do not hurt anybody."

"I get it. We just stand there, looking very dour and ominous, is that? Well, I certainly remember you being good at that. Of course, you were mostly sitting, not standing." Sands couldn't help smirking. Damn, it felt good to be on top of things again. To have a plan. To know that he wasn't just a helpless blind man.

Silence stretched over their table. One of the mariachis ambled by, playing something festive. Sands resisted the urge to flip him off.

"I am surprised you remember me at all," El said quietly.

"Well, you would be surprised," Sands shot back, in a tone that left no doubt as to his thoughts on El's mental capacity. "I was CIA, remember? Trained to pay attention to details and all that. You should really try it sometime." He blew smoke in El's general direction. After two weeks of dancing around each other and playing games, he was thrilled to finally be holding an adult conversation once again.

"And what do you remember of me?" El asked.

It had been a long time since he had thought about that day in the cantina. Mostly he didn't think about things like that. Remembering the days when he had still been in possession of his eyes was not exactly a picnic, especially the days leading up to the coup. His fantastic stupidity still made him cringe just to think about it.

But he tried now, remembering how hot it had been in the cantina, how pissed off Cucuy had been at him for being called a Mexi-can't. He remembered his first look at El. Does it have a name? Overall his first impression was the one that had stayed with him through the years. Not much to look at, not much in the way of smarts, but a street sense and excellent survival skills. That was El Mariachi in a nutshell.

Or so he had thought. He knew differently now, of course. But back then he had only known the man for thirty seconds. And while his snap judgments were always accurate, they weren't always all-encompassing.

"I remember thinking that you were hiding behind your guitar," he said. "That if Cucuy hadn't let you hold it, you would have been tearing your napkin into little strips or drawing lines on the tablecloth with a fork. You couldn't sit still. You needed that guitar."

Chains jingled faintly as El moved in his chair, but he did not speak.

Sands warmed to his subject. "I thought you were putting on an act. You knew your reputation, and you figured you might as well be the broody killer everyone said you were. I don't think you looked at me for more than two seconds. You sounded sullen and fittingly tortured, but I saw the real pain you hide, when I showed you that photograph of General Marquez. I saw it in the way you suddenly gripped your guitar, like it was your lifeline, the only thing keeping your head above the raging water."

He grinned. "Want me to continue?"

El shifted again in his chair. "Can you?" There was a darker note to his voice now, turning the question into a thin threat.

"I knew you hated me," Sands said, ignoring the threat. "That was obvious. But I also knew you would do the job. Not because I asked you to, but because you wanted to. Because you wanted revenge. I knew that because you never once asked me about payment. I knew you were hoping that killing Marquez could lay your demons to rest and allow you to be at peace again. And I also knew that you would fail. That you would always fail. That you are doomed to forever wander, never knowing true peace or happiness." He took a chance. "I wonder if you know that yet."

El did not speak for a long moment. He was so still the chains did not jingle once. At last he said, "You sound very certain of yourself."

"I am," Sands said simply.

"Then why are you helping me? Why bother, if you are so certain that I will not be allowed to live my life in peace, like I want?"

He shrugged. "I don't have anything better to do."

But that wasn't entirely true. And one thing a year in prison had taught him was that there was a time for secrets, and a time to tell the truth. So he said, "And because, whether you want to believe it or not, I still believe in keeping the balance. And right now that means helping you beat the bad guys."

More silence, longer this time. At a table across the room, two women burst into loud laughter. Another mariachi strolled past, this one playing something soft and tuneful. El said, "I believe you."

"Good," Sands said. "It's good to know we're on the same page."

Chains jangled. El's chair scraped. "We should be going," he said.

"So soon?" Sands quipped. He hoped his lack of enthusiasm wasn't obvious.

"Not to Culiacán," El said. "I have had too much to drink. We will stay here tonight."

Privately Sands doubted that – El sounded awfully sober to him – but he just nodded slowly, as if this was sage advice. "Okay."

He felt for the ashtray and stubbed out his cigarette. "So where are we going?"

They stayed in a hotel on the beach. Two single beds. A bathroom with crappy water pressure. El snored half the night away. Sands lay flat on his back, limbs splayed out. A ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, and cool ocean air came in through the open window.

This was all right, he thought. It would be even better if El would ever stop snoring, but even that he could forgive. There was something comforting about another presence in the room. After almost a year with no one's companionship but his own, he was eager to share space with another human being who wasn't there to hurt him.

How wonderfully ironic that the human being in question should be El Mariachi.

He chuckled to himself and kicked at the sheets, pushing them into an even smaller ball at the foot of the bed. Life sure had a funny way of surprising you, that was for sure.

In the morning they went back to the open-air market. El bought some tamales and they ate those while walking. Sands was still not very comfortable with moving around much, and he felt his mood plunge as he tramped through the plaza, straining to distinguish El's footsteps from everyone else's. More than once he realized that if it weren't for the chains on the mariachi's outfit, it would be terribly easy to lose El altogether.

He wasn't too surprised when they ended up in front of the guitar vendor. Then of course El had to try every damn one of them, playing the same little bit of music, that annoying song his brother the drug lord had taught him. And then, after the sixtieth run-through of the song, El did manage to surprise him. "Do you play?"

He shook his head, using the gesture to cover his surprise. "Blind man, remember?"

"What about before?"

"No," he said. "Never did play guitar. But I was a mean tuba player in high school band."

He could only imagine the look El gave him after that one.

"Do you want to learn?" El asked.

For a moment he was too shocked to reply. Then a thousand responses ran through his head, each one more cutting and angry than the one that had come before it.

"I could teach you," El offered. "But you would have to be willing to learn. Otherwise, there wouldn't be any point to it."

"You seem to forget, I have no long-term plans to stay in Mexico," he said. It sounded lame, making him annoyed with himself. Why hadn't he thrown something caustic and witty in El's face?

"I have no idea how long it will take for the government to understand how serious we are," El said. "It could take some time. Until then, I need something to occupy my time. I think you do, too."

"So now we can both hide behind guitars?" There. It wasn't as witty as his usual rejoinders but it would suffice.

"I love to make music," El said. He coaxed a few notes from the guitar he was currently holding. "I always have. I feel more complete when I am around a guitar." A complex waterfall of sound fell from the strings. "Maybe you will find that is true for you, as well."

"You know, I really doubt it," Sands said. "But never let it be said that I turned away from a challenge. All right, El. You're on. Let's see if you can teach the blind man to play the guitar." He smirked. "Should we make this more interesting?"

"No bets," El said. "I am not interested in money."

He shrugged. "Your loss."

El spoke to the vendor. "This one. And that one there. The six-string."

Sands poked El in the arm. "Did I mention I can't read music?"

When they returned to the apartment in Culiacán, the first thing El did was call Jorge Ramirez.

The first thing Sands did was pour himself a drink. A very stiff one.

He stood with his back to the counter, leaning on it, hoping he looked casual, like he didn't give a shit about anything. When El walked into the kitchen, he took a sip of his drink, even though the only liquid left in the glass was watery and disgusting. "So, what did Jorge have to say?"

"He wanted to come with us," El said.

"I hope you made him realize that that would be a very bad idea," Sands said. He very much did not want Ramirez to return to Culiacán. And he really had no desire to hang out with Señor "Let's Wiggle That Finger One More Time" Archuleta again.

"He understands," El said. "Although he is not happy about it."

"Well, him being happy isn't a requirement," Sands snapped. "Him staying alive, is."

"I find it interesting that you care so much about him," El said. He tried hard to sound as if he wasn't all that curious, but Sands was not fooled.

"He saved my life," he said flatly. "Him and Chiclet. I owe him." Ramirez had been the key to everything, those first few days after the coup. Sands could not remember those days, but he knew a lot about them anyway. Ramirez could have handed him over to the cartel, or the police, or alerted the CIA or the FBI. Or he might have done nothing, and simply let Sands die. But he had not done any of those things. For that, Sands owed him, and owed him big.

"What about me?" El asked, still in that trying-too-hard tone of voice. "I saved your life at Juan Garcia's villa. Without me you would have been gunned down. Do you owe me, as well?"

Yes, Sands thought, but not for that. He set his glass down carefully, making sure it was not near the edge of the counter where he might accidentally knock it to the floor.

He owed El, all right. Not for getting him out of prison, because that hadn't been El's idea and anyway he didn't know just how involved El had been in the whole plan. No, he owed El for what had come after. For the past two weeks. For making him remember that there was more to the world than fear and darkness and four walls. For playing the game long after it had stopped being a game, and letting him fool himself – for a while – into believing that El really was being kind because El cared.

He owed El big time. But was he going to tell El that?

Hell no.

He put on his most innocent smirk. "I'll let you know," he said.

That night El noodled around on his new guitar. He was a hell of a lot better than the mariachis who had wandered around the restaurant in Guayabo. In fact, Sands thought he was actually pretty good, although of course he did not say as much.

He didn't say anything at all, in fact. He had learned the value of silence. He had learned it well. The government men who had come to the prison to teach him had done a very good job.

Of course the government had known. He suspected El Presidente had discovered his whereabouts within six hours of his arrest. But just like his old government, his new one had let him twist too. Apparently three years of mostly-loyal service, first to El's favorite presidente, then to the new one, meant absolutely nothing.

They hadn't had the courage to kill him, though. Because he was American, and former CIA, and because they weren't sure just how much he knew, and what repercussions his untimely death would have for them. So instead two men had arrived in his cell one day. There had been a very polite and dignified conversation about the importance of staying silent and keeping secrets, and then a very rude and undignified beating that left him retching on the floor, and then the two men had gone away. And the day after that, the guards had suddenly become very interested in finding ways to make his stay in prison a living hell.

The wonderfully funny part was that there were no secret plans, no bold announcements to be made upon his death. There were documents of course, in several safe deposit boxes scattered throughout the country, all under different names, but a truly determined government could rationalize most of those. And scandals were only interesting if one was alive to experience them. He had no real desire to topple the Mexican government if doing so meant being dead and unable to enjoy the results.

So he kept his mouth shut. In a way, he almost learned more about people through silence than through talking. Most people couldn't handle prolonged silence. They got nervous or guilty or worried. They started talking to fill the silence, and the longer it lasted, the more they spilled their guts.

El was different, though. El could cope with silence. Sitting there, hour after hour with nothing said between them, he was poignantly reminded of the years he had spent with Chiclet. The kid had always known when it was safe to talk. Apparently El Mariachi was the same way.

"Are you ready to begin learning?" El asked.

The question startled him, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Christ, he hated that. Why couldn't El clear his throat first or something, like most civilized people did?

He shrugged. "Sure." He didn't have anything else better to do tonight.

Guitar strings twanged. Chains jingled. Something thumped on the carpet. El came near, then the couch dipped as he sat next to Sands. "Have you ever held a guitar?"

Just two seconds in, and he already didn't like this lesson. "No. And by the way, if you continue talking to me like I'm five years old, I will break that guitar over your thick head."

El paused. "Okay," he said, in his normal voice.

He held up his left hand. "Not going to be using this one just yet."

"Not yet," El agreed. "You need to learn the guitar itself, first. Know it, then you can begin to make music."

Oh brother. He pursed his lips, wishing he had eyes to roll. "Just give me the damn thing."

El placed the guitar in his lap. He was surprised at first by how little it weighed; he had expected it to be heavier.

"Tuners." El took his right hand and placed it on the little metal knobs sticking out at the top.

El moved his fingers to the flat piece that the tuners were screwed into. "Head."

And so it went. On down to "bridge." It was kind of nice, in a really weird way. The last time he had been this close to someone, they had been holding him down so someone else could cut on him. Guitar lessons with El were a nice change of pace.

"When do we leave?" he asked.

El caught his breath, as though he had nearly blurted out something and only stopped himself at the last minute. After a few moments he said, "Next week. We will need time to plan, and get supplies and maps."

Sands nodded. "You don't need maps," he said. He tapped his temple. "Everything you need is up here."

"We need maps," El said firmly.

Sands shrugged. "Whatever you say."

He had his answer anyway. A week. Seven more days of freedom, to do whatever he wanted.

He smiled. Life was good.