Six Bad Things Part 10

DESPITE WHAT many popular movies would have you think, the simple fact that Morales and Candito are Mexican does not make them stupider than s.h.i.+t. They have me: a somewhat mysterious and wealthy American involved in a somewhat mysterious death. And they have that odd little moment when Bud wandered out from under the bed and Candito gave me that funny look. Given the current level of digital technology, it probably wasn't too hard to poke around until he got rid of that nagging feeling that he had seen me somewhere before.

OBSERVATIONS: THE bar is empty except for the five of us, at a time of day when one would expect otherwise. Morales and Candito have parked their Bronco somewhere off the street where it cannot be seen. They have no backup; backup would have come cras.h.i.+ng in by now. They have thrashed Leo and dragged him in here.

Hypothesis: They have cleared out the bar, chosen not to call in any other cops, and have Leo displayed here to communicate some message. What message? Well, one a.s.sumes it concerns funding their early retirement.

How do they know I have four million? They may very well not. But they know I have money, and I'm sure they want all of it.

THE GUN in Rolf's waistband is a revolver, a .32 or a .38, carrying five or six rounds. I'm guessing the pockets of his shorts aren't crammed with extra ammo, so if this turns into a shoot-out we're gonna be pretty well f.u.c.ked.

Me, I'm all for bargaining. But first Rolf shoves me to the floor, yanks the gun from his shorts, and squeezes off two quick shots before he dives behind a table.

One of the bullets smashes into the bottles behind the bar and the other one smashes the bone in Morales's right thigh. I know this because I can see shards of it sticking out through his shredded uniform pants.

Rolf is huddled behind a table made out of an old tequila barrel. It looks st.u.r.dy and might actually stop or deflect some bullets. I knock over a card table with a thin sheet metal top emblazoned with a Sol advertis.e.m.e.nt, and hope n.o.body shoots any spitb.a.l.l.s at me. I can hear Morales screaming high and shrill and Candito trying to quiet him.

--Tranquilo. Tranquilo. Tranquilo. Tranquilo.

The screams soften until there is just a constant, strangled keening coming from deep in Morales's throat. I peek out from behind my useless barricade. Candito, kneeling next to Morales, has taken off his belt and turned it into a tourniquet much like the one the macheted Cuban had. I look over at Rolf and see that he is starting to edge around his barrel, gun first.

--Rolf!

He ignores me, positioning himself to take a shot, but at the sound of my voice Candito stands, pulls his service piece, points it at Leo, and yells something in our direction. Rolf ducks back down.

--f.u.c.k!

Candito yells again, but I still don't catch all of it. Rolf yells something back.

--What does he want?

--He wants me to throw out my gun, dude, what the f.u.c.k do you think he wants? Keep quiet next time, I almost had him.

Candito yells again.

--So throw your gun out.

--No f.u.c.king way.

--He's gonna kill Leo.

--Bulls.h.i.+t. That hick cop has never shot anyone in his life. He's p.i.s.sing his pants right now. Besides, dude knows that if he kills Leo I'll f.u.c.king blast him.

--How does he know that?

--Because I told him.

Candito yells again and this time I get the word dinero. Bingo. Rolf looks over at me.

--He says he just wants the money.

--Yeah, that figures.

I open my s.h.i.+rt, lift my tank top up, rip the Velcro seal, and tug the money belt from around my waist. I take five grand and the John Carlyle ID and stuff them in my pockets.

--Tell him I'm gonna stand up.

--Dude, don't do that.

--Rolf, I'm hiding behind a beer can, I might as well stand up.

--No, dude, I mean don't give him your f.u.c.king money.

--Just tell him I'm standing up and not to shoot.

--OK, but I'm telling you we can get out of this, no problem.

He shouts at Candito and Candito shouts back.

--He says do it slowly. Hands up and all that.

--Right.

I hang the money belt over my shoulder, put my hands on my head, and slowly stand up. Morales is sprawled in a large pool of his own blood, still making that hurt animal noise, his right hand clutching the tourniquet, his left clawing and scratching at the floor. Candito is standing, blood stains on the knees of his pants, pointing his gun at Leo's head. Leo is still crumpled and motionless, unconscious for all I can tell. I take my right hand from my head and lift the money belt from my shoulder. Candito yells and I freeze.

--Rolf?

--Yeah?

--What was that?

--Just the usual. Don't f.u.c.k around with him or he'll f.u.c.king kill Leo and then you. That kind of stuff.

--OK.

I hold the money belt out in Candito's direction, nodding my head.

--Tranquilo, amigo.

The gun pointed at Leo's head is shaking, sweat is pouring down Candito's twitching face, and I realize that Rolf is right. This guy is scared p.i.s.sless. I know the feeling.

--Tranquilo, OK?

I swing the money belt once and toss it to him. It lands neatly at his feet. He keeps the shaking gun pointed at Leo as he squats down. The fingers of his left hand fumble one of the compartments open and he pries out a thick sheaf of bills. His eyes flick to the money. He lets it and the belt fall into the edge of the puddle of Morales's blood, then he stands back up and starts screaming at me, the gun vibrating.

--What the f.u.c.k, Rolf?

--That's what he says, dude.

--What?

--He wants to know what that s.h.i.+t is, how much?

--It's about seventy-five thou.

Rolf looks at me.

--No s.h.i.+t?

--Yeah.

--Dude.

Candito yells at us. I take my right hand from my head and point at the money belt.

--Tranquilo, amigo. Setenta cinco mil.

He tilts his head, shakes it.

--Setenta cinco mil?

--Si.

Then he's screaming again, too fast for me to follow.

--Rolf?

Nothing.

--Rolf?

Nothing. I look at Rolf. He's staring at me.

--He says f.u.c.k your mother and f.u.c.k your seventy-five grand. He wants to know where the real money is.

--Tell him that's all there is and he can take it or leave it.

--What's he talking about?

--f.u.c.ked if I know. Just tell him that's all there is.

Rolf tells him, and Candito sprays curses and bends over to press the gun against Leo's head.

--He doesn't believe you, dude. He says give him the money or he'll shoot Leo.

I look at Leo heaped on the floor. I can't tell if he's breathing. And it's not like I can run out, call Tim, and have him s.h.i.+p the money back to me.

--Tell him there is no f.u.c.king way in heaven or earth that he is ever going to have more than what he has right now. That's all there is. Tell him if he leaves now, he can keep the money and probably still work it out so he keeps his job and keeps his partner alive. Tell him if he wants to shoot me he might as well do it because I'm about to walk over there and see if Leo is OK.

--Cool.

Rolf tells him. Candito looks from Leo to the money to me as I walk out from behind the table and start to cross the room toward him. Then he bends, scoops up the money belt, points the gun at me, and backs away shouting. I hold my hands out in front of me.

--Tranquilo.

--He says tranquilo yourself. He says he's gonna take the money and go get the doctor and when he gets back we should be the f.u.c.k out of here and if we hurt his partner he'll hunt us down and blah blah blah.

I stop walking and watch as Candito backs himself around the tiny bar to a doorway covered by a Virgin of Guadalupe curtain. He reaches behind himself and pulls the curtain aside, jabs the gun at me three times, emphasizing that I should not f.u.c.king follow him, then ducks through the doorway. I can hear his feet sprinting away on the gravel outside.

--Rolf.

He pops up from behind the barrel.

--Dude, that was tense.

I kneel next to Leo and roll him onto his back. His face is beaten and b.l.o.o.d.y. At least one of his teeth has been knocked out. I put my finger alongside his throat; his pulse is steady and strong. Rolf walks over and looks at his best friend.

--Motherf.u.c.ker.

He looks at Morales where he's still sprawled on the floor, mewing, his eyes rolling in his head.

--Mother. f.u.c.ker.

He raises the revolver, shoots Morales in the face, and spits on his corpse.

--Rolf!

I'm staring at what used to be Morales's face.

--Rolf! What the f.u.c.k are you doing?

--You see what this d.i.c.k did to Leo, dude?

--You don't just. You don't just. What the f.u.c.k?

--Dude! He f.u.c.ked up my best friend.

I look at the lines tattooed on my forearm, and find I have nothing else to say.

--So what now?

--You take Leo in the buggy. There's only the one road in and out of town, so just cruise out to the highway, park, and I'll drive out in their truck after I take care of the other guy.

--Rolf.

--Hey! You hired the pros to get you out and s.h.i.+t got f.u.c.ked up. That's cool, you paid, but now s.h.i.+t's got to be taken care of. These cops? They know who Leo is, where he lives. Get it? So untwist your panties and help me get him to the buggy, 'cause I got a pig to ambush.

And what do you say to that except Yes, sir?

LEO STAYS unconscious as we put him into the pa.s.senger seat of the buggy. I get behind the wheel and fire it up. Rolf slaps me on the shoulder. He's holding the revolver and has Morales's 9 mm dangling out of his hip pocket.