humo caliente 5
"You shot the clerk."
"I did not shoot the clerk... I shot at the clerk. There's a difference."
"You came this close."
"I was what?"
"The bullet grazed his head."
"He pulled a gun. In fact, a whopper of a gun. The shot gun."
"You were threatening him."
"Well, you really didn't have to waltz in, just at that moment, surprise, surprise, and play hero. Things were doing just peachy actually, up to that point... So peachy, even, I wasn't going to shoot the clerk."
"But you did."
"But I did."
Sands flicks his spent cigarillo out in the direction of lazy traffic and people.
"You wanna know why I became CIA?"
He answers before El can open his mouth.
"To shoot people."
It went like this.
Sands asked the guy behind the counter to get him tequila. A good brand by the way, amigo. Now the clerk would have, if El hadn't decided right then to become curious about the doings of corrupt CIA agents.
When the door swung open, Sands had looked, entirely out of reflex. In that time the clerk produced a shot gun, and as it was cocked for fire, Sands cursed.
From basic training there was a rule: Don't fire on civilians. There always was an exception though. If the civilian is packing heat, and lets a round off in your direction, you may then proceed in sending him straight to fucking Broadway.
Sands had been all about following protocol right then when El roared, "What are you doing?", and threw him out the door. Having gotten far enough away from the building, and the shot gun, he grabbed Sands hard by the elbow, stopping him where he was.
"Are you crazy?"
"Jeepers, isn't it obvious? You're one swift Mexicano, there El."
Sands wrenched his arm free, fixing the sleeve by feel. It was just as bloodied and dusty as the rest of his outfit. A suggestion of the Day of the Dead. Rips and tears worth a thousand words. Landmarks.
El made an annoyed noise and started walking. Jingle, jingle.
End dramatic flash back.
Sands starts another cigarillo and tells, not asks, El that he needs new duds. El's about to ask what that means when he catches Sands' hand plucking at the collar of his shirt. They're on the other side of town, sitting around like they never moved. Continue on world.
"These holes, right here," Sands is pointing to his jeans, "are when a cartel shot my legs out from under me."
He says it like El should pat him on the back, congratulate, compliment. He doesn't however, and changes the subject.
"I have spare clothing."
"If I'm anything with memory, you're taller than I am."
"So?"
"So, that wouldn't really work. Plus, you have terrible fucking taste." Sands turns just his head and smiles around the cig, showing nearly every tooth.
El suppresses something that might have been, "Fuck you, Sands".
"No, no, listen. They're called Ray-Bans. They look just like these. I need black lenses. Noo, black. Lentes negras."
Carts, vendors, stores with no A/C, the random urchin, pick pockets. Shopping in Mexico is always a barrel of fun. Epic battles fought with strategy and swayed with cash.
Sands may be easily annoyed, but he wheedled among the masters. Put on an act, a mustache, a hat, a smile. You're just playin' the game. And if that doesn't get you what you want, immediately refrain from breaking whoever's fingers, and move along.
"Fuck."
He's just about ready to do that finger breaking. No one's willing to sell him anything. It'll either be fun with fingers, or digging his nails into the throat of the next person who tries, "No tengo lo que usted necesita".
I don't have what you need.
"Fuck, fuck, and double fuck..."
"What?" El's asking, living perpetual confusion.
"Curiosity killed the cat."
"I'm not a cat."
"You also said you weren't a man-killer."
Sands stumbles over the curb of the side walk, going down on his hands and knees, wheezing out a quick "shit". He lifts his hands palm up to feel the cuts and pick out the gravel. El doesn't help him up.
"They fucking sting, why would I want to wash them?"
"They won't heal."
"Damn, person. I tripped, I didn't blow my hand off. Unless I'm bleeding quite profusely, no washing necessary."
Sands finally got his Sauza when they dropped shopping and set up in a bar. After just one shot he immediately asked where the restroom was and puked it right up.
Such is their current position. Wedged into an empty bar restroom. Sands, hanging onto the edge of a grimy sink, spitting tequila flavoured acid. El, far enough away not to smell it.
"Are you sick?"
"No," Sands says, his fingers around the sink twitching, "I'm just fucked up."