cocktail.
– No.
– He swings at the coconut, misses and hits his buddy in the leg instead. Puta fucking madre. Blood everywhere. Screaming.
– Why didn’t you leave them?
Leo looks at me, looks at my hands sewing the leg back together.
– Why are we in your house, man? Su casa is not mi casa, you know. So why are we here?
I tie off another little knot.
– We didn’t leave them because the fucker’s leg was almost cut off, they were drunk in a leaky raft, blood everywhere, and sharks in the water.
– Got it.
It takes awhile to stitch him up. Rolf shows up when we’re about halfway done and comes in. My sanctum sanctorum: Grand fucking Central. I tell him where the plastic garbage bags are and he starts mopping up blood and bagging ruined towels. When I’m done I pour more antiseptic over the wound, gently wipe the leg clean, and feel the foot. It’s warm. We pick him up and start to carry him to the bed.
– Do you need help?
I twist my head and see Mickey standing in the doorway that Rolf left wide open when he came in. Bud meows.
– A cat. I did not know you have a cat.
HE SHOWS up early the next morning. I’m already outside getting the Willys ready. Mickey pitches his pack in the back and we’re ready to go. I roll us slowly down the beach, stop at The Bucket and tell Mickey to wait for me in the truck. Pedro has a sack for me with a couple water bottles and some tortas his wife made.
– You are taking him to the ruins?
– Yeah.
Pedro shakes his head.
– What?
– You have your secrets. I do not know nothing about them.
– So?
– So I do not know how is the best way to keep them.
– I’m just giving the guy a ride so he doesn’t have to take the bus.
– The man who asks the questions, you are giving him a ride.
– Pedro.
– Not my business. I do not know shit.
And he’s scraping the grill again.
– Pedro.
– Si.
Great, now I’m getting the Spanish treatment.
– I’ll see you tonight.
– Si.
– Maybe we can sing some songs when I get back.
– Si, jefe.
I’m walking away when he shouts.
– The bar needs limes.
– Sure thing.
I get in the truck and pull onto the trail that cuts to the highway. I need to get Mickey out to the jungle. Bodies rot quickly in the jungle.
I TOLD Mickey we didn’t need help and Rolf walked him back onto the porch and closed the door. We got the Cuban onto the bed. Leo and me cleaned up while the other Cuban sat with his friend. I lit a smoke.
– Now what?
– I’ll go get the buggy and we’ll get him the hell out of here.
I pop one of the shutters open. Rolf and Mickey are standing next to the porch, chatting. Ten or fifteen people are dotted over the beach now.
– He can stay till evening.
– Claro?
– Yeah, he needs to stay in one place for at least a couple hours anyway.
– Thanks, man.
– Where you gonna take him?
– Mi casa.
Leo lives in town, about an hour’s drive.
– Their cousins are probably there waiting for us. I should drive up and chill them out.
– Call Doc Sanchez while you’re there, get him to meet you when you bring this guy back. Fix that mess I made.
Leo points out the window at Mickey.
– Him?
– What about him?
– Is he cool?
– Good fucking question.
Leo grabs Rolf and they take the buggy. I sit on the porch steps with Mickey.
– These guys had some trouble and I’m trying to help them out. You understand?
– Of course.
– It’s not the kind of thing that it would be good to talk about. Even when you get back home.
– Yes, I understand. With my father’s “business,” there were things I could not talk about.
– Right. Good.
I get up and walk to the door and peek back inside.
– But, sometimes, people would, you know, talk anyway. And I would hear things.
– Uh-huh.
Both Cubans are squeezed onto the bed, asleep.
– Stories.
– Yeah.
I should have told Leo to hit a
– When we go to Chichen Itza tomorrow?
– Yeah?
We should be getting them into him now.
– You should bring a million dollars with you.
I turn from the window.
– Otherwise, I will tell my father’s “business” partners where you are with their money and your cat.
I look down. There are droplets of blood on my feet, sand stuck to them. I rub my feet together to grind them off.
– We’ll have to go to Merida, to the bank. My safety deposit boxes are there.
HE STILL wants to stop at Chichen Itza to see the Mayan ruins. Guy’s banking on a million at the end of the road and he wants to get some snapshots from the top of Kukulkan. Whatever.
I turn north onto Mexico 307 heading for 180 West, the toll road outside of Cancun. I stop at one of the Pemex stations on the highway and gas up. Mickey’s not talking, still waking up. It’ll take about an hour to get to Cancun, another two or three to Chichen Itza.
We swoop onto the 180. There’s hardly any traffic. I put the pedal down and open the Willys up a little to clean it out. It’s a 1960 Utility Wagon. A previous owner chopped the roof off and installed a ragtop. I bought it
