Six Bad Things Part 9

I POP out of the trees about twenty yards from Pedro's house, just off the highway. I can see the dune buggy parked out back and Rolf standing in the yard. I sprint over and Rolf catches me as I stumble the last few feet.

--Leo. Gasp. He. He. He. Gasp.

--He find you?

--Yeah. Gasp. He.

--Inside, dude.

We go through the screen door, he leads me to the kitchen.

--We saw them go past on the highway and head for the beach. Leo took off to warn you or whatever.

--He drew them off.

--Cool.

--No, we got to.

--Dude, we got to get you out of here is all we got to do. Leo's cool. Those guys will never find him in there.

In the kitchen the table is covered with food. Pedro is sipping coffee, listening to ranchera music. He clicks off the radio. His wife, who is usually on her way to town with the kids by now, is at the stove. She turns and gives me a tight-lipped smile.

--Buenos dias.

--Buenos dias, Ofelia.

She gestures to the table.

--Comer.

She's made a huge breakfast, a farewell. We're all supposed to sit at the table and have breakfast together, and I'm late. Rolf grabs a tortilla off the table, slaps some beans into it and takes a huge bite.

--Gracias, no, Ofi. We got to split. Andele muchachos big time.

I look at all the wonderful food and smile at her.

--Bonita, bonita. Muy bien. I'm so sorry. Gracias.

She nods.

Rolf is getting ready to grab something else off the table. She pushes him away and starts packing food in a plastic bag for us. Pedro puts down his cup and stands.

--Leo?

Rolf waves his hand.

--He's goose-chasing the cops, he'll be fine.

Pedro shakes his head. Ofelia finishes and hands me the bag of food.

--Gracias.

She puts her hands on my shoulders, pulls my face down close to her mestizo features, and kisses me on the cheek. Rolf grabs me and pulls me toward the door. Pedro follows us. We're halfway out when he puts a hand on my shoulder and points at Bud, still in my arms.

--Amigo.

--Right.

I hold Bud up so I can look at his face.

--OK, Buddy, time to go.

I hand him to Pedro. He curls up in his arms and starts purring. And that's that.

Pedro reaches into his pocket, takes something out, hands it to me, then turns and walks back into the house. Rolf hustles me to the buggy. I look back. Through the screen door I can see Pedro's three kids running into the room screaming.

--Ay, gato!

Good luck, cat.

Rolf fires up the buggy and guns it onto the highway as I take the holy medal Pedro gave me and loop it around my neck. Christopher, patron saint of travelers.

WE'RE HEADED down 184, the local highway that cuts across most of the peninsula. Rolf is driving with his knees, both hands in his lap, trying to eke flame from a Bic to light a joint in the roaring wind of the open buggy. He gets the doobie going and takes a hit.

--Voila!

He offers it to me, I decline and he keeps at it, smoking it like a cigarette.

--Dude, check the bag, man, see if Ofi packed us any breakfast bread.

I dig one of the sugared rolls out of the bag and hand it to him.

--Thanks.

--So, Rolf.

--Yeah?

Crumbs fly from his lips, he's got the roll in one hand and the joint in the other as he pulls around a slow-moving pickup, pa.s.sing it before a blind curve on the two-lane road.

--I have this thing about cars and speeding.

--Don't worry, dude, I'm a good driver.

--Right now you aren't inspiring much confidence, and seeing as how this jalopy has no seat belts, I was hoping you might slow the f.u.c.k down.

--Tranquilo, muchacho. No problem, man.

He decelerates.

--Thanks. So?

--Yeah?

--What's the plan?

--The plaaaaan. The plan is beautiful. You are going to love the plan.

--And?

--OK, it's total secret-agent style, the stuff I really love. None of that two-drunk-Cubans-in-a-boat s.h.i.+t. We are on our way to Campeche.

He draws out the last syllable: Campechaaaaaay.

--Actually, before Campeche, we'll pull off to this place called Bobola.

--What's there?

--Leo.

--Leo?

--Got to have Leo. He's the man who knows the people. If I try to deliver you? No go.

--Yeah, but last time I saw him he was getting chased by a couple cops.

--He'll get rid of the Federales and borrow Pedro's car. He's probably at their place right now digging into that food.

Nice thought.

--So where does Leo take us to?

--The Campeche airport. You afraid of flying, too?

--No.

--Good. I've seen this plane and you don't want to be afraid of flying. So this guy with the plane will fly you across the gulf to Veracruz. There, Pedro has a guy, an American with an excursion boat. He'll take you on, put together crew papers for you and everything, and take you back to his homeport.

--Which is?

--Corpus Christi, U.S.A., man. I know it sounds weird, but there's actually some pretty good surf in Texas. The general vibe in that state is all f.u.c.ked up, but they have some decent waves.

Then he plugs a Tool tape into the deck, cranks the volume, and that's it for conversation.

The 184 wanders in and out of about a dozen tiny towns before it hits Ticul, where, Rolf says, we'll jump to the 261. Each town is peppered with speed b.u.mps to keep the through traffic from blasting over the pedestrians as drivers try to get the h.e.l.l to somewhere else, but this is a detail Rolf seems to have a habit of forgetting. Fortunately, as the day waxes and Rolf smokes more and more of the cheap Mexican brick-weed he's carrying, lead seems to drain from his foot. At Ticul we stop, gas up, and he drives the buggy into the middle of town, announcing that it's time for lunch and an early siesta.

--What about Leo?

--We aren't supposed to meet him for hours, man. The dude you're flying with, he doesn't like being airborne during the day. There's a great taco wagon here by the park. We can grab some snacks and take a nap on the lawn.

--Yeah, except that the cops are looking for me and sunbathing in the middle of town might not be the best thing right now.

--Dude, do you know how long it takes for a Mexican APB to go out? Let alone, man, to places like this. Chill. We'll grab a couple fish tacos and refrescos and find some shade.

He stops next to a tidy little park, gets out, and turns to face me.

--Besides, dude, if there's any trouble, I'm armed.

And he lifts the tail of his Spitfire Bighead T-s.h.i.+rt, revealing the b.u.t.t of the pistol tucked in the waistband of his shorts.

--So no worries, man, let's eat.

And surprisingly enough, not only are the tacos great, but I do actually manage to drop off and take a nice little nap. Despite the stoned-out-of-his-gourd, gnarly-brained surf jockey sleeping next to me with a gun in his shorts.

THE SUN has crossed well past its zenith when Rolf shakes me awake.

--Dude, we totally overslept.

We're off the 184 now, heading south on 261. Rolf is laying off the weed and has both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road. And I got to say: when he's paying attention, he is a pretty good driver. The road turns west at Hopelchen and the low-hanging sun shoots into our eyes. Rolf slips on a pair of Dragon Trap shades, a flame motif burning down the arms. I put on my own cheap Ray-Ban Aviator knock-offs.

--We gonna make it?

--No problem, man. But there is a need for speed.

So he speeds.

A few miles outside of Campeche we turn south onto a one-lane road. We b.u.mp along for a couple more miles, then roll into Bobola. When I say this place looks like the modern equivalent of the town in A Fistful of Dollars, I certainly don't mean to emphasize the word modern. We pa.s.s a handful of houses, then come into the square. It's a cla.s.sic: cobbled street circling a tiny park, lots of trees, and a big church the Spanish left behind. There's a guy selling ices out of the back of his pickup, and a couple kids buying. n.o.body else. Rolf drives us around the park, past the ice man and onto one of the dirt streets that branches off of the square. He parks about a hundred yards up the street.

--OK.

--OK?.

--That's the place.

Across the street is a tequilaria.

--What now?

He looks around.

--Looks like Leo's not here yet, dude.

--So?

--Well, I know you're not a drinking man, but I could use one. Come on.

We cross the street and walk into the bar. It's dark inside and it takes a moment for our eyes to adjust from the afternoon sunlight outside. That's why it takes so long to realize that the two guys over by the bar, the only two guys in the place, are Sergeants Morales and Candito. That's also why it takes a moment more before we realize the pile of stuff on the floor next to them is actually Leo, who has very clearly had the s.h.i.+t beaten right out of him.