Six Bad Things

to the bottom of the glass. I take a sip.

– Wow. That’s good.

– Mai tai.

– No kidding. You know, I’ve never actually had one before.

I take another sip.

– This is great.

He points at the bandage on my shoulder.

– Tattoo?

– Yeah.

– What?

I set the drink down and peel up the bandage. He reads it.

– Mom and dad.

– I love my mom and dad.

– Bueno.

He lifts the sleeve of his shirt and shows me his shoulder: MAMA y PAPA.

– I love my mom and dad. Mi madre y mi padre. Mama does not like this. She say… uh… tattoo are for criminals. See.

He turns and lifts the other sleeve. There’s a little homemade tattoo underneath, like the ones my buddies Wade and Steve gave themselves in high school. They’d wrap thread around the shaft of a sewing needle, then dip it in India ink. Ink would drip out of the thread down to the point of the needle while they poked their skin, making tiny anarchy As or spelling out OZZY. This one is a little vertical line, a triangle attached to the top half pointing to my right. He smiles.

– Mama, she beat my ass for this.

I turn my head, look at it again.

– What is it?

He laughs, points at the tattoo.

– P.

Points at himself.

– Pedro.

Ten months later, when nobody had found me and shot me and I had failed to drink myself to death, I started thinking about what might be involved in staying alive and staying hidden. I knew I was going to need some papers, a passport most of all. Pedro was the only person I trusted enough to ask for help. It turned out he trusted me too.

HE TAKES a couple bites of the eggs for politeness’s sake, announces them fit, and tells me to eat the rest. I take the envelope from my back pocket, hand it to him, and start to eat. He opens the envelope and takes out the government leases and all the other legal documents regarding The Bucket and my bungalow.

– I went to the safety deposit box yesterday.

He’s looking at the papers.

– No.

– I signed over both the leases to you.

Shaking his head.

– No.

– Pedro.

– No.

He goes behind the bar and starts banging things around.

– Pedro. If I ever make it back.

– Back. The policia gave you back the passport, yes?

– Yes.

– So no problema, you will come back.

I lift my bottle of seltzer from the bar and trace little lines through the ring of water it leaves behind.

– This is the old trouble, Pedro. My old trouble. The trouble you don’t know about.

He stops banging things. I set my bottle down, look at him.

– Please. I was alone. Yo desamparado. Until you, I had no friends.

He looks at his feet. He picks up the papers, puts them neatly in the envelope and slips it into his pocket. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the bar, palm up. I cover it with my own.

– Amigo.

He squeezes my hand.

– Eternamente, por siempre jamas.

– Forever and ever.

THE DAY-TRIPPERS clear out around four, and an hour later Pedro locks up. I take a couple swims, having to unclog my ears with the cigarettes after each. By the time the sun is down the local kids have finished their soccer game, the lovers I watch kissing retire to their palapa, and I have the beach to myself. I go into the bungalow, leaving the door and all the shutters open, light some candles, and start to pack.

Bud rouses himself from a nap and wanders over to see what’s up. He keeps stuffing his head in the pack, getting in the way every time I try to put something inside.

– I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no room for you.

He meows as I push him aside so I can pack the bundle of protein bars I bought at the Chedraui.

– I know we did it last time, but that was then and this is now. Besides, this time I have a place for you to stay.

Now he’s got the entire front half of his body stuck in there, rooting around. I pull him out and toss him on the floor.

– Cool it.

He hops back on the bed. I get everything stowed, close up the old army surplus pack, and put it next to the front door. I dig the money belt out from under my mattress, stick the John Carlyle papers inside along with my ID, and drape it over the pack. I close the front door, blow out all but one of the candles, and lie on the bed. Bud jumps down to the floor and walks to the other side of the room.

– You’ll like it at Pedro’s.

But he’s not buying it. Bud is a bachelor cat who has only lived with bachelor men, first Russ and then me. Pedro’s got the wife and three kids. Bottom line, Bud’s gonna get chased around some and have his tail yanked a few times. Of course the option is for me to try and haul him to the U.S. and infinitely increase the odds of my getting caught.

– It’s just not gonna work this time, guy.

I’m staring up at the ceiling, but I feel it when he jumps back onto the bed. He walks around me a couple times, then flops on my chest. I scratch his head, careful not to touch the scar, because he doesn’t like that. He starts to purr.

Fuck. I’m gonna miss this cat.

THE NIGHTMARE that wakes me up is a new one. I’m at Paul’s Bar the morning of the massacre. Instead of my old friends getting killed, it’s people I know now. Timmy, Mercedes from the Pakmail, Leo, Rolf, the smiling Spanish girl. And I’m the one doing the killing, walking around the bar with a machine gun, murdering all the people. Until they are all dead, all except Pedro and two others. He’s standing in front of the others, shielding them with his body. And I can see them, and it’s my parents.

And I kill Pedro.

And aim the machine gun.

And I wake up.

A half hour later I’m crashing through the jungle, clutching Bud to my chest, with Sergeants Morales and Candito running after me.