Six Bad Things

– And?

– OK, it’s total secret-agent style, the stuff I really love. None of that two-drunk-Cubans-in-a-boat shit. 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 fucked 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 bumps to keep the through traffic from blasting over the pedestrians as drivers try to get the hell 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-shirt, revealing the butt 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 bump 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 pass a handful of houses, then come into the square. It’s a classic: 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. Nobody 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 shit beaten right out of him.

DESPITE WHAT many popular movies would have you think, the simple fact that Morales and Candito are Mexican does not make them stupider than shit. 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 crashing 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 assumes 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 fucked.

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.