Chapter 17
Seven Days
Disclaimer: I wish they were mine, but since I'm not Robert Rodriguez, they're not.
Author's Note: Tired of the slow stuff? Look for the action to resume again next chapter. Also, there is one more chapter after this, and then an epilogue. I will be posting them together, so everyone can read the ending all in one go. Look for it to be posted before the weekend!
On the first day, Sands slept late. He woke up with a headache, and in a bad mood. Last night he had felt like he had been given the gift of a week. This morning he resented every hour that stood between him and his goal. Ever day he had to wait was just one more day he had to spend in Mexico.
He didn't have to stay here, he knew. He could find a way to get his ass out of the country, just like he had always planned. But the logistics of such a move were daunting, and even the thought of trying to make it to the local bus station on his own made his heart start to race.
Besides, he really did owe El. After everything El had done for him, it was time to return the favor. That meant doing what he could to give El that dream life of peace the mariachi had always wanted.
And on the other hand, he wouldn't mind putting the screws to the government. He couldn't touch the CIA of course, so the Mexican government would have to do. And he owed them, too. For letting him rot in jail for a year. For thinking they could toss him in a cell and forget about him. For underestimating him.
He smiled grimly as he rose from bed. In a way he couldn't blame them. He had made it easy for them to think he wasn't a threat. He hadn't intended it to happen, but it had, and now he meant to make use of that fact.
He could practically hear them, El Presidente's two closest advisors. One would be urging the president to watch the borders and the port cities, expecting Sands to flee. The other would be telling the president that there were men trained to handle this kind of thing, to send them in and finish this sorry bit of business now, before things got too far out of hand.
El Presidente himself, wimp that he was, would order both solutions to be carried out. Which meant Culiacán would soon be crawling with government spies and assassins. If they weren't already here, that was.
He would have to warn El. Maybe now wasn't the best time to think about leaving the city. Maybe they should just lay low for a while and let the shitstorm pass them by. Sooner or later the men looking for him would start to whisper among themselves and say he wasn't here, that he hadn't been here for a long time, and speaking of time, wasn't it high time they abandoned this useless job?
Given enough time, that was exactly what would happen, and he knew it. Unfortunately, time was not on their side. There was no way El Mariachi would consent to wait even longer to start living his own life. And in truth, Sands had to admit waiting around wasn't his strong suit, either.
It was time to shit or get off the pot. He could dig it.
On the second day Sands thought about Chiclet.
He lay on his back on the couch, left arm over his head, right arm dangling off the cushions. An ashtray was on the floor within reach, but he was not smoking.
He really missed Chiclet. It was surprising, how deep the hurt was even after a year. He would have thought he would be done grieving by now. It was kind of annoying to find out otherwise.
Had the situation been different, he would have liked to follow through on his original plan and talk to Chiclet's family. But that was out of the question. Not with government spooks out there. So instead he turned to the only other person who might understand.
"Did you know Chiclet could burp the alphabet?" One of the boy's more obscure talents, to be sure, but one that had never failed to end with both of them giggling with laughter. "And your alphabet's got four more letters than mine. That's pretty impressive."
"What else could he do?" El's voice came from the other end of the room, near the kitchen. He wondered what El was up to.
Sands did not respond right away. He was remembering Chiclet's bright laughter, the way the bedsprings would squeak as the kid rolled around laughing at something stupid on the TV. Chiclet had a good sense humor, and he loved pulling pranks on people just to watch their reaction. He had lots of stories about his brothers and the stuff they pulled, and he was good at bringing a story to life so you felt like you were right there with him.
Or rather, he had been good at it. Chiclet was not going to tell any more stories. Not ever again.
"What did he look like?" Sands asked. He remembered kneeling on the floor, sobbing brokenly, hating himself for not even knowing what Chiclet had looked like at the end. "Was he a good-looking kid?"
After a pause, El said, "Not yet. But he would be one day. You could see it."
Sands appreciated the honesty. "I only saw him once," he said.
"Before the coup," El said.
Sands let this blatantly obvious statement slide past unremarked. "He tried to sell me some bubble gum. That's why I called him Chiclet."
He cocked his head to one side. "Say, El, what's your name?"
El made a wheezy sound that was probably meant as laughter. "You don't know?"
"Would I be asking if I knew?" Sands retorted.
"I do not know your name, either," El pointed out.
"Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. Now you know. So spill it."
El told him his name.
Sands nodded. "Now we're even."
El said nothing. This too Sands appreciated. He liked the fact that El wasn't one of those people who felt compelled to fill every silence with inane chatter.
"Do you want to know what I look like now?" El asked.
The question surprised him. "Why? Have you grown up, too?"
El chuckled, the laugh sounding a bit more genuine this time. "Perhaps. But I am not the same man you met four years ago."
"Okay." He could stand to update his mental image of El Mariachi.
El said, "I am four years older than you remember."
"Way to go, El. We all are, thanks very much." Sands was annoyed now that he had risen to the bait.
"I found a gray hair last month," El said. "There are new lines around my eyes. I do not wear the bracer on my left hand." He hesitated. "I have begun to talk to God again."
"Good for you," Sands said. "Tell him I said hi."
"Are you a religious man?"
"No. Never was."
"Why not?"
Sands shrugged. "I just never was." He supposed he hadn't liked the idea of there being someone out there with all the knowledge, all the power, pulling all the strings. That kind of position was reserved for himself.
"What about Chiclet?" El asked.
"Did he believe in God? I don't know. We never talked about it." He wondered now what the boy had believed. Chiclet had been a good person at heart, but Sands didn't know how much of that came from religion and how much came from within.
"I am surprised," El said mildly. "Somehow I pictured him confiding in you. Sharing all his secrets."
Sands shook his head. "It wasn't like that at all."
"I see," El said.
He thought of the long silences, the hours when he had been content merely to know Chiclet was nearby, that he was not alone in the dark. "No," he said. "You really don't."
On the third day Sands helped El put together a recipe El got off the TV. Some stupid cooking show where the chef liked to pound the counter a lot. But the food sounded good, and El announced he was willing to try.
That afternoon El went to the market to buy the ingredients. Sands helpfully wiped down the countertops, then took a nap. He had been good in the kitchen once, but it was awfully hard to cook when you couldn't see the difference between half a cup and two-thirds of a cup.
They hadn't done too badly, he had to admit later. El had done most of the work, while he had stood in the corner and directed. He had never been one to follow directions to the letter, and he had insisted El do the same. It was the creative variations to a recipe that made it interesting. He had tried explaining this to El, but even though El pretended to get it, he thought El was still a follow-the-directions man at heart.
The vegetables were a little overcooked, but everything else came out great. He saluted El with his beer bottle. "Whaddaya think, El? Should we start our own cooking show?"
El chuckled wryly. "I think not."
"Ah well." Sands took a long swig from his beer. Who cared? The food still tasted good.
On the fourth day Sands did not speak at all. He dreamed of bitter darkness, only to wake to a reality that was indistinguishable from the dream. He felt sour and mean, and he was afraid to move around too much, in case he walked into a wall or someone's fist. He did not want to spend any more time with El Mariachi. He missed Chiclet. He missed his eyes. He wanted them back. He wanted his life back.
Dinner was a sullen affair, consisting of leftovers from yesterday's feast. He ate very little, having no appetite. After trying once or twice to coax him into conversation, El stopped trying. Perversely, El's acceptance only made his mood even blacker. He felt like a fight. He wanted El to suggest another guitar lesson so he could take up the instrument and beat El over the head with it.
But El did not offer, so Sands had to content himself with imaginary violence that night.
On the fifth day, they laid their plans. They would have to strike hard, and fast. Whoever they confronted first would no doubt warn the others, and that was not allowed. Their first victim – and indeed all of them – would have to learn the value of silence.
Sands laughed bitterly. He knew plenty of ways to make a man stay silent. Unfortunately, they did not have a year and a room full of jackbooted guards. In each case, they would have no more than half an hour to speak to their target before they would have to leave.
They planned to hit six men. Six houses, each in the wealthiest district in Mexico City. Six Secretaries of State, each man ruling a different department. Six men, each a criminal in his own way.
"How is it that you know these things?" El asked him.
"I made it my business to know," Sands said. He still didn't feel like talking, but he didn't have much choice today. "And these guys, they like their lifestyle, El. They like being government ministers. They show off. So there I am, walking my new beat, loving my new job. I make sure I get invited to a fancy dinner one night. I stroll the grounds with my faithful young guide and friend at my side, and by the time the evening winds down, I know all their security measures and how to bypass them." He blew a cloud of smoke in El's direction. "Very simple, really."
"Simple," El said. It was kind of an annoying habit, really, the way the mariachi would repeat one word out of the dozens you had just said.
"Simple." Or not. "Of course, I don't have any security codes. I couldn't figure those out just from Chiclet's descriptions." He smirked.
"We do not need codes," El said.
"Sure." He nodded. "Smash and grab. I get it."
"We will not be in each house long enough for security alarms to bother us," El said. He sounded very confident. "What we require will not take that long."
That much was true. Taken off guard in the middle of the night, a gun shoved in their faces, quiet threats whispered in their ear…most of these men would fold fast. He expected only one or two to resist, but it would be a token resistance only. They could do nothing until the following morning, when they had the safety of their numbers to back them up. Alone in their beds, they were easy prey.
"I do not like this one, the Secretary for Agriculture. He is married."
"Yeah, but only six months of the year. She spends the winters in Spain."
El made a non-committal noise, but Sands knew he was pleased. El was a soft touch. He wouldn't harm any women or children if he could help it.
Afterward, when the threats had been made and the noses had been bloodied, they would retreat to a hideout in Acapulco. They could be there by sunrise if all went well, and if they didn't go well, then things like a hideout wouldn't matter.
He would make a few phone calls from Acapulco, to check on the progress of things. "I know someone," he said. "He put me in touch with Nicolas, the one who betrayed your Presidente. As far as I know, he's still there. Guys like him will always be there." He didn't tell El his contact's name, though. He had to keep some secrets, after all.
"Are you sure it is safe?" El asked again. By Sands' count, it was the fourth time El had asked. Each time, he imagined the mariachi standing there with a furrowed brow and an unhappy squint.
"As sure as I can be," he said, "seeing as how I've spent the last year locked away from the rest of the world."
He imagined El wincing. Not because El felt guilty for having him put in prison, but because it made him feel better to pretend that El felt guilty.
"Besides," he added, "it's on the beach. Wouldn't you like to work on your tan? Sip piña coladas and make googly eyes at the pretty touristas?"
"No," El said gruffly.
Sands shrugged. "Your loss." After all, he wasn't about to get laid any time soon. It would be nice if one of them did. Maybe then El wouldn't be so fricking uptight all the time.
"How long before they call?" El asked. He was pacing now, back jingle and forth jangle, back jangle and forth jingle. Yesterday the incessant noise would have made Sands fly into a homicidal rage. Today he found it strangely soothing.
"A day, two at most. They'll have to huddle together first and reassure themselves that they aren't about to be shot in the head from a distance when they're getting into their cars. Then they'll tell themselves that it's the best thing, that we aren't really that much of a threat anyway, that they'll be watching us, that we are the ones in danger, not them. And when they've made themselves feel better, they'll go to El Presidente and tell him that they think he should call off the surveillance and cancel the plan to balance us out of the equation. He'll be shocked at first and demand to know why they have changed their minds, but they'll bluster and get defensive and finally, because he has a two o'clock meeting he's already late for, he'll nod and say yes and that will be that."
"And then they will call," El prompted.
"They'll call the number we give them. They'll say, 'Okay, we have a deal. You're free to go on about your business.' We'll remind them of the price they'll pay should they renege. And then we hang up, toss the cell phone into the ocean, and leave Acapulco. Although it might be nice to get rip-roaring drunk first." He grinned.
El did not seem to share his positive outlook. "How can we be sure they will do what they say?"
"You can't," Sands said. He was starting to lose his patience with El. "That's the way it goes, El. You don't win. But they don't win, either."
"Keeping the balance," El murmured.
"Exactly." Sands sat back in his chair. Maybe there was hope for El. "That's what I do, after all."
On the sixth day he fell asleep on the couch and dreamed the same old dream, the one where he was drawn helplessly toward that shadowed doorway and the darkness that lurked beyond. He woke up flailing and fell off the couch.
For a moment he simply lay on the floor, breathing hard as though he had just run a marathon. If the couch had been high enough off the floor, he would have scuttled beneath it, curled up, and wished himself dead. Instead he had to content himself with sprawling where he had landed and quietly whimpering.
Boots approached. Chains jingled. "What happened?" El's voice trailed off even as he asked the question. "Oh."
Sands just lay there. "I think the couch shrank."
El chuffed with amusement. "Or maybe your ass is growing."
"You been looking at my ass?" It was hard to muster the right amount of sarcasm, but he managed.
"I am not that desperate," El said dryly.
"I'm telling you, El, there's tons of pretty ladies on the beaches of Acapulco. I bet some of them even like broody mariachis."
El snorted, then walked off.
Sands sat up and readjusted his sunglasses. They weren't the best way to protect his sockets, but they were so much cooler than eye patches. He wasn't really into the whole pirate look.
He sighed and pulled himself to his feet. Maybe his ass really was growing. God knew he had lost enough weight in jail; the meals there made McDonald's seem like a gourmet feast. And with El cooking every night, he actually had an interest in food again.
Which reminded him, it was almost time for lunch.
On the seventh day, Sands learned to play a song.
Granted, it wasn't a very complicated song. But he had always liked it, and it was actually kind of amazing to hear "Brown-Eyed Girl" coming from his own fingers.
"Now you are a mariachi, too," El said with amused satisfaction.
"Do I get an outfit?" Sands quipped. "Or maybe just part of one, since I only know one song. Can I have the jacket?"
"You already have my cummerbund," El reminded him.
"Crap," Sands sighed. "Red isn't my color."
El chuckled.
That wasn't unusual anymore, Sands thought with interest as he experimented with a chord. El seemed to find many things amusing these days.
Then again, so did he. It was amazing how much more fun life was when he had someone to share it with. He would never be able to call El Mariachi a friend, he supposed, but certainly El was not his enemy anymore.
He frowned. Just what exactly did that make El?
"How are your fingers?" El asked.
He flexed them. "Okay." In truth they hurt like a son of a bitch, but he wasn't going to say that out loud. Just because he wasn't really ready to play the guitar didn't mean he was going to do the expected thing. Nor was he going to let the pain stop him from playing a song with only three chords in it.
"Why did you just ask me that?" he demanded suddenly. It was an un-El-like question. It was a question El would have asked two weeks ago, when they had both been playing at their games. Back when El had pretended to be kind and he had pretended not to notice the lie.
Chains lightly moved as El shrugged. "There is no point in any more lessons if you aren't ready."
"Why do you care?" he persisted. "After tomorrow there aren't going to be any more lessons. I'm leaving the country, remember? And you're going back to wherever it is you came from, Guadalajara or Guitar Town or Mariachiville. So what difference does it make if my fingers hurt or not?"
El was silent for a long time. Then he said, "I don't know. But it does make a difference."
Sands bit his lip so he wouldn't say anything stupid. He just nodded, making sure his head was down enough so his hair fell forward and hid his face.
He didn't want El to see his expression just then.