I'm alive – and the world shines for me today
I'm alive – suddenly I am here to today
Seems like forever and a day
Thought I could never feel this way
Is this really me?
I'm alive
I'm alive
I'm alive – and the dawn breaks across the sky
I'm alive – and sun rises up so high
Lost in another world – far away
Never another world – 'til today
But what can I say?
I'm alive
I'm alive
I'm alive
Suddenly came the dawn – out of night
Suddenly I was born – Into light
How can it be real?
I'm alive
I'm alive
I'm alive – and world shines for me today
I'm alive – suddenly I am here today
Seems like forever and a day
Thought I could never feel this way
Is this really me?
I'm alive
I'm alive
I'm alive
Not something you could see Sands singing…? I don't know, I think he's just twisted enough to have something that cheesy going through his head as he lies dying in the street… the song is I'm Alive, by the Electric Light Orchestra (total disco hell according to my husband), and is from the movie Xanadu, made in the early 1980's.
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Chapter One
Living La Vida Loca
The strangest tune is going through my head… I'm alive, and the world shines for me today… God, this must be Hell. There's disco! I almost scream – except screaming takes energy and right now, I'm using all my energy to find my feet. Cool, they're still on the ends of my legs.
Now, if I could just get them onto the ground, too… there – damn, glasses are slipping… Around me, I smell the sweet scent of carnage. Blood. Bullets. Rotting meat. Yeah, my kinda scene all right – I'm kinda sad I can't see it. There is nothing more satisfying than surveying my own handiwork. Despite everything, I find a small smile creeping onto my lips as I try to imagine what the street around me must look like. I still have the magic touch… (of course the small part of my brain that's functioning 'normally' is telling me that this is drug and adrenaline induced euphoria – what the hell, euphoria is euphoria, right?)
I push the dark glasses back into place and do my best imitation of a man standing up. Damn. There goes the euphoria – standing on legs that have been shot full of led is no easy task. Each step sends a jolt of pure fire through my battered body. What a way to end an otherwise successful career. Ok, ok, not totally successful – gheeze, everybody's a critic. I got sent down to this little cesspool because I screwed one time too many – I always get results, but I always seem to leave a trail of bodies in my wake. Sometimes the Company actually wants a thing handled quietly – and I just don't do quiet real well, even when I'm trying.
Through the haze of internal fire I find myself stumbling… with a little help from my small companion I manage to find a wall to lean against (without tumbling headlong into it) and I take a moment to catch my breath and figure out what to do next. Nope. So far no brilliant plans leaping to mind... I lean my head against the wall, wishing for a cigarette and a shot of tequila. I take that back. I want the whole damned bottle of tequila andgreat big fat juicy lime to go with it.
I listen to the kid - he's just waiting. Patiently. You know, this may actually be the only kid I've voluntarily spent any time with at all. And that was only out of sheer fucking necessity. Still – he's been a pretty good sport, all things considered. If I make it back to my hotel, I'll give him something for his trouble... this, of course, is assuming I continue to live. That may be a pretty big assumption.
Hmph. I can actually feel the rough texture of the adobe through the blood soaked shirt, scraping at the skin of my back. Funny how one little pain is actually more of a bother than all the other pain I feel right now.
Pain? No, pain is a pale, pale word to describe what I'm feeling – and that's just the physical wounds – my mind isn't yet ready to begin coming to grips with the rest of it… maybe that's why my brain is wandering all over the map with its random musings.
I almost don't hear the footsteps approaching… a familiar cadence. Ramirez. Nice to know he made it out alive (insert sarcasm, kiddies. I honestly do not give a rat's fat ass.) I "look" in the direction of the footsteps.
"Hey," he says by way of greeting.
I hear him take out the cell and toss it in my general direction. Either he's a good pitcher, or my luck is improving, because I catch it one handed. "Did you get your man?" I ask.
"One of them."
"Well if that isn't interagency cooperation than I just – I just don't know what is," I manage half a smile.
"See you later," he tells me.
Damn him. Then… maybe he hasn't figured it out? Hell – if not than we're both fucking blind. "Fuck you," I mutter back in his general direction – although I can already hear the retreating footstepsso I'm not sure he's heard me. I'm not sure I care.
"Are you ok?" The kid asks me then.
I surprise myself by giving him an honest answer: "I don't know." I mean, there's blood oozing from what used to be my… never mind, it's oozing all down my face, hot and sticky and collecting dust. I'm sure I've got at least one bullet lodged in me – probably two. Several bullet holes. No, I really don't think I'm going to be ok – I'm not sure I want to be ok.
"You will be," says the kid.
Fuck – little twerp has got to be kidding. I've been, as the saying goes, pumped full of lead. My body is a hunk of stinking Swiss cheese. I'm pretty sure that some of the drug cocktail they gave me to keep me awake during my earlier "medical procedure" is still floating around my system, too. I hurt – fuck do I hurt – but I know it should be worse. I'm still a little numb above the neck… And I know that's going to change real soon. Real soon I'm going to blow my own fucking head off, just to stop the pain, because I can already feel my eye sockets starting to burn… Christ, listen to yourself, Sands… since when is "give up" in you God damned vocabulary? I try to straighten – and feel myself falling over – and a small hand props me up. Great. The mighty Sheldon Jeffrey Sands has fallen so far he needs a ten year old just to keep from kissing dirt.
"I could take you somewhere – somewhere to rest."
"Where?" Beggars shouldn't be choosers – but after the last twelve hours, I'm a little more paranoid than usual. Fuck me. If I'd been my usual paranoid self, I wouldn't be in this fucking mess and I know it. I have no one to blame but myself.
That thought settles nice and slow into my brain. It feels kinda like ice water tricklingdown my spine to really realize that this whole damned thing was my own doing… yeah, this is your own fault, fuckmook… your own damned fucking fault. You, my friend, are a moron, says my brain to the rest of me. And I know it's right. All that little bitch had to do was wiggle her sweet ass in my face a few times and here I am… and I never saw it coming.
"Come – come, I show you."
Huh? Oh, right. Kid. I almost forgot he was still standing there. Waiting. Waiting for me. Waiting for me to decide whether or not to trust him… Hell, I don't know what I need more, a cigarette or a shot of tequila… or to just crawl under a rock somewhere and quietly bleed to death.
I try to swallow back the fear of further betrayal – I'm not really ready to die in the street like some unwanted dog.
I remind myself that this kid has been more loyal to me than my own people were– more loyal than the Company … Hell, he's been more loyal than that damned mariachi – not that El owed me anything – I only handed him the one thing he had to want more than anything else in the world… God damn them all to Hell and back again… everything is black – but I can feel it getting blacker. Blood loss – shock – I'm sure I'm about to pass out where I stand; now that the adrenaline rush is gone, the drugs seem to be wearing off fast. I feel a small hand place itself in mine and give a gentle tug. "Ok, kid, lead on," I find myself saying – what else is there to do but lie here and bleed to death – and somehow that just doesn't feel like an option. Giving up is something I've never been very good at...
"Give it up Sheldon," the biggest of the four boys surrounding me sneers – somehow the way he says my name, it sounds like some kind of disease or something.
The four boys are not only bigger, they're older by two and three years.
I'm ten. Alison is six. She's sitting on the ground crying – the one who sneered my name pushed her off her bike – it used to be my bike, but I told her she could have it, even though it's too big for her – she's never had a bike. Now Chester Wheaton has it – just because he can, not because he needs another one – and I mean, a guy with a name like Chester doesn't have any room to pick on me about my name, right? Only all his rat-fink friends call him Chet. And he's the big cheese around here.
Only I've never been real good with authority figures, either… the bigger they are, the harder they fall. "I said, give my sister her bike back!" I snarl with all my ten year old might.
"Make me!"
"It's ok, Shelly – don't worry about it," Alison whimpers tearfully, grabbing at my arm. "Come on – let's just go home – please!"
"Yeah, Shelly," Chet sneers some more. I watch him take off on my sister's bike with his friends. But I know I'll get even. I was always a conniving little prick. Even as I'm bending to see how badly Alison's been hurt, my mind is churning – creating and discarding ideas…
"Shelly, it's not worth it," Alison continues to plead.
I look at the four of them. They look at me. Finally I back down. Ostensibly. I help Alison up and she hobbles along beside me, leaning on me for support as we walk the two blocks back to the row of ugly brown houses. Attached housing – row homes. Call it whatever you want to, it means we're poor. We don't even own our ugly brown house – Mom is a renter.
I help my little sister up the steps while the neighbours watch – no one offers to help. No one thinks much of us – I mean, come on a single mom and two little kids – has to be bad news, right… down right scandalous.
It's always the same – no matter where we go, we don't fit in. I've given up trying. Poor Alison had a best friend the last place we lived – it broke her heart to have to leave… I pull the key out from under my shirt – I wear it on a string around my neck – and let us in.
Mom is still at work when we get home – but maybe that's a good sign. Maybe that means that this job will work out and we won't have to move again – only this time I wouldn't mind moving so much. Chet seems to have made it his personal mission in life to make my life miserable since we moved in six weeks ago. And the real kicker – his old man is Mom's boss. That's the why Alison didn't want me to make a big deal out of the bike – she's pretty clever for a six year old.
I get her to the bathroom and wash off her scraped knees and elbows and have a look at her head. She's gonna have a goose egg for sure – so I grab some ice from the freezer and wrap it in a towel for her to hold over the lump while I get the hydrogen peroxide, mercurochrome, and bandages from the medicine chest. I'm not technically allowed into the medicine chest – but someone has to patch Alison up. Someone has to take care of her – and that someone has been me for most of the last four years.
Mom is always working – sometimes two and three jobs and I'm only beginning to understand why it has to be this way…
I make Alison her favourite – a peanut butter and banana sandwich and park her in front of the dinky tv in the living room – she gets the last banana. I settle for plain peanut butter on crackers. We're out of bread too. I'm pretty used to being out of everything. Doesn't really matter – I don't really even taste the staleness of the crackers anyway, because my mind is so busy thinking. There is a reason I will go on to become the president of the chess club in a few years when we finally settle down…
We don't mention the bike to Mom the next morning – Alison and I are both in bed by the time she came home from work – and Mom is so busy she doesn't notice it missing… Within the week, the bike is home again, Chet is in the hospital and even if we do end up moving again, that's ok. I didn't like the way Mom's boss was always making her stay late. Now that I'm older, I have a much better idea why… apparently, nastiness runs in Chet's family. Maybe it runs in mine as well… my old man was always a heartless creep too, after all…
I have no idea how long I've been stumbling along beside the kid – I strain to hear the sounds of the rest of the city – gunfire, both distant and not so distant – some yelling – I can only make out every seventh or eight word – it's hard to concentrate because of the throbbing above my shoulders. It's like my whole face is on fire – and for a few frightened moments I wonder how bad it really is… but the kid hasn't said anything. The taxi driver didn't seem to react to me as if I looked like some kind of monster… bet they would if they knew me better. But that's all internal – I can hide that. It's the external I'm worried about now… yeah, I know, fucking vain, but I've always had such devilish good looks. I'd hate to loose the edge they give me…
I gulp back the bile threatening to rise. I am not going to puke my guts out in the street. Just because I used to have the face of an angel… just because no one is ever going to look at me again… just because I'm never going to see another God damned thing… that's no reason to roll over and die, is it? Sure, what the fuck ever…
I realize the kid is saying something – only I haven't heard it, because I wasn't paying attention – but I feel him steadying me on my unsteady feet. Why the fuck should this kid want to help me? And why should I trust him? Well the second question is pretty easy – my choices are fucking limited. Limitado, my brain tells me in Spanish. I have to stop to catch my breath – I can barely stand.
My body seems to be getting heavier, my brain is slowing down – a combination of shock and blood loss, no doubt. Oh yeah, and bullets. I'm sure there's at least one lodged inside – frankly I don't know why I'm still alive to ponder it. Maybe I really did piss off a gypsy in a past life – Hell, with the way the last twenty four hours have gone, I probably pissed off a whole damned caravan of 'em…
"Come," my pint sized compadre urges me on after what seems like barely half a second. Time has lost all meaning – for all I know we've been wandering the streets of Culcuin for hours – or maybe just minutes. I don't know. I don't care. But apparently my tour guide does, because he won't let up until I start walking again.
Step. Step. Step. Step. Stumble. Step. Step. Oops… dirt – I spit out the dry grit and my young friend helps me back to what I think might pass for a standing position – only I can't move. I lean against the nearest wall, the hard adobe scraping against my back – which already feels as if it's had a cheese grater taken to it. I know I'm not gonna make it. I've put in a valiant effort – I even took out the bad guys with me. But this is it, finito, the end. It doesn't so much feel like giving up as simply acknowledging of the truth.
And I've lived a good life, right? I've had my fair share of the fun – I drank some great tequila – ate all the slow roasted pork a man could ever want – killed a few too-good cooks – taken out a few bad guys, made a few bucks along the way – it's been a whirl wind ride, but it's time to get off. Time to pay the piper… and at least I'll be in good company. Ajedrez is probably sitting down in Hell right now, just waiting for me… what? Yes, I'm quite sure I'm on my way down to old Hob. Saint Pete would laugh his wings off at me if I showed up at Heaven's Pearly Gates.
See, I know haven't done good things – but I have done necessary things. The world is a safer place because of me – Christ, I am so full of shit. The world will be a safer place after I've quietly bled to death here on the street in butt-fucking Mexico.
I don't really regret much – a few things – Emma, maybe. But not her mother (although maybe I should – that would be the afore mentioned hippy-chick. And unlike my old man, I did step up to the plate and at least offer up cold hard cash, when Holly finally let me in on her little secret. I would have stepped up sooner, if she'd seen fit to tell me about the end result of that summer by the lake. I should have learned then that you can never trust a woman.) Oh well, c'est la vive, as they say in France. Emma is probably better out without knowing me – and Holly's been pretty good about sending me photos and general updates. Not that I check that P.O. box more than twice a year… what the hell, it's not like I've spent more than a week a time stateside in… hell. A Fucking long time.
I do regret not seeing more of my sister (she doesn't really count in the woman category – sisters are exempt – just ask any of the creeps who tried to hit on her while I was around – they learned fast not to think of her as a girl.)
I didn't even make it to Mom's funeral (not a regret, just something Alison gave me crap over.) What I can I say; I was a little tied up on Bogotá at the time. Hey, it's not my fault my mother decided to go into cardiac arrest while I was up to my Johnson in international espionage, mayhem, and murder. Christ, cut a guy a little slack, ok? It wasn't like I could actually do anything, the old lady was dead before she hit the floor – and Alison's always been better at that shit than I ever was. I'd just have been under her feet.
But yeah, I kinda wish I'd seen a little more of my sister over the years… once upon a time we were almost close.
Seen… even if I make it through the Day of the Dead (that humour of it hasn't escaped me either), I'm never going to see anyone every again… not that I ever did… not the way other people do. I know I'm creep and I make no apologizes for it. I don't regret the things that most people think I should and I don't regret who I am. I have contributed to the world around me – I've made a difference. I've kept the balance.
Fuck, even with a couple of little regrets along the way, it's not been a bad life, not a bad life at all… and my own shit had to catch up with me eventually, right?
I realize my diminutive tour guide is trying to get me moving again. Why am I bothering… oh well, I make the effort. Step. Step. Step. Step. One foot in front of the other in the dark. One hand against the rough adobe wall – one hand tucked into the kid's. Hell, I think this may be the first time in my forty two years of life that I've actually held a kid's hand – hey, I said I stepped up with cash, I did not ever do the Daddy thing. I mean – it's not like I had much of an example of what a father should be – and Holly didn't even tell me about Emma until Em was four. So – don't give me any shit about my lack of warm fuzziesover thefruit of myloom. For all I know, Em thinks I'm long dead… and depending on how the next few hours go, I just might be...
And I'm still trying to figure out exactly how and when this operation got away from me. I mean, I don't mean to sound like a totally egotistical jackass (even if I may be one at times – but hey, no apologizes, right?) – however – even factoring in the unstable factors – El, for instance – there was no reason for this thing to roll up – i.e. go to shit. I've been in worse – Bogotá was no fucking church picnic. Neither was Croatia or the fucking Middle East. And Christ – that thing in China a few years ago… but you get the idea. I've been all over the world and wherever I go, there is shit – there's shit before I get there and even more shit when I leave – but at least when I leave the job is done – and I usually manage to mop up my own shit pretty darned good. I have never, ever been caught with my – er – pants down. Not until now.
So why did it go to shit this time?
It went to shit because of some bitch – some sweet piece of ass that I just couldn't keep my hands off… ok, there have been plenty of pieces of ass in my life – but for about three seconds I let myself think that this one was different. Not in a life-long partner kind of way – but a 'I'm willing to stick my neck out' sort of way. An 'I want to spend a few months screwing you' kind of way. Onlywhat she wanted to do was screw me over... big difference. Big mistake. My mistake.
See, most of the women in my life have been meaningless one nighters – a few that turned into two or three nighters… but you get the idea. It's not that I'm just some pig it's just that – well, Hell, in my line of work making long-term commitments isn't really an option, ok? Lesson learned the hard way… but Ajedrez knew who I was up front and it wasn't like she wanted to play house. She wasn't some tree hugging hippy vegetarian. She liked guns. She liked sex. She liked me. I stopped using her. I started scheming schemes that included her.
And she was using me the whole time.
She used me like use other people. Only at least I try to give them something for their trouble.
I gave El his revenge.
I gave Ramirez his revenge.
And what do I get?
I get my fucking eyes drilled out.
And I never even saw it coming…
God damn it, Sands you're a fucking moron. I berate myself for several long moments as I stumble blindly through the war torn streets of Culiacan. A war that I started. Oh, it was going to happen with or without me – but I made it happen this way. I lined them all up like dominos. El, Ramirez, the Presidente, the General – I lined them up good. I lined them up and I prepared to sit back and watch them fall… just like Chet fell – although his was a little more literal...
You didn't see it coming… Hell no, I didn't see it coming! How could I? The Company checked her out – how in the Hell did it get past us that she was Barillo's daughter for Christ's sake? How in the HELL does the Central Fucking Intelligence Agency MISS something like THAT?
And then it hits me, that thing that's been nagging at the back of my brain for most of the day. And I stop and suck in air – I stagger back against a wall and am silently grateful for its presence because without it, I'd be lying flat on my back. Again. And that, I tell myself, is how this whole thing started… flat on my back. Albeit with a beautiful woman on top… perfidious bitch…
The Company couldn't possibly have missed that little blip in Ajedrez's background. There is no fucking way – Barillo isn't that good. Ajedrez isn't that good. Someone knew. Someone had to know. The Company had to know. The kid is tugging me to move, but I ignore the little fuckmook.
This revelation, coupled with a conspicuous lack of back up when I asked for it anda very dead cell phone -- and call me paranoid, but I think I've been set up. Fuck me. Fuck me long and hard with a God damned chainsaw. Jesus, I'd kill for a cigarette about now. And a great big bottle of tequila. Something I could really drown myself in. Fuck me. I've been burned. I've been burned but good.
"Senor – come, please – it is not far now."
No, kid, it isn't far at all. In fact, it's just about over. I've been hung out to dry. "I – don't think it matters," I mutter in Spanish. "I'm about – done." Cooked. Fried. Slow fucking roasted. Burned.
Of course I could be over reacting – maybe it's just Collins I've pissed off one time too many – or Suarez. I can't imagine the entire Agency out to get me. Even I'm not that paranoid. Yet.
"No – we are almost there," the kid tells me. "Just a few steps more. You can make it."
I almost laugh – except I can't quite hold my head up any more. No, it isn't the sure knowledge that I've been burned – or even the knowledge that I contributed to my own downfall by buying into Ajedrez's bullshit hook, line and sinker, like some hormone driven teenager. I can't keep my head up because of the throbbing that's managed to cut through the burning agony above my neck. It starts in right in the middle of what used to be my eyes and stabs through to the back of my skull like someone's going at me with a knife. A nice big saw blade knife… maybe a Ginsu – nothing as classy as a Hinkle –yeah, the throbbing is definitely being caused by something you'd see advertised at three o'clock in the morning on some fucking info-mercial. But that's not all…!
Somebody just give me a gun and let me blow my own God damned head off already. Between the pain and the stupid shit flying through my brain, I just can't take it any more.
"Que?"
"Nothing – nothing," I reply – fuck it I'm slipping. I wasn't aware that I'd spoken out loud. I try to go back to the simple business of walking… "Where are we going, anyway?" I don't really care – I just want something else to think about for a few minutes. I'm starting to see that guy with the question marks all over his jacket – you know, the one who wants to sell you his book on how to get free money… Jesus Fucking Christ, where's my God damned gun…?
"There is a lady – Americana like you."
That stops me in my tracks and vanquishes all images of cheesy info-mercial gimmicks quite instantly. "Like me?"
"Si, tourista – only she never go home again."
"I'm no tourist, kid."
"Si."
That's it – "yes"? That's the kid's only acknowledgement of me – of the last hour or so of his young life – of holding a gun and using to shoot some asshole – of watching me shoot a bunch of other assholes – and one bitch that I wish I could have spent a lot more time killing… of me getting my ass pumped so full of lead I can hardly stand… and all this kid can say is "yes"? Well – fuck me with a chainsaw, what is there to say anyway?
In the distance, I can heavy vehicles moving in – maybe some kind of army truck? They don't seem to be headed this way – but they're close. Fuck. If anyone sees me… so I manage to take a few more steps. I'm not quite ready to die. (Or at the very least, I'm not ready to be caught… shit, I hope those gypsies are satisfied, because if not… fuck, how much bad Karma do I have floating out there? I don't even believe in it… but if I did, haven't I paid my debt already? I've lost my eyes – my sight… even if I hadn't been burned, there'd be no going back to my old life…)
My guide finally stops. "Here it is," he tells me and sets my hands on a tall iron fence – I'm not sure if he wants me to know what it is – or if he just doesn't trust me not to fall over again. The fence is high – there's some kind of shrubbery on the other side – so one probably couldn't get a good view of the courtyard beyond from the street. Good. Beyond the shrubbery, there's a fountain – I can hear the water trickling. Then I hear the gate creaking on its hinges. The boy he urges me through and shuts the gate securely behind us. I hear it latch shut. Good, good. Some sense of security.
Under my the soles of my boots, I feel well worn cobblestone. Reaching out with one hand, I feel off to the side.
"Careful senor – the bushes are thorny," the boy says.
And indeed, my hand comes into contact with something sharp – it doesn't penetrate the gloves. "Where are we?"
"This is the house," he says, "De la Doctora."
Doctora? "No," I begin to protest taking an involuntary step backwards – no doctors – no fucking way… I've had enough doctors for one fucking day… for a fucking lifetime!
My stomach gives a sudden heave-ho – I try to tell myself it's just a reaction to Dr. Mengola's drug cocktail (rather than having anything at all to do with the icy terror trickling down my spine)… But regardless the reason, I find myself on all fours puking my guts out in La Doctora's petunias (or at least that's the image that comes to mind as I'm retching into some sweet smelling flower bed near those damned thorn bushes).
Each heave leaves me shaking, wishing for a quicker end to the agony wracking me – because each heave makes the pain (oh what a fucking pale word!) that much worse… if there is a Hell, I think I've found it. Or maybe, just maybe, it's found me…
Hands on my shoulders bring some vague cognizance – I reach for the gun that isn't there any more – fuck me! Why isn't there a gun – what kind of fuckmook am I…? Shit, fuck, damn and Hell! I curse at myself, lashing out at my attacker – but let's face it, boys and girls, I've seen better days. I loose my balance and I'm kissing dirt. Where the fuck is the kid, why didn't he at least warn me? I kick – damn that hurt – and I realize that that howling I keep hearing in the distance is really me, screeching as hot knives drive themselves through my flesh. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Where the hell is the kid!
But I already know the answer to that stupid question. This is another set up.
And you didn't even see it coming… at least this time I've got an excuse, not that it makes me feel much better about the situation. Dark oblivion embraces me and I embrace it right back, taking no small comfort in the fact that no matter what they do to me now, they won't be able to keep me alive for very much longer…