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                   BELOW is Volume Two – Rodrigo’s final story.  No audio yet. 

                                THE MEXICAN SWIMMER’S FINAL DIVE

“Are you kidding me?” Nancy asks with a smile, as she steps out of her dress.

“Sure,” I tell her. “It’s even on the internet. Headlines read; Seven Brothel Mayor Escapes Mexico. Not that I like that tag on me, but I had no control of that.”

“So you went to seven brothels in one night and you’re telling me that you had a woman in every one of them?”

“That was the rumor,” I say, unbuttoning my shirt.

“Only a rumor?” she asks, taking her blouse off.

“Well,” I shrug, “I guess I’ve been to every brothel, bar and dive in my town at one point or another.”

“Well, I hope you didn’t pick up any diseases doing that,” she says seriously.

“You needn’t worry,” I tell her. “My health is clean, like my conscious.”

Nancy smiles as she slips off her bra and slides into bed. I guess she kept on her panties to give me something to do once I join her. I get a look at her golden-tanned body just before it disappears under the sheets. She’ll be the seventh female tourist that I’ve bedded in the last five months here on Cat Island, if I remember correctly.

I met her just an hour ago here at the Shannas Cover Resort hotel. She was checking in when I was having lunch in the dining area. Thank God Esmeralda hadn’t joined me this afternoon. A wife can sure inhibit a man’s pick-up technique.

Since blonds are kind of scarce in Mexico, I’m really attracted to them here in the Bahamas. And I’ve seduced them using whatever natural charms God gave me, never once having to put money on the pillow, as I did when I lived in Mexico.

In Mexico, I never thought about sleeping with women that didn’t make a business of it. I guess I figured that having a quick professional copulation was similar to a quick massage. It wasn’t really cheating on Esmeralda because it wasn’t an affair. You’re in, you’re out, hello, good-bye, just another satisfied customer leaving the brothel and a financially enriched prostitute who squirrels away your money, dreaming of a future retirement that will never come.

That was all well and good for that time, but now I’m hooked on these women who come to this small island via a chartered boat from Nassau, leaving their fat-ass husbands gambling at the Atlantis casino.

“You know,” Nancy says reaching over to her purse on the side-table, “I do believe that you are disease-free, but I want you to wear something.”

As I drop my pants, the sound of the door crashing open startles me. I turn to see my man Gilberto entering and pointing his silenced 9mm automatic at Nancy.

“Gilberto, what the….” But the loud hisses of the quick five shots, stops my words.

I turn to see Nancy on her back in bed gesticulating like a spastic disco-dancer while the sheet turns red. In seconds, it’s over, she’s over, she’s still.

I turn to scream at Gilberto, but my surprise, anger and words are cut short by Esmeralda’s sudden appearance behind him. “Rodrigo,” she yells at me. “You get into more bullshit.”

I find my voice and yell at both of them, “What the hell is this? What are you doing? You’ve killed her.”

Gilberto tries to speak, but can’t find the words. Esmeralda is under no such handicap. “Look in her purse, estupido,” she yells.

“What?” I question, as I look back at Nancy’s dead figure under the sheet that is seeping more blood every second. I know she was reaching for her purse as her last ever action on earth, but what the hell does that have to do with the bloody murder of this beautiful woman that was just looking for a good time?

Gilberto has been my houseman for many years. He’s ex-military and knows his stuff, but he’s stepped way over the line here, messing up what could have been the greatest screw of my life.

“Look in her purse, señor,” Gilberto says, finally finding his voice and echoing Esmeralda.

I take a step, but stumble over my dropped pants. I pull them up and go over to the side table, trying not to focus my eyes on the ever-bleeding, and forever dead, Nancy. I open her purse and find, amongst other female do-dads, a pack of Sagami Original 0.02 Premium condoms. The thinnest, but strongest and most expensive condom there is. The Borsalino of condoms.

Hijo, all those rich, thrill-seeking babes think the same. This is the third time I’ve had a woman ask me to wear this brand. When you care enough to get screwed by the very best, should be their slogan. And with me wearing it for them, they get double the-very-best.

Even though my self-defense humor kicks in, it doesn’t stay long. I turn to Gilberto and say angrily, “What do you mean ‘look in her purse’? There’s nothing here.”

“Then look in the drawers,” he says, with a hint in his voice that he’s just screwed up big time.

“What am I looking for?” I ask.

“Just look,” Esmeralda groans.

I walk over to the dresser, purposely not looking at Esmeralda’s accusingly mean face. I pull open all the drawers, but there’s nothing in them as she hadn’t even unpacked yet. I guess she was anxious for penetration the moment she arrived.

I turn to Gilberto and Esmeralda. “There’s nothing in the drawers.”

“Check her suitcase,” Gilberto says, now really figuring he’s filled an innocent woman full of bloody holes.

I grab her small Gucci suitcase, but Esmeralda’s voice stops me. “Oh, you men,” she growls. “Look under the pillow.”

I turn and approach the bed which now looks like someone spilled a bucket of red paint on it. I’ve never seen the human body get rid of so much blood so fast. As I reach under her pillow, I can’t ignore seeing the expression on Nancy’s frozen face. With her eyes and mouth open, she looks like she’s just seen a ghost; the Grim Reaper, no doubt.

I feel cold metal under the pillow and pull out a 9mm pistol with a crude, home-made silencer attached. Home-made in Mexico. I know, since I’ve seen them in my home town of Ciudad Nuevo. She was after my balls alright, but I guess, since she was reaching for the condoms, she wanted my buzzarino first. What a greedy bitch. She wanted both my masculinity and my life. Is there no honor in this world?

I turn and look at Gilberto as he breaths out a sign of relief. Behind him Esmeralda spits out a breath of distain. She pushes Gilberto aside, which is no mean feat, and says, “You are so god-damned stupid, Rodrigo. You let this bitch fool you like this?”

“But how did you know about her?” I ask.

“I was on the beach when her private boat came in,” Gilberto says. “Before she got off, I saw her check her purse and thought I saw the handle of a pistol, so I searched for you, but then told Señora Villalobos about it, and she knew your were here for lunch.”

“And you should have stuck with lunch,” Esmeralda adds. “And not planned a side order of chocha.”

I shrug. “As you saw, mi amour. I didn’t get that far.”

“I wish you had, Señor Bahama-seducer,” she grumbles. “Then I wouldn’t have to put up with your arrogance, stupidity and chocha-hunting.”

I look over at Gilberto who is now more uncomfortable with our bickering than with having just killed someone. To change the subject of my philandering and get back to the main problem, I say. “I can’t believe she’s a hit man… hit woman, I mean.”

“Oh, you stupid bastard,” Esmeralda spits out. “Do you think that Antonio Martinez is only going to use Mexican hombres? Only men? You don’t think that one of his killers could be some American bitch?”

“But a woman?” I ask.

“Women have money and drug problems, too,” Esmeralda says. “They have holes they have to dig themselves out of, too, just like men. And just like some men, some women are willing to kill to get out of their holes.”

“Well,” I say, looking back down at the now not-so-pretty, not-so-sexy, Nancy. “I guess now she’s out of whatever hole she was in,” I sigh. Too bad, I think, but don’t verbalize it. She would have been an amazing screw. I look over at Gilberto, and say out loud, “Too bad it had to end this way for her.”

“She was going to shoot you in the head,” Esmeralda points out, “ you god-damned idiot.”

My defensive-humor comes back strongly; “Well…” I think for a second, “I was planning to shoot her with my erection.”

Esmeralda doesn’t lighten up. “I’ve had the last of your puny erection,” she yells. “We’re finished, terminado. ”

Why is it a woman thinks the most devastating thing she can do to a man is to speak of his masculinity in diminished ways? I’m big enough, so that never hurts me. However, if Esmeralda left me, that would hurt me indeed.

I watch her walk out the door with nothing coming into my mind to say. I just stand there looking at the empty doorway.

After a few moments, Gilberto asks, “What’s next, señor?”

I come back to the problem at hand. “We’ve got a body to weigh down and dump out into the ocean,” I tell him. “And we’ve got to bribe or threaten the hotel manager to see that this room is not disturbed by any pain-in-the-ass maids. We’ll ask your girlfriend’s brothers to help us.”

“Oh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea, señor. Tyesha has only been my girlfriend for a couple of weeks, and doesn’t know about this part of my life.”

“We don’t have to tell her anything. Just that we need her brothers for a nights work on the Utopia cleaning it up or something like that.”

“I don’t know, señor.”

“It’ll be fine, Gilberto. I’ll pay those island boys more money than they make in three months.”

Gilberto sighs and says, “Si, como no?”

“But first, let’s go check out the boat she came in on.”

“Shouldn’t we say a prayer for her?” Gilberto asks meekly.

“Screw her, and the boat she came in on.”

2

It’s 36 hours later now, 3am, as I drag myself into the cabin of my yacht the Utopia. I enter quietly so as not to wake up Esmeralda. But, though in bed, she’s awake, sits up and snaps on the light. “Well, did you kill that lady’s boatman, you god-damned gangster?”

“No matter what my reputation,” I tell her quietly, so as not to wake up our cook Aldonza and the children, “I don’t take killing lightly.”

“But you killed him,” she comes back harshly.

“No, I paid him off to hide out for three months at the end of the island here. Got him a cottage with a nearby store, took his cell phone.”

“And you’re going to trust him to not get off the island or use the internet and report back to Martinez?”

“Gilberto and I scared the hell out of him. He won’t make a move for three months.”

“You went through a lot of trouble and risk to avoid killing him, which would have been easier for you? I’m surprised.”

“Maybe I’m changing,” I say.

“How do you think you are changing?” she asks.

“Oh, I don’t know, Esmeralda. It’s just that I’ve got a lot of blood on my hands. Especially just before we left Mexico. In the last two days there, with shooting that bartender, killing Manolo, and by my count, seven more of Martinez’s men, not to mention Ramon, who was killed on the pier, that’s ten men dead in two days. Too much blood. And now this woman yesterday, a woman who just needed money or owed Martinez something. Well, it’s just too much blood. That’s why I gave this guy a break.”

“And what about the boat?”

“It’s a rental. Gilberto is taking it back to Nassau and will take the mail boat back here.”

“And the dead woman?” Esmeralda asks like a prosecutor.

“If she’s the kind of woman that’s involved with Martinez and killing people, she won’t be missed.”

“Don’t count on it,” Esmeralda warns me.

“If she is missed,” I reply, “nobody will find her body.

“And the hotel with her body and that blood?

“The room is clean now, the manager has been paid off and the Gilberto is dumping the body at sea on his way to returning the boat.”

“Well, I guess you covered everything.”

“Yes, maybe so,” I tell her. “And it’s nice to see your concern for me.”

“It’s concern for me and my children,” she says raising her voice. “I don’t give a good god-damned about you anymore.”

“So, I guess now you’re sorry you came back for me at the pier.”

“You’re right about that,” she says, and then snaps off the light. “Let me sleep. We’ll make our divorce plans tomorrow morning.”

“So,” I say, smiling in the darkness, “I guess love-making is out for us tonight.”

“If you want a last quick-one, right now,” she says, keeping her angered tone, “then that’s up to you.”

“Well, you kind of owe it to me, don’t you think?” I say, setting her up for a punchline.

“How do you figure that?”

“You had Gilberto shoot my nice blond lady tourist full of holes, before I had my way with her.”

Esmeralda has trouble holding back a smirk. “You pig,” she says, which I know, from her, means a green light.

3

It’s two days later, and though I gave Esmeralda a good time on our last night at Cat Island, it didn’t take. So here we all are in Nassau, in the lobby of the One and Only Ocean Club hotel getting ready to say good-bye.

We’re not exactly hiding out in this $2,000 a night place, but I figure the security is so tight here, even if there were any of Martinez’s gangsters looking for me here, they would stick out like a peon in a limousine and be booted out.

I’ve put much of our cash and gold into a safe deposit box at the Commonwealth Bank here. The rest I deposited into an account that I can access anywhere in the world by bank card and password. I set up a separate account for Esmeralda to have access to about a fourth of my wealth. It’s enough for her and the children to live a pretty good lifestyle for a lifetime, as long as they don’t get foolish with it.

Of course, if they need more, I’ll transfer more funds to them. If anything happens to me, then that account will transfer to the children’s trust fund. The other three-fourths of the money is mine. I’ll need that to survive and to live my own lifestyle. Like Oscar Wilde said; I’m a man of simple tastes. I’m always satisfied with the best.

Since I’ve already said good-bye to my children and Aldonza, Esmeralda walks me to the car waiting to take me and Gilberto to the airport. I motion Gilberto into the car as the bellboys put our suitcases into the trunk.

“Well, I guess this is good-bye for now,” I say to Esmeralda without much emotion.

“Not ‘for now’,” she corrects me. “For the last time.”

“Honestly?”

“You will probably get yourself killed right as you walk off the plane in Mexico City. And if you’re not killed, you’re dead to me now.”

“What a thing to say,” I tell her, shaking my head in honest disappointment. “Even if it’s true.”

“It’s true, Rodrigo. I mean, I don’t wish you to die or anything like that. I do wish you to take care of this Martinez problem for the sake of our children….”

“….And for the sake of you.”

“Si, that too. So if you can kill Martinez, then kill him.”

“If I can kill him, you say? I’m gonna cut his god-damned head off.”

“Si, power and force. That’s about all you care about, in or out of bed. But just remember, God denied the famous bed-hopping Don Juan salvation. So have a good time with him in hell, señor.”

“I wonder, Esmeralda, is it your education or your upbringing that gives you that sarcastic wit of yours?”

“It’s neither. It’s living with you that has given me reason to sharpen my tongue. My mind and my tongue are the only weapons I have against you.”

“And they are deadly, mi amour,” I tell her seriously, but with a smile. “That’s just one of the things that I love about you.”

“You can talk about love all you want, Rodrigo, but to me you’re just a rich gangster that’s going to end up getting killed by one of Martinez’s men, or by one of your whores when you don’t tip her enough. So I don’t want to be around you anymore. You’re too dangerous to be around. And when you’re not dangerous, I’m just tired of you getting into so much bullshit. Very tired.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Well, I do. And I know the first thing that you will do, once you reach home, is to go to the Utopia and jump into bed with one of your ready-made whores. And if you survive Antonio Martinez, you’ll celebrate by going back to the Utopia. So do me a favor, will you? Get us an official divorce as soon as you can.”

“Well, I don’t know how soon that can be done.”

“What? You never heard of the gringos talking about a quickie Mexican divorce? It’s not only quick for the gringos. It’s quick for the Mexicanos, too.”

I glance over at Gilberto sitting in the car, pretending not to hear us. Then I look slowly back at Esmeralda’s beautiful face. Yes, beautiful, even with the look of feigned angry determination she’s now displaying.

Anyway, I hope it’s feigned because I don’t want to lose her and the children. If Martinez’s men get me, that’s one thing, but I don’t want to lose her this way. She’s young and beautiful, with enough money to live and dress well. She’ll attract men to her the way a red cape attracts the bulls. I hate to think this, but I’d rather see her horned by a bull than be mounted by some matador that she thinks is brave.

I’ve been brave. Just ask my sainted friend Ramon when you get to heaven. He’ll tell you how I fought alongside him, never faltering in the killing that needed to be done. But Esmeralda wasn’t there to see that.

What she did see, was me with my pants down ready to be shot by my new lady friend Nancy on Cat Island. Esmeralda thinks that she was the brave one to grab Gilberto and save me. Well, hell; now that I think about it, she was pretty brave to do that. I didn’t even see her flinch when Gilberto was blasting away at Nancy. I never saw that side of Esmeralda and I have to tell you that it turned me on.

“So, adios, Rodrigo. I wish you well,” she says coldly.

“I want to see you and the children again,” I tell her gently.

“No, señor,” she says sharply. “This is the end. Adios.”

I can see by her face that she means it, so I say, “Stay well, Esmeralda,” and then I turn my back to her and get into the car. She turns her back to me and heads to the hotel entrance even before the valet has closed the car door.

“Are you ready to go, sir?” the driver asks.

“Yes. Get us the hell to the airport,” I reply, not caring who knows that a woman has made me angry.

As we drive off, I look at the hotel entrance, but Esmeralda doesn’t stop and turn for a final look. My last memory of her will be long black hair falling over a white silk blouse, a black leather skirt and the best legs in Mexico.

Screw her. There are other legs back home. Legs that’ll give me some god-dammed respect.

4

The red tile living room floor echoes with footsteps as Gilberto and I walk through my now empty house in Ciudad Nuevo. I haven’t been here since Ramon and I fought off Martinez’s hit-squad and then fled under fire many months ago.

Now the house is graveyard quiet without the sounds of battle. And especially without the happy sounds of my children playing and Aldonza singing in the kitchen as she whips up one of her great meals. I even miss the sound of Esmeralda getting angry at me for coming home late and then holding her hand out for mad-money as my punishment.

Oh, Santa Lucia, look at that. Those hit-squad assholes put five bullets into my Fabio Leather Sofa. A hundred-thousand pesos down the drain.

“Are we moving back in, señor?” Gilberto asks.

“Si, right after we take care of the Martinez situation,” I tell him with confidence. “I’ve had my lawyer keep this place on ice for me for when I came back. Only, I thought I’d be back with my family.”

“Once it is safe for them to come back, I’m sure they will,” Gilberto consoles.

“Gracias, Gilberto. Pero, I don’t think so.” I go down the hall toward my den. I enter it and see that my lawyer had closed up my walk-in vault as I instructed him to do. I punch in the combination, open the heavy door and walk in.

I see that my remaining automatic rifles were indeed taken by Martinez’s men during their attack. But everything else looks to be in place. And ah, there’s my original Borsalino hat on the floor in the back of the vault.

I remember when Ramon urged me to take it off so as not to be such a good target. I pick it up and put in on my head. Luckily, I still have a head to put it on after all that action here and later on the pier trying to get to my yacht. Not to mention, Nancy, whoever-she-was, at Cat Island, planning to put a bullet in my head once I mounted her. Jesus, what a world. A world of my making, true, but what a world.

I take off my Borsalino and place it on a shelf. It’s too much of an identifying mark for me. I have to be as far under the radar as I can. And though Gilberto enjoyed wearing the Borsalino that I bought him to use on Cat Island, I told him not to wear his here either.

I kneel down to a lower shelf where a hand-made leather box is sitting. I hope it hasn’t been opened. I lift the lid and see the shiny steel blade of my Bowie knife. I had it made in Mexico City when I was at the Universidad there. Made very special. It’s one of a kind.

There’s a myth about how Jim Bowie had knife-maker Jack Black fuse a meteorite into the original knife, to give it a ‘bit of heaven’ or a ‘bit of hell’. However, my knife is no myth.

In my youthful excitement, I purchased a 32 gram meteorite and had a blade-smith custom-make me a Bowie knife. He actually hand-forged the nickel-iron meteorite into the Damascus steel. Jim Bowie’s knife had the myth, my knife has the real thing. It’s a truly divine weapon, God forgive the phrase.

Jim Bowie died at the Alamo at the hands of Santa Ana’s army, so maybe right now some Mexican aristocrat has possession of his knife. Hah, or maybe some field hand has got it, passed down from his great-grandfather who was a Santa Ana infantry soldier. Ay caramba, I’d like to get my hands on the real knife that killed those three assassins at the Mississippi Sand Bar incident that made Bowie famous.

I grab the sheath from the box and insert my Bowie knife into it.

5

“Rodrigo. I thought you were dead. Everyone thinks you are dead,” Rosita says to me as I approach her in the bar area of the Utopia brothel.

“You’ll find out how dead I am once we get upstairs,” I tell her.

“Pero, Rodrigo, I have many appointments already scheduled tonight.”

Rosita has played that ‘all booked up’ game on me before. Whether she’s actually booked up or not, I know how to handle women like her, and men like her for that matter. Everyone has a price. “You’ll make more money from me tonight than you’ll make here all this week,” I tell her with a smile.

She doesn’t hide her surprise when she says, “That much? Do you know how much I make in a week?”

“I’m good at math,” I tell her, “so multiplying something by seven is pretty easy for me.”

“Multiply it by six,” she says with a nod and a smile turning to the stairway.

“Ah, that’s right,” I say, following her swaying hips. “Never on Sunday.”

“Never on Tuesday,” she corrects.

I look back down the stairs to be sure that Gilberto is following me from a distance and then ask Rosita, “What’s so special about Tuesday?”

“María la del Barrio.”

“Who’s she?” I joke.

“My tele-novela. Have you been away that long?”

“Five months and I didn’t get any Mexican TV dramas there.”

“You been on some island or something?”

I don’t answer because the girls that work these places have more connections than the internet. And I don’t need anyone tracing me or my family via Cat Island.

We enter Rosita’s usual balcony-suite that’s fit for a beauty contest winner, which she was, and fit for a king, which I am, or will be again, if all goes right. Before closing the door, I check the hall to see that Gilberto knows where I am. He’ll keep vigilance while I’m in the room.

For the two years that I’ve known her, Rosita has remained as sensual as the first time I bedded her. That’s because she has yet to eat the one food that transforms an erotic woman into a get-it-over-quick-will-you bedmate, namely, wedding cake.

As I close the door to the suite, Rosita turns and looks at me closely, as if to re-verify that I’m really alive. “You know, Rodrigo, I heard that the night you left town they found some dead guy in the room you were in at La Escalera.”

“I heard that, too. But it wasn’t my room,” I lied.

“And I also heard, you had a big fight with guns with some guys and there were bodies all over your house.” She looks at me for confirmation, but I don’t change my expression. “So that’s why you left town, no?”

“I wasn’t there when it happened. It was just some crazy guys attacking the wrong house,” I lie again. “Fortunately, my family and I were taking a vacation at the time.”

“What?” she says. “I heard that night you were at La Escalera and beat up Alejandro the manager and took his car.”

I smile and shrug. “I heard that, too. But that was five months ago and as that rumor spread it got all distorted. Actually, I wasn’t involved.”

Rosita nods, knowing that this is a story that I want to keep quiet, even though we both know that yes, I was involved at the shoot-out at my home, and yes, I roughed up Alejandro and took his Land Rover.

That settled, Rosita turns on a jeweled timer next to the bed and says, “So how about a bath first?”

Hijo, 7,000 pesos an hour, or any portion of an hour, to be in this suite with Rosita, so a ten minute bath would cost me over a thousand pesos. But I can afford that. I would not be coming to the Utopia if I could not afford that. But what I can’t afford is to be sitting in a whorehouse bathtub being shot at by one of Martinez’s men with only my buzzarino to return fire. Not that I don’t trust Rosita, but, like I said, everyone has a price, including, and especially, Rosita.

“Sure, but later,” I tell her, as I sit down on the ultra-soft red sofa.

Rosita reaches up, wraps her long brown-dyed hair into a bun and pins it off, so as not to get it tangled in her business at hand, bath and otherwise. “You know,” she says, letting her dress drop with one fluid, practiced move, “This is the first time I’ve seen you without your hat.”

“My Borsalino is too much of a fingerprint for me in this town. It’s too much of a target, as well.”

“Target?” she asks, sitting next to me and getting to work.

I stand up before she unbuckles me. “I need to ask you some important questions,” I say calmly, but seriously, looking down at her in all her natural beauty.

“Si, como no,” she says, leaning back on the sofa to either distance herself from me, or to show off what nature’s done for her.

“That night when all that commotion happened over at La Escalera, when I took Alejandro’s Land Rover, remember?”

“Si, I remember.”

“Did a hombre with three bodyguards come here?”

“Rodrigo, I can’t remember. Do you know how many people come here? And that was months ago.”

“Try to remember.”

“If I remembered, I would tell you.”

“Well, all right,” I say, walking over to the bed and sitting on it. I look at Rosita’s curvaceous body against the red sofa and she looks like a color spread in Playboy.

“What is happening, Rodrigo? How can I help you?”

“I need to find out information on those men, and then get myself out of some trouble.”

“I’m sorry that you are in trouble.”

“I’ll get myself out,” I say. “And when I do, I will re-open my house and live there.”

“Hmm, that’s good. But you are no longer mayor.”

“I don’t need to be mayor anymore. I just want some quiet from now on.” I look away from her, so as not to let her magnificent nudity completely influence my upcoming decision. In a few moments, I make the decision and then look back at her. “My wife and children will no longer live in Mexico, and one of the things that I have to do is have my lawyer fix me up with a divorce…..”

“… Really?…”

“….Si, and I would like to see you often.”

“Of course, Rodrigo. Anytime, as always.”

“No, not ‘as always’, but without the money.”

“Que?”

“I want you to move into my house.”

Rosita sits up on the sofa and then stands. “Oh, you don’t want to do this, Rodrigo,” she says grabbing her dress off the floor and holding it in front of her.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong,” she says sliding her dress back on. “I just can’t do that.”

“You can’t work here forever,” I say calmly, though disappointed in her rejection.

“I won’t be working here long. I have many opportunities in my future,” she says equally calm, but serious.

“Well,” I say, standing up and approaching her. “Isn’t that what I’m offering you? An opportunity?”

“I’m a young woman and….”

“….I thought it might be that,” I say putting my hands on her waist and coming close to her flawless face.

“No,” she smiles, “it’s not our ages. It’s my age. I want to leave this town after I’ve made enough money….”

“….Money won’t be a problem…..”

“….My own money, Rodrigo. My own money to let me go to America and live there, if I want to.”

“Si, I understand,” I say, and mean it.

“You’re not going to strong-arm me, are you, Rodrigo?” she asks, as she kisses my cheek.

“Oh, Rosita. How can you ask me that?” I say, as I kiss her back. “I didn’t actually strong-am Alejandro to get his car and I’m certainly not going to strong-arm a woman that I’ve just invited to share my life with, whether she accepts me or not.” I hug her close. “I’ve never strong-armed anyone who didn’t have it coming.”

“Bueno,” she whispers in my ear. “Now how about that bath?”

An hour later, disappointed, but cleaner and more relaxed, I come out of the room, nod to Gilberto, and we head downstairs, out of the Utopia and towards La Escalera.

6

Gilberto and I enter La Escalera. It’s still early, so there are not many customers, at least, not in the bar area. Alejandro comes over to greet us as is his custom, but when he sees it’s me he barely controls his astonishment. “Señor Villalobos,” he says slowly, “it’s so good to see you again.”

“I guess you feel like you’re looking at a ghost, eh, Alejandro?” I say with a smile.

“Well, after I heard about that thing at your house, hijo. And you and your family disappeared on your boat….”

“…..Yacht….”

“….Si. They found my Land Rover at the pier and that was all anyone knew.”

“That was all anyone was supposed to know,” I tell him, as we walk further into the bar area. “I’m sorry you got roughed up that night, Alejandro.”

“Ay caramba. I thought those three hombres were gonna kill me. But I guess they wanted you more than me.”

“I figured they would. I’m sorry it happened.”

“It’s okay, señor. It’s in the past. But señor, what are you doing here? I mean, back in town?”

“I’ve got some loose ends to tie up.”

“There’s a new mayor now.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“Rodolfo Rios.”

“He’s a good man,” I say, not caring if he is or isn’t.

“Si, he’s doing okay, so far.”

“Is Sonja working tonight?”

“Si, she has a customer upstairs.”

“Well, pry her loose, set me up with a suite and send her to me.”

“Si, señor. Right away.” He pulls out some golden VIP room keys that he keeps in his pocket for special customers, looks them over and then hands me the one with the tag Santa Ana. “Your usual is available, señor.”

Upstairs, Gilberto walks into the suite first, quickly checks it over and then positions himself in the hall on guard. I enter, go to the small bar in the corner of the room and pour myself a whiskey. I take a sip and then look over at the spot where Gabriela and I killed Manolo. His dying ravings echo in my mind; “I’m gonna kill you, you chingada madre. And I’m gonna rape this feo puta.”

I chuckle to myself remembering how, seconds later, Gabriela’s face sitting, snuffed out what was left of his life. Funny, I think to myself, it’s like the killing I did in this suite is more memorable than the screwing I did here.

The door slowly opens. It’s Sonja, the most erotic woman in town. At least, for my money she is, and always for my money. She gives me her perfect smile. “Es verdad.” she says. “I could hardly believe Alejandro when he told me you were here.”

“I hope I didn’t drag you away from anyone special,” I say, not caring if I did.

She walks in and closes the door. “No, just some Americano whose wife won’t….. well, no, nobody special. But he sure was pissed-off until Magdalena walked in. Then I got a little pissed because his eyes lit up more when he saw her than with me.”

“Occupational hazard,” I smile at her.

“And what’s Gilberto doing in the hall?”

“You know Gilberto?”

“Si, I’ve seen him around.”

“I didn’t know he came here before.”

“Si, I’ve seen him at the bar a few times last year and we talked a little.”

“And you knew he was my houseman?”

“Rodrigo, you are the mayor….”

“….Was the mayor,” I gently correct her.

“Si, and everyone knows everything about the mayor, so I know about Gilberto.”

“Did you and Gilberto ever….?”

Sonja thinks for a second. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Good,” I say with a smile. “I’m not much for family affairs.”

“Si, yo compredo,” she says. “But what happened to you after that night? Everyone thought you either escaped out to sea or drowned. Ay, madre de dios, what a night. I was downstairs when they beat up Alejandro. And I heard that you beat up Alejandro, as well. How long has it been?”

“About five months,” I say setting down my drink. “But, just to be clear, I didn’t beat up Alejandro. That was just an act between him and me to make people think I stole his car.”

“Bueno, that’s good to know, Rodrigo. Thank you for telling me. And now you came back to see me? I really like that, Rodrigo,” she purrs, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Although I’m here for business, I might have to indulge Sonja, so as not to offend her, or hurt my reputation. Yes, I just left Rosita, but this wouldn’t be the first time that I had the Rosita-Sonja nightly-double. I accomplished that on the morning of my seven-brothels-trek.

I tune into my body and feel I have that same energy, but actually Rosita was enough for tonight. I have an important question to ask Sonja. And since Rosita turned me down about having a more meaningful relationship, Sonja, it seems, is the next best candidate. And looking at her full lips and earthy body that is fighting her silk dress, I think Sonja might even be a more suitable companion for me.

“Speaking of that night, when everything went to hell,” I say approaching her, “I want to ask you some questions about it.”

“Okay, Rodrigo. What do you want to know?”

“Do you remember talking to me at the bar that night?”

“Si. You said you were too busy to be with me. I remember.”

“Do you remember the man who sat down next to me right after we talked?”

“I remember that guy. I saw you talking with him. And after all the commotion I remember them taking that guy’s body out on a stretcher. He was covered with a sheet, but people were talking about seeing you with him at the bar and how his three bodyguards found him dead….Ay, caramba, they found him right here in this Santa Ana suite and then they beat-up Alejandro. Que noche.”

“His name was Manolo Gonzales. He worked for a gangster called Antonio Martinez of Coatinzia. But Manolo actually lived in Poza Rica.”

“I never heard of that dead guy until that night. And I don’t know any Antonio Martinez.”

Sonja’s statement comes too fast, without her thinking it over. It also sounds too concise, too rehearsed to me. “You don’t know either one of those men?”

“No. Why? Should I know them?”

“Did you talk to Manolo when he was here?”

“I just saw him go up to your room that night. And then I had a customer, so that’s all I know, except I was at the bar when those three men beat-up Alejandro. But I didn’t know them either.”

“You didn’t talk to them?” I pushed.

“I might have said something to them when they were at the bar. They were drinking there a long time.” She stands up from the bed with concern on her face. “Why are you asking me all these questions, Rodrigo?”

“I need to know everything I can about that night and about those men.”

“Why?” she asks with concern. “Are you planning to do something?”

Her question is a red flag to me. “Why do you think I’m planning something?”

“Well, you are back here and you are no longer mayor, so I guess you want to do something or else you wouldn’t have come back.”

“True enough,” I concede.

“But I don’t know those men that you are talking about, except for what I saw that night.”

“I guess, maybe so,” I tell her, but suspect she’s not revealing everything to me.

“So, Rodrigo,” she says, approaching me and putting her hands on my shoulders, “Did you come just for those questions, or did you come for me, too?”

“Well, now that you brought that up ….,” I hesitate and start thinking if I’m going to do what’s best for me. “….I have a few things to do in the next few weeks….”

I hesitate again, wondering if I should invite her now or after I finish my business; this business that could get me killed. But then I think; If I am killed, I might be lying in my own blood wondering what Sonja would have answered, so why not ask her now?

“Si,” she whispers kissing me. “You have things to do. So?”

I gently remove myself from her embrace and take a few steps back to distance myself from her erotic powers, as if that would help me make a more responsible decision. But I know it doesn’t help as I say, “Well, one of the things I must take care of is getting a divorce from my wife and….”

“….Es verdad?”

“Si, es verdad, pero, I have no desire to live alone and ….”

“….Si, and…,” she helps me along as I think she knows where this is going and likes the sound of it.

“….And, well, I’m thinking…” Suddenly, I hear the sound of a struggle outside the door. I grab my .38 snub-nose just as a giant hombre crashes through the door, gun in hand ready to fire. I beat him to it, with two quick blasts to his chest that cancels his ticket as Sonja screams like a stuck pig.

As he falls to the floor, I jump out into the hallway to see Gilberto wrestling with another hombre on the floor. Three hits with the butt of my pistol, knocks the hombre unconscious.

“What the hell’s going on, Gilberto?” I ask angrily, because he was supposed to be guarding the door.

“I don’t know, señor,” Gilberto puffs, catching his breath as he stands. “Those two guys were just walking down the hall. I thought they were customers and then one of them grabbed me and the other kicked the door open.”

“Jesus, Gilberto.”

“Are you okay, boss?”

I ignore his question. “Estupido. You thought they were customers? Customers have women with them. This ain’t no maricon brothel.”

“Lo ciento mucho, señor. It just happened so fast.”

“Drag that bastard into the room,” I say stepping back inside the suite where Sonja is still screaming. “Callate, Sonja, callate.” But my words are not enough, so I put my hand over her mouth which slowly does the job.

“Jesus, this guy is a giant,” Gilberto says, grabbing the unconscious man’s collar.

As Gilberto drags him into the room and closes the door, I look over at the other man that I just shot and killed. Ay, life is so funny, I think. He’s lying dead in the exact same spot where, just a few months ago, Manolo was suffocated by a pillow on his face that Gabriela was sitting on.

“Why are you laughing?” Sonja asks me, as she regains some of her composure.

“I just had a funny thought. That’s all.”

“I like your style, Rodrigo,” she says, as I watch her fear turn into excitement.

“Why are you suddenly excited?” I ask her, but know the answer.

“I’ve always liked dueling hombres,” she gasps out. “It’s better than a bull fight.”

“This other dueling hombre is still alive,” I tell her, as I pull out my phone, and punch Alejandro’s name that’s still on my favorites list.

“Si, Señor Villalobos,” Alejandro’s excited voice comes. “I heard the shots. I’m on the way up with two men.”

“Take you time, Alejandro. Everything is okay. Just come up alone.”

“Pero señor, what has happened?”

“Your Santa Ana suite has just claimed another life.”

“Ay, madre mia.”

“Si,” I chuckle. “This room is getting to be more like the Alamo every time I visit it. Maybe you should think about changing the name from Santa Ana to San Antonio.”

“Si, señor.”

“And Alejandro, did you buy a new car?”

“Si, señor, a new Land Rover, with the money you gave me. The one you took was pretty well beat up.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I’ll need to take your new one as well.”

“Aye, gue noche.”

7

“I don’t understand why I have to come with you, Rodrigo.” Sonja says to me, as we speed away from La Escalera in Alejandro’s new Land Rover. Gilberto is up front at the wheel with Sonja and I sitting in the back next to the now semi-conscious, giant hombre. The hombre’s hands are secured behind his back with a pair of Sonja’s handcuffs that she keeps for her more imaginative customers.

“I have you along for good reason,” I tell her. “I think that maybe you were helping this soon-to-be-dropped-in-a-deep-hole hombre.”

“How can you even think that, Rodrigo?” she says with indignation. “I never get involved with any of my customer’s affairs, business or otherwise. And I would never help anyone harm you or any other of my customers.”

“I’m glad to hear that, mi amour, but the coincidence of me being attacked as soon as I get to your room, gives me pause.”

“Well, it gives me a feeling of being pissed off, that you would think that, Rodrigo. So let me out of the car so I can go back to work.”

“I’ll make it worth your while if you come along with me.”

“Come along to where?”

“Si, effie,” Gilberto calls back to me. “Where are we headed?”

“Let’s head to Esteban Medina’s place.”

“Señor, that’s more than two hours out into the dessert.”

“Just get us there, Gilberto.”

“Si, señor.”

My prisoner starts to groan as he opens his eyes. I grab him hard by the hair. “What’s your name hombre?”

He remains silent, so I slap his face a couple of times, which brings a smile to Sonja’s face. I didn’t realize that she really likes this tough guy stuff. Perhaps there’s more to Sonja than meets the bed.

I turn my attention back to my captive, who looks like a killer in a badly cast gangster movie; a character actor, too much in character to be believed. Big and ugly, with a facial scar that could have only been made during a knife fight. I ask him again, pulling his hair again, “Who are you?”

“Diego Verduzco,” he spits out as he eyes me.

“Okay, Diego. Now for the big one. Who sent you?”

He jerks his head away from me and faces Sonja who’s practically climaxing with excitement.

I hit Diego on the side of his head with the butt of my pistol. “Diga me.”

Another, and much harder, hit makes him give me the name that I already know. “Antonio Martinez,” he groans.

“Si, Antonio Martinez,” I echo. “Well, that’s damn sure name enough, isn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with him?” Sonja asks, with glee in her eyes.

“I’m going to drop his ass down a god-damned hole in the desert,” I say and mean it. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

Sonja breaths out heavily. “Can I watch?”

I’m liking Sonja even more now. She’s a real fun girl, even out of bed.

“We’ll see,” I answer.

“No, señor,” Diego says softly.

“Speed up, Gilberto, will you? I want to hit the desert before next Dia de los Muertos.”

“Si, effi.”

8

Even though it’s around midnight as our headlights hit Esteban Medina’s adobe house, he is outside to greet us, shotgun in hand. Coming across this flat desert, he must have seen our approaching headlights from three kilometers away. We come to a stop ten meters from Esteban.

“Who the hell is that with the god-damned gun?” Sonja asks.

“It’s all right,” I tell her. “He’s a friend from my university days.”

“Some friends you got, Rodrigo,” she groans. “All this time driving here to this dump, I’m tired as hell and now we’re greeted by this shotgun asshole.”

I feel like telling Sonja that the drive took so long because we had to stop for her to cat-box in the desert every thirty minutes. However, with having to watch my handcuffed captive and explaining things to the waiting Esteban, I have enough to concentrate on. “Gilberto, turn around and hold your gun on our friend here, so I can talk to Esteban.”

“No, problema,” Gilberto says, pulling out his pistol, turning and pointing it at Diego’s head.

“Stay here for a minute,” I tell Sonja as I step out of the Land Rover.

“Pero, tengo que hacer pipi,” she pleads.

Women, I think, closing the door on her. You can’t live with them and you can’t shoot them.

“Turn off the damned headlights,” Esteban calls to me.

“Gilberto. The headlights.” The lights go off. “Hola, Esteban. It’s Rodrigo Villalobos.”

Esteban lowers his shotgun. “Rodrigo? What are you doing here? I’m mean, bienvenida.”

“Gracias, Esteban.” I approach him and hold out my hand.

He smiles and shakes my hand. “Is this a visit or do you have a problem?”

“Both,” I tell him. “I know I’m disturbing you at this hour, but I couldn’t help it.”

“No such thing, señor. You are always welcome here.” He turns his head and calls to the house even though the door is closed. “Lucinda. It’s okay. We’ve got company. Put on some coffee.”

“I’m afraid there are four of us,” I tell him.

“It’s fine,” Esteban says. “Nice to see some faces other than coyotes and Gila monsters out here.”

“Well, I’ve got one monster in the Land Rover that we might have to take care of.”

“Es verdad?” Esteban chuckles. “Just like the old days. Pero, don’t mention it to Lucinda. She doesn’t approve of my past. But I can help you take care of whatever you need to do.”

“Gracious, señor.”

I leave Gilberto and Diego out in the Land Rover for a while, as I get Sonja into the house, introduced to Esteban and his wife and shown to the outhouse in the back. Of course, I controlled my urge to brag about Sonja working for the high-class La Escalera. I figure, even though that would impress Esteban, his wife would not appreciate it and might not treat Sonja as a guest and start treating her like the whore that most women wrongly imagine her to be. I say wrongly because Sonja is more a business woman than a street whore, at least to my way of thinking.

When Sonja returns from doing her business, Esteban’s wife gives us coffee and though it’s not the 700 pesos a kilo Hacienda La Esmeralda coffee from Panama that I’m used to, it gives me the lift that I need. It has always pleasured me to know that the coffee I usually drink bears the name of my soon-to-be ex-wife wife Esmeralda. But now that she’s out of my life, I’m going to have to change brands. I wonder if there are any coffees named Sonja, if I should happen to marry her.

Esteban’s wife, Lucinda, is about the same age as he is, fifty or so, and though perhaps pretty in her younger years, she now shows the wear of a woman living in the desert. And it makes me wonder, how can a man get turned on by a woman his same age, especially after she reaches fifty like Lucinda?

What’s that religion that teaches; a man’s wife should be half his age plus seven years? The hell with that. A man’s wife should be half his age, period. Sonja is almost that, so is Esmeralda.

Thinking along those lines, that means that even when I reach sixty, which I seriously doubt I will, my woman, whoever that would be at the time, should be thirty years old, which would suit me fine.

Esteban and I go outside to take a cup of coffee to Gilberto which gives me a moment to explain my situation and plan to Esteban in private. Esteban agrees to my plan, goes back to the house and grabs a shovel that is leaning against the wall.

I hold my gun on Diego, who’s smart enough to know what’s coming and sits there in the Land Rover like a man ready to take it. I’m impressed with his resolve.

Gilberto finishes his coffee and then pulls my still handcuffed enemy out of the Rover as I cover him. Then, shovel in hand, Esteban leads the way as Gilberto and I push Diego out into the half-moon lit desert, away from the light coming out of the house’s windows. Sonja is still inside with Esteban’s wife, unaware that we four are on our way to the event she wanted to witness, though I know she was just getting aroused over the idea of watching a murder, and not woman enough to see the actual killing.

Though past midnight, the desert is still warm. And there’s a strange silence about it. Not one cricket or any other insect can be heard. The only sound is our feet walking on the soft sand.

Finally, Diego speaks, as I knew he soon would. “Señor,” he starts with respect, “I told you what you wanted to know. If you let me go, I promise to disappear and make no trouble and talk to no one about you.”

“You’ll disappear all right,” I tell him calmly, as I follow Esteban, hoping he’ll be the one to step on any Gila monsters that might be around, instead of me. Damned those things. They dig their teeth into you and won’t let go until you die, like some women have done to friends of mine.

“Don’t do this, señor,” Diego continues with his begging as we walk. “I can help you with your problem with Señor Martinez. I know many things that could help you. Just don’t kill me.”

If it weren’t for the fact that we three would have to drag Diego’s dead body into the desert, I would shoot him right now, because his unmanly demeanor is making me nauseous. These so-called macho gangster hombres, who walk around like they are God’s gift to the bull ring and then start crying as you’re walking them to their grave, really make me laugh. They go through their life, intimidating, extorting, corrupting and murdering hard working people, and then act so surprised when it’s their turn to pay the piper.

Of course, I know that I shouldn’t be the one to talk, as I’ve done my share of that kind of stuff, even though it was mostly to those that had it coming. However, when it’s my turn to be lead out to a hole in the desert, I know I’ll keep my mouth shut and not ask for a cigarette or a blindfold. I’ll just look my killer in the eye and smile. That’ll unnerve the son-of-a-bitch.

Esteban looks back at his house, which is now the size of a matchbox and says, “This is far enough.” Without asking for my agreement, he starts digging in the soft sand. Gilberto holds his pistol at Diego’s head so that he won’t bolt out into the desert. Having to chase him down tonight after such a trying evening, would cause me considerable annoyance and displeasure.

“Oh no, señor. Please wait. Let’s talk,” Diego whines, as he keeps his eye on each stroke of the shovel hitting the sand.

“Jesus, boss. Do we have to listen to this. Can’t I just pop him now?” Gilberto asks, standing behind Diego and extending his gun arm to touch Diego’s neck with the muzzle of his pistol.

“And then have to drag his ass into the hole?” I say with mock annoyance. “Better he falls in.”

“Hell, I drag his ass in, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Gilberto says.

“No, it’s more fun to make bets,” I tell him.

“Make bets?” Gilberto asks.

“Si. Fall into the hole or miss it?” I tell him. “I say, a thousand pesos that he hits it.”

“Oh, no señor.” Diego cries.

“If you let me, I’ll pull the trigger on him, boss,” Gilberto says, “And then you can damn-sure be certain he’ll hit the hole and you’ll win.”

“No, Gilberto. I’m the boss. I’ll take care of him. I’d never ask anyone to do my dirty work, unlike this hombre’s boss, who doesn’t want to get his hands messy.”

“I’ve always appreciated that about you, Señor Villalobos,” Gilberto says with respect.

In all our back and forth bullshit banter, Esteban continues at the task at hand and now the hole is long and deep enough to hold this piece of steer manure. Speaking of which, this reminds me of my compadre Ramon’s philosophy about; dying like a bull in the arena or a steer in the slaughterhouse. If Ramon were still alive, I bet he’d give this guy the same speech. Too bad. I miss Ramon.

And now a story about a giant bull that Ramon once told me comes to mind. A story that I don’t think this coward Diego would find humorous, but one that would give Esteban and Gilberto a nice chuckle. I decide to wait until I’ve got my .38 at Diego’s head before I tell the story.

“I think that’s deep enough, Esteban,” I tell him. “Gracias.”

“Just half a meter more,” Esteban says, without missing a stroke of the shovel. “I don’t want no coyote digging up this guy and dragging him past our house when Lucinda is hanging out the wash. That would really piss her off. And then I’d have to make my own tacos for a week.” Esteban starts to laugh as he digs. Gilberto laughs, too and I quickly follow. Nice of Esteban to inadvertently warm up my audience for my upcoming story.

I allow Esteban the extra few minutes to get to a depth of his satisfaction, so that he can pay full attention to me. “That’s enough,” he says, as he tosses down his shovel and steps away from the hole so as not to get hit by the bullet that might pass through Diego or by Diego’s body as he falls into his final place of rest.

“Gracias, Esteban,” I nod to him. I pull out my snub-nosed .38. “Relax, Gilberto.” Gilberto drops his gun hand to his side. I stand in front of Diego’s face, whose ugliness is now surpassed by his grim expression. I raise my .38 up to his chin and start my story. “Once there were these two old bulls, who had ten heifers each for girlfriends.”

“Que, señor?” Diego manages to ask.

“Just listen,” I tell him, as I hear Gilberto smirk standing behind him. “So one day, these two old bulls hear that the ranchero has purchased a young bull to put into the corral with these two old bulls and the twenty heifers.” I momentarily look over at Esteban to see if he’s listening and indeed, he’s all atencion. “So, one old bull, says to the other, ‘That new bull isn’t going to take any of my heifers.’ And the other old bull says, ‘He’s not going to take any of my heifers either’. So then the bull comes into the corral and he’s a giant, strong, wild bull, snorting and grunting with fire in his eyes. One of the old bulls starts, grunting back and pawing the ground. The other old bull says, ‘Are you crazy?. What are you doing?’ The other one replies, ‘I just want to make sure that he knows I’m a bull’.”

Diego’s face remains like stone, but Gilberto lets out a wild and insane laugh. I laugh, too. I look over at Esteban. He’s not laughing, but gives me, “That’s a good one, Rodrigo.”

I knee Diego in the balls and as he folds, I get behind him and with my boot on his ass, push him into the pit screaming bloody murder. The abruptness of my action cuts Gilberto’s laugh short, as Diego hits the bottom of the hole face-down. Even though handcuffed, he manages to immediately turn over in his grave and scream up at me, “No, señor. No.”

I look down at him and say, “I’m going to ask this once and I want a direct answer.”

“Si, señor,” he sobs, “I’ll tell you anything.”

“Did Sonja give you any help to get at me or have any connection to Antonio Martinez?”

“Quien?”

“Sonja,” I say sternly. “The girl you’ve been riding with for the past two hours. The girl in the room with me at the La Escalera.”

“I don’t know her, señor.”

“She didn’t give you any help or tell you where I was?”

“No, señor. I don’t know her.”

“I believe him, effie,” Gilberto says quietly.

“What do you think, Esteban?” I ask.

Esteban shrugs. “Quien sabe.”

I take a long breath and blow it out to give me time to think. I look up at the half-moon and wonder what the hell I’m doing out in this desert at midnight. Well, I think to myself, I believe him about Sonja. She’s in the clear….maybe. Now, what about this henchman for Martinez? This Diego son-of-bitch who tried to kill me tonight? Best to leave him for the coyotes to dig up, but …..

I reach into my pocket and grab a roll of pesos that I prepared while drinking coffee. It’s tied with a rubber band into a heavy tight wad. I toss it down at Diego and it hits him in the chest. This silences his whines and confuses him. He tilts his head down to see what it is, but the hole he’s in blocks the moonlight. “Que es esto?” he pants out in fear.

“That’s 20,000 pesos,” I tell him sternly. “And I’m going to give you a choice.” I pause and look over at Gilberto who’s staring at me in bewilderment. I look at Esteban, who, though disinterested in tonight proceedings up till now, looks at me like I’m a hangman that’s just given a condemned man a glass of tequila.

“Si, señor. A choice?” Diego says, with some hope in his voice.

I turn my attention back down into the hole. “Si, your choice,” I tell Diego. “You can take the money or take a bullet. What do you say?”

Only silence comes out of Diego’s grave. No doubt he’s confused as hell.

“Digame, hombre,” I tell him. “Tax-free money or a bullet?”

“The money,” he spits out. “I’ll take the money, por favor señor.”

“A very wise decision,” I tell him with a chuckle. “But though it’s tax-free, it’s not free-free.”

“Not ‘free-free’? Gilberto questions. “Que?”

Diego sits up in his grave and tries to speak, but his confusion has totally caught up with his mouth and he can’t form the words, so he just shakes his head.

“I think he wants to know what you mean, boss,” Gilberto says. “Yo tambien.”

Finally Esteban speaks. “Si, I’d like to know the answer to that one myself.”

“I’ll do anything you want,” Diego says, finally connecting lips to thought.

“Anything?” I say, playing with him.

“Si, señor,” he says emphatically.

“Stand up, hombre,” I say.

With his hands behind him, he struggles to get his feet under his body and like a zombie in a cheap movie he slowly resurrects himself, and with Diego’s face, he’d be perfect for a cheap zombie movie, what with the money they’d save not having to make him up for the part. “Si, señor,” he says. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Even betray your boss?” I ask.

“Si, señor. I will kill him and piss on him for you.”

Caramba, I think. The loyalty you can buy for a mere 20,000 pesos.

Esteban and I enter the house to see Sonja sitting at a table with Lucinda in what seems to be a deep conversation.

“Can I trouble you for more coffee, Señora Medina?” I ask.

“Si, no problema,” she says standing up and grabbing the pot on the stove. “Where are your other amigos?”

“They’re tired and will sleep out next to the Land Rover,” I tell her.

“I hope my husband hasn’t bored you already,” she says, pouring coffee in my cup. “He hardly says anything.”

“What do you want me to say,” Esteban says plainly. “that my wife had three boyfriends before I met her?”

“Callate, Esteban,” she says. “You’re always talking.”

Sonja and I break out in laughter. Lucinda smiles at Esteban who smiles back at her.

“And what have you two been talking about,” I ask Sonja.

Sonja looks up and winks at me. “Oh, a few things.”

“She’s been telling me about life in Ciudad Nuevo,” Lucinda says.

I think quickly. “About all the funny women that come to her beauty shop?”

“About all the funny men that come to La Escalera,” Lucinda smirks.

Sonja shakes her head at me. “Now, Rodrigo. Do I look like I work in a beauty shop. Is Señora Medina going to believe I shampoo hair all day long?”

“Well, you’ve got me there,” I tell her.

“The truth about yourself is always better,” Sonja says. “Besides I never….” She stops herself because she was probably about to say I never murdered anyone. I’m impressed that she knows how to edit herself when necessary.

“Never, what?” Lucinda asks.

“I never…,” Sonja looks back at Lucinda to give her time to think, “You know…never liked to mix hair colors and that kind of messy stuff, even for myself. And besides working in a beauty shop doesn’t pay much at all. I’d rather make money by….”

The four of us are silent for a moment with only the bubbling coffee to be heard.

Lucinda finally speaks. “Well, you all must be tired from your trip, not to mention it’s almost one in the morning, so why doesn’t Sonja sleep with me and you two men can make for yourselves there in the living room?”

“I think I’ll sleep in the Land Rover,” I say. “I’ll be fine there.”

“You can have the back seat, I’ll take the front,” Sonja says.

“No, Sonja” Lucinda says. “You should sleep in here, so you don’t get eaten by the coyotes.”

“Don’t let her scare you,” Esteban says. “They hardly ever come close to the house. You’ll be fine outside.”

“Jesus, Esteban” Lucinda says, with humor in her voice. “Can’t you stand to not get any just for one night?”

I stifle a chuckle as Sonja adds, “Rodrigo is the same way. That’s why I said I’ll sleep in the car with him.”

“Ole,” Esteban cheers, with passionate exuberance. “What a pair of women.”

“Esteban,” Lucinda says, shaking her head. “You’re always talking.”

In the front seat of the Land Rover, I get right to work questioning Sonja again about whether or not she was in on the attempt on my life. Whether or not she had been paid to get me off guard instead of just getting-me-off.

Of course, I already figured that she was innocent, but I didn’t want to waste the opportunity to treat her harshly as I ravage her to get at the truth. And what a ravaging it is. With Sonja screaming and kicking as I also thrash her with my belt, she hits every button on the dashboard, waking up Gilberto and Diego, first by Sonja’s foot hitting the horn, then the lights, and then the window button that rolls down letting her screams fly out into the desert night. And soon after that comes her howls that I worry might attract the coyotes.

Finally after ten minutes of this, I am satisfied she is not involved with my enemies. Sonja is just satisfied. She falls prey to an invincible drowsiness, curls up naked on the seat and quickly lies motionless with a curious smirk on her face.

I cover her with my jacket and get out of the Rover to see how Gilberto and Diego are doing. Diego is hand cuffed to the grill of the Rover just in case he switches loyalties again. Gilberto is lying on a blanket a safe distance from him. They both give me a look like ‘can we sleep now?’ I shrug my shoulders at them, get into the back seat and lay down. Before falling asleep, Alejandro’s words echo in my mind; Que noche.

9

Morning has come, so now I can get to the real reason I came out to Esteban’s home 150 kilometers from nowhere. Esteban is ex-policia federal and often trains other ex-policia on how to be a mercenary for hire. Those contacts also get him requests from gangsters and drug runners to train them with firearms, create security plans and even co-ordinate assaults.

Esteban doesn’t care what side of the law you’re on, just as long as you pay him and leave him alone to live his secluded life. Hence, he is an equal opportunity trainer. He also has a good arsenal of unlicensed weapons for sale. Since he fulfills his purpose to the satisfaction of all his customers, both sides of the law leave him alone.

Esteban is smart enough to know not to house any criminals or those fleeing from the law. This is why he has a one bedroom house. He could make a fortune if he had a mini-motel set up here in the desert, but then he’d be exposing himself to arrest for harboring fugitives and other criminal types.

No, people drive out here to buy weapons, get training, make assault plans and then leave. Sure Esteban will let someone sleep in their car here a couple of nights, but since it’s their own car, Esteban can’t be accused of harboring anyone.

The reason Esteban’s place came to my mind after last night’s attack is that I needed a safe-house far away from danger to figure out what to do with this Diego hombre, the employee of my enemy, Antonio Martinez. I also needed time to figure out if Sonja was in on my attempted hit or not, which meant taking her along. The third reason for coming here is to get advice from Esteban on eliminating Martinez from my life. If anyone can come up with an idea, it will be Esteban.

Driving here last night, it came to me that I might get some information about Martinez from Diego, and perhaps turn Diego to my side. I think I might have accomplished turning him. However, even though I scared hell out of Diego with last night’s ‘welcome to your grave’ act, he could always turn his loyalty back to Martinez and nail me and Gilberto, once he got his hands on a weapon. So in my mind, Diego is on a wait-and-see basis. And if I get any hint that he’s not completely changed to my side, well, let’s just say, Esteban hasn’t filled in last night’s hole and I have no aversion to seeing Diego flying back into it, propelled by something more deadly than just my boot.

So now that I’ve got Sonja eating breakfast with Esteban’s wife, Esteban, Gilberto, Diego and I go to the work-shed to talk over my needs.

In the shed, Esteban puts a large piece of blank paper onto a table, hands Diego an ink marker and says, “Draw the layout of Martinez’s house and grounds.”

“Si, I can do that,” Diego says.

“I know you can, so just do it,” Esteban says strongly, as he still has his doubts about Diego’s new loyalty. Then Esteban looks at me and asks, “Are you sure you want to do this, Rodrigo?”

“Look, Esteban,” I tell him, as Diego starts drawing and Gilberto looks on, “it’s been five months since Martinez sent that hit-squad to my house, one month since he sent a woman to Cat Island to shoot me, and now he’s still sending hombres like Diego here to kill me.”

“Lo ciento mucho sen….” Diego starts to say, as he looks up from his drawing.

“…Callate, Diego,” I cut him short. “Just draw the damned house.” I look back at Esteban and continue, “And even though my ex-wife and children are not in Mexico, I’m still worried that Martinez will get to them.”

“Si,” Esteban nods. “Martinez could find your family, kidnap them, and force you to come to him to be killed.”

“And when you come to him, he will kill your family anyway, señor,” Gilberto adds.

“Jesus, Gilberto,” I snap at him. “What a champion of the obvious you are. I don’t need to hear that.”

“Perdoname, por favor, Señor Villalobos,” Gilberto says sincerely.

I take a breath, as I realize that I should give Gilberto the freedom of voicing his opinion, since he’s proven his loyalty to me often. “Esta bien,” I tell him gently.

“Si, gracias, señor,” Gilberto says.

Esteban, hangs his head in thought for a moment. Finally, he looks up and says, “You have no choice, mi amigo. You have to kill Martinez in order to end this. Unfortunately, that also means that you’ll have to kill everyone in his house to do it. And then you’ll have to keep on your toes to make sure that you don’t have any of his relatives making a vendetta on you after that.”

“Martinez has a real hard-ass wife that you’ll have to get rid of, too,” Diego adds hesitantly, as he finishes the drawing.

“Ah, so I’ve heard,” I say. “Bueno. This is the kind of information I need from you. So now, explain Martinez’s house.”

Diego points his large finger at the biggest room and says, “The living room is here. Señor Martinez spends most of his time there. Either there, or in the bedroom, here.” Diego points to a room down the hallway in the center of the house. “His bedroom is in the center of the house, not by an outer wall, so there’s no way to break directly into it from the outside.”

“What about security?” Esteban asks.

“He’s got cameras all around the grounds. One of his guards is watching those cameras in the surveillance shed here.” Diego grabs a pencil and draws a smaller square next to the house. “Eight cameras in all. The front and back gardens are not so large, but with the cameras being monitored, it’s impossible to sneak in, even at night.”

“How many guards does he usually have on duty?” Esteban asks.

“It’s usually one guard watching the video monitor, three guards outside and two guards inside. But it’s probably more now.”

I look Diego in the eye to pressure him to see if I can rely on his information. “Why do you think that?”

Diego shrugs his massive shoulders. “He sent me and the other man to kill you last night. We didn’t return or report in, so he must figure you killed us, or are holding us, so he would probably put more of his men on duty thinking that you’d be after him now.”

“I agree with him, boss,” Gilberto says.

“Si,” Esteban adds. “Stands to reason.”

I take a step back from the table and say, “I don’t care if he has a whole army there. I have to hit Martinez. That’s the key for me. Otherwise, I’m a dead man. And my family, too.”

“I’m with you as always, boss,” Gilberto says.

“Si, I know. Gracias, Gilberto.”

“I will help you one-hundred percent,” Diego says.

I ignore Diego’s pledge as he has yet to prove he’s completely committed to me. I look at Esteban with a question in my eyes. He returns my look with a look of his own that says he understands my question.

Esteban crosses his arms over his chest. “No, Rodrigo,” he says. “I will give you whatever tactical advice I can. Any weapons you need, I’ll gladly give. But, even though we are longtime friends, I cannot help you with what you have to do. Here at my home, many come to me for training and weapons; policia, gangsters, drug-mules, and I help all of them. Hell, sometimes they are even here at the same time. It’s kind of a demilitarized zone. But how long do you think that would last once the word got out that I took sides with you? Helping you to kill someone, no matter which side of the law they are on, is out of the question.”

I let Esteban off the hook easily by saying, “Si, yo comprendo, Esteban.”

“And not only that,” Esteban continues. “If you bring me in as a mercenary, paid or not, it would not be seen as a vendetta familiar. It would just look like, and pardon me if I say; one gangster against the other.” He eyes me with concern.

“I pardon you, Esteban. No problema. Por favor, continue.”

“Gilberto here has been a part of your household for a long time. He is like family to you, so if the two of you attack Martinez, it would seem more vendetta familiar than if I go in with you. Not that vendetta familiar would help you with the policia, but at least other gangsters would see it as protecting yourself and your family and there would probably be no reprisals.”

“What if I help?” Diego asks him, probably more as a chance to get out of it, then to get into it.

Esteban thinks a moment, smiles, and then looks at Diego. “If I were Señor Villalobos here, I’d have you go with me to raid Martinez’s home and hope that once you killed your share of the guards, that one of the last guards will kill you. And if they didn’t, I’d kill you myself and leave you among the bodies. After all, you’d just be one more of Martinez’ dead men once the policia arrive to sort out what happened.”

Diego turns and looks at me with fear in his eyes. I keep a poker face as he gulps. Gilberto puts his hand over his mouth, but a giant chuckle escapes. Esteban joins in with a chuckle of his own. I look at Esteban, nod and laugh. Diego attempts a smile, but it’s an anxious one.

Suddenly I hear the Land Rover start up. “What the hell?” I say, as I walk to the door of the shed. I look outside and see the Rover take off down the road. I can’t see the driver, but I know it’s not Esteban’s wife, so it has to be Sonja. “What’s that bitch doing?” I say, and then yell out, “Sonja, stop right now. Stop.” But the Rover continues down the road. It’s an automatic, so Sonja is having an easy time escaping me.

“I’ll get her,” Gilberto says, as he runs past me, but I can see that she has too good a head start and is building speed rapidly.

“No, Gilberto,” I call to him. I turn to Esteban as he and Diego come out of the shed. “Can I use your truck, Esteban?”

“Si, the keys are in it.”

I run to his beat-up Ford, jump in, but then hear the tires of the Land Rover spinning in the sand a hundred meters down the road. I stand up on the running board of the Ford for a better look and see that Sonja, though great in front of a man, is bad behind the wheel, and in her haste, drove off the road and got stuck in the sand.

“I’ll go get her,” Gilberto says again.

“Never mind,” I tell him, somewhat frustrated, “I’ll go.”

As I walk down to the stuck Land Rover, I half expect Sonja to get out pissed-off and kick the tires, but no, she is just sitting there with the accelerator floored and the tires spinning, shooting up sand five meters into the air.

I wonder what I will do when I get there; drag her ass out, slap her around and tell her to walk back to town to die in the desert? That might be good for a laugh. But I actually don’t know what I will do, as I’m not sure what I’m feeling. I’ve got bigger things on my mind then to let this wanton bitch distract me.

I make a wide berth around the truck so as not to let any of the flying sand hit me. I open the door to the Rover, but she doesn’t get out. “Screw you, you son-of-a-bitch,” Sonja yells at me.

I’m surprised that I don’t hit her. I don’t even want to hit her. What hits me is the humor of the situation. “Sonja, mi amour. You never greeted me like that at La Escalera. What’s the problem? I mean, besides you getting stuck in the sand?”

“You’re my problem, you pendejo asshole,” she spits out. “What am I doing out here in this god-damned desert?”

Her exasperated face makes this situation all the more funny and it occurs to me to use a figurative expression, but with literal meaning, to answer her. “Why, you’re out here spinning-your-wheels, mi amour.”

Quickly, she grabs a flashlight that is on the dashboard and takes a wild swing at me. I move aside and she falls out of the Rover face down into the soft sand. I let out a howl of a laugh, but quickly get it under control as she turns over and starts crying. “What are you doing to me, Rodrigo? I can’t take this anymore.”

I kneel next to her as I take out a handkerchief from my jacket pocket. “Sonja, darling. I’m very sorry about all of this.” I put my arm around her to help her sit up. “But I had no choice, but to bring you along with me. I had to be sure that….”

“…..That what?”

“…..That you weren’t part of that attack last night.”

“Me? Helping them kill you?” she cries out. “Are your loco, Rodrigo? What kind of a person do you think I am? I screw for money. I don’t kill people like you and your friends do.”

“I don’t kill people,” I tell her calmly, as I gently wipe away some of the sand from her face. “But I do protect myself when I have to. And then, si, sometimes people get hurt. But it’s only for protection,” I tell her, while trying to push out of my mind the image of the father and son that I had ordered killed years ago for political reasons. Those killings are now the reason I’m out in this desert planning a raid that will probably get me killed and now trying to console a prostitute who actually means something to me.

All this happened because of that Iguana bartender who wanted to avenge his father and brother by bashing my brains out with a baseball bat. I killed him before he could, and then one of his relatives told Martinez’s wife about it, and then Martinez’s wife told Martinez to kill me, so that she would look powerful to her friend. All those chain-reaction effects happened from one first cause; my ordering the first two men killed so that I would have a free shot at becoming mayor.

All that mayhem for power and profit. And now I’m starting to see the ridiculousness of it all. I didn’t need all this basket-of-snakes. I could have coasted on what I had going years ago.

What I learned in philosophy class at the universidad seems to be true; this is a closed universe, nothing escapes it, and all in it are connected. Or, as I learned when I was an altar boy; A cada cerdo le llega su San Martin; ‘Each pig gets his Saint Martin’. San Martin was some bad ass saint that made sure everyone got what they deserved, and now I guess he’s on me big time.

Sonja’s stern words bring me back to the moment. “You talk about protection,” she sniffles, “then okay, how about protecting me?”

“You’re in no danger,” I assure her.

“But just look at me, Rodrigo. I’m tired, sweaty, sand in my hair and I feel a sore throat coming on.”

“Don’t worry. Just a couple more days here and you’ll be back on your knees before you know it.”

Thankfully my jest goes over her head and she cries, “I can’t stay here a couple of more days.”

“You’ll be fine, mi amour.”

“Don’t ‘mi amour’ me, Rodrigo. I’m your once-a-week whore. That’s all I am to you.”

“It’s not true, Sonja. You mean a lot to me. And believe me when I tell you that you are in no danger what-so-ever.”

She pushes my hand away and clumsily, in the loose sand, stands up. “I could have been killed last night in my room. Killed dead. The end of me.”

“No. They were only after me.”

“I know things, Rodrigo. I hear people talk. I know they always kill any witness. They would have killed me, too.”

I can’t argue with her on that one, so to take a pause and change the subject, I reach into the Land Rover and turn off the engine. I turn back to Sonja and notice, even with some sand still on her face, she looks beautiful. And it now occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve seen her in the daylight. Two years knowing her and I’ve never seen her in the sunlight, only at night. Even the direct desert sun cannot diminish her erotic beauty. “Look,” I tell her calmly, “I don’t have time to argue about all this with you. I have something important to do…..”

“….. Going after the man that tried to kill you? Antonio Martinez?”

“Si. It has to be done. And I will do that. And when it’s done. I will need you. In fact, I need you right now.”

“What can I do? There’s nothing I can help you with.”

“I need you with me.”

“I know you men. You need me like you need an aspirin for a short-time headache. And when the headache is gone, you’ll have no need for the aspirin.”

“Well, I’m not sure what that means,” I tell her, “but I’m divorcing my wife after I take care of …..”

“…..When are you getting a divorce?”

“Very soon. After I take care of my…. si… my headache.” Now I find myself saying something that I can’t believe comes out of my mouth even while I’m saying it. “After that, I want you to be with me. I don’t like coming home to an empty house. I’m not the kind of man that likes to live alone. When I came back to Mexico a few days ago, my house was empty and horrible. I can’t live like that.”

“What are you saying, Rodrigo?” she asks, with a slight sweetness creeping back into her voice.

“I don’t know. I just need you now. And I will need you if I survive this thing that I have to do to protect myself.”

“And protect your family,” she says smugly.

“Si, that, too. But they are now living far away. My wife wants nothing to do with me. She has enough money for herself and the children and, in fact, I’m happy that they are away. And if that’s what it takes to make them safe and makes Esmeralda happy, then that’s what I want.”

“And now you want me? Want me for an aspirin to take away the fear of getting killed by Martinez? And if you live, want me to be your permanent whore?”

“No, more than that. Much more.”

“Your live-in-mistress?”

“More.”

“Are you offering marriage?”

What the hell? I think. I’ll most likely be killed in a couple of days. Best to die engaged. “Si, I tell her,” in a voice that sounds alien to me. “Pero…” I hesitate to make any demands on her.

“Pero, que?”

“Well, it’s just that…,” I wonder how to put it to her. “…I know about the patronage that Señor what’s-his-name gives you.”

She puts her hands on her hips and says sternly, “You mean Señor Alcantara?”

“Si, him. He has been your patron for a long time, I hear.”

“Si,” she says, matter-of-factly. “He has helped me out from time to time. Pays for my apartment.”

“And he comes around to deliver you the rent money ‘from time to time’?”

“Jesus Christ, Rodrigo. Si, I’m a working woman. You know that.”

“Well, then,” I say gently. “If we are to be engaged….”

“…. Engaged and then married?” she questions sternly.

“Si, and then married,” I say, and remind myself; Who gives a damn, I’ll be dead in a couple of days anyway. “So, we can get engaged,” I tell her, “if you give up Señor Alcantara.”

“I’ll give him up when you give me an engagement ring.”

Jesus, it’s true; women are like monkeys. They never let go of a tree limb until they have a firm grasp on the next limb. But in Sonja’s case, the limbs that she gets a firm grasp on are male limbs, if you get my meaning. “Si, an engagement ring,” I agree.

“And a dowry for my parents,” she adds like she has a shopping list.

“Si,” I agree.

“And before you go to kill that hombre, I want my parents to receive the dowry before….”

“…. Before I get killed?”

“Before you go to Martinez’s town.”

Caramba. Sonja is the cliché woman of all times; To satisfy a woman, take her to bed or take her to an ATM machine. “Si, a dowry given right away,” I agree. “Anything else?”

“A honeymoon trip.”

“Okay. I’ll take you to the finest hotel in Acapulco.”

She shakes her head and waves her hand like she is shooing flies. “The hell with Acapulco,” she says. “Las Vegas….”

“….Okay…”

“… and the Grand Canyon….”

“…Fine…”

“…And the mountain of faces.”

“Que?”

“That famous mountain with the faces.”

“You mean Mount Rushmore?”

“Si, I want to visit Mount Rothmore,” she mispronounces, but that seems to be the end of her shopping list.

“Okay,” I agree. “I’d like to visit those places, too.”

“Fine, let’s get this car out of the sand and go tell your friends that we are engaged.”

“Let’s just walk back. I’ll have Diego get it out. He’s so big he could probably lift it out of the sand barehanded.”

“Are you sure you can trust that Diego son-of-a-bitch?” she asks, as we start walking back to Esteban’s house. “I mean, just last night he tried to kill you.”

I have to hand it to Sonja. She didn’t waste any time to start nagging me with wifely advice that is none of her business. I stay silent and think about the Mexican proverb; A la mula y a la mujer, a palos se ha de vencer, meaning; A mule and a woman must be defeated with blows from sticks. And if I survive my task of killing Martinez, I’ll be sure to stock up on sticks. Big strong ones.

10

Diego kicks open the door and enters the room pointing his .45 with a two-hand combat grip. Gilberto and I follow him into the room holding our pistols in the same style. We fan out, each of us heading to a separate doorway. I take the door on the right. I push it open hard so that it slams against the wall in case there is anyone hiding in back of it. I quickly enter the room and see a bad-guy to my right. I open fire, hitting the mannequin in the head.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Esteban yells, coming up from behind me. “Cease fire, all of you.”

“What did I do?” I ask him.

“Head shots come second. Knock your man down with a chest shot, then give him one in the head to finish the job. The head is too small a target to go for first.”

“And if he happens to have a bullet-proof vest under his jacket? What then?” I ask Esteban as Gilberto and Diego enter the room.

“He’ll be knocked back and unable to fire,” Esteban says. “And that will still give you time for the head shot. Believe me, that is the best way to do it, so that you have the odds in your favor. Sure, a head shot will take a man out, but statistics show that too many good men have lost their lives because they went for a head shot and missed.”

“Si, Esteban,” I tell him. “Gracias. Yo comprendo.”

We are out in the desert about three kilometers away from Esteban’s house where he has a make-shift building that he uses to train people. Even though Gilberto is ex-military, Diego knows this stuff through experience, and I’ve had some gunfights last year, Esteban thought it a good idea to sharpen us up before we make our raid on Martinez’s place.

At a time like this, I miss my compadre Ramon. He would have been a great help on this mission. But alas, his death on the pier last year is part of the reason for this mission. I often wonder what happened to Ramon’s body. I pray he got a decent burial if the policia found him, but I fear that the two remaining Martinez men just dumped Ramon into the water. Fine. Screw ‘em. More reason to kill every Martinez man that gets in my way.

“Okay, hombres,” Esteban says, “Let’s run this again.”

We keep at it for another two hours. Gilberto, Diego and I do start to work better as a team, but like Esteban said to us; In a fight, hands or guns, there’s no way to predict exactly what will happen, even with the best of planning .

At mid-day, Esteban calls it quits and says we are as good as we can get given this type of training. So we jump into his truck and head back to the house. Gilberto and I are in the back seat with Esteban driving and Diego next to him. Actually, Sonja is right; I shouldn’t trust this Diego son-of-a-bitch, not too far anyway.

I see Diego’s head turn and look as we pass the hole we dug for him last night. “That’s right, Diego,” I tell him smugly. “Keep your eye on that hole and always know that it’s waiting for you, if you ever try to screw me.”

“No, señor,” he says, without turning to face me. “I’m on your side now.”

“Maybe. We’ll see,” Gilberto adds.

“Say, Diego. How much has Martinez been paying you?” I ask him. “And more important; are you a full time enforcer for him or just freelance?”

Diego now thinks it’s best to face me, so he turns and looks me in the eye. “I work for Señor Martinez….,” he pauses, shakes his head and says, “I mean, I used to work for him full-time.”

“What’s he pay you?”

“It doesn’t come regular, but it’s about thirty-thousand pesos a month.”

“That Martinez is pretty smart,” I say.

“Why’s that?” Gilberto asks.

“It’s enough money to live on, but not enough for his men to be able to do any moves of their own. And not enough money to save up to leave him.”

Diego nods his head.

Gilberto says, “Then you must be smarter, boss.”

“I feel an insult coming, Gilberto.”

“Not at all, boss.”

“Then a complaint?”

“No complaints, Señor Villalobos,” Gilberto says seriously. “You pay me more than I need, give me everything I want and treat me good, treat me like family, so I don’t want to leave, would never leave.”

“Gracias, Gilberto,” I say, patting his knee. “Soy consciente de que.”

Diego is still facing me, as we hit a bump causing him to bang his large head on the ceiling of the truck. It doesn’t bother him at all. “Señor Villalobos,” he says. “I hope I can work for you full time. I will work hard for you.”

I smile at him and say, “You don’t come too highly recommended, Diego. I mean, you screwed up your job of killing me. You whined and cried last night in the hole that you dug for yourself, metaphorically speaking, even though Esteban did the actual digging.”

“Que?”

“I mean you got yourself into that hole for screwing up and now you’re selling yourself to me for full-time employment?”

“Si,” he says, nodding seriously. “Let me prove that I can help you. Let me show you that I can do a good job.”

“I’ll think on it,” I tell him, as I make a spinning gesture with my finger, ordering him to turn back around.

“What do you think, boss?” Gilberto asks.

I shrug my shoulders. We ride in silence for a few minutes and then I say, “Hey, Esteban.”

“Si, señor.”

“What do you think our chances will be when the three of us attack Martinez house? And then, of course, getting back out onto the streets and avoiding the police?”

“Well, at night, security would be too tight and there might even be extra guards on duty…..”

“….Si,” Diego jumps in, “That’s right. Two more guards than day time.”

Esteban continues with, “….So that means you must do a daylight hit, jumping in over the walls where surveillance would pick you up right away. But if you came in shooting, if you got lucky, then you might have a chance.”

I nod my head and smile. “Tell me what you really think, Esteban. Tell me the truth.”

Esteban looks into the rear view mirror and sees my expression turn serious. “Well, Rodrigo,” he says in a different tone. “I think that all three of you will get your brains blown out before you even get into the house.”

“Jesus,” Gilberto says. “Thanks for the good words, señor.”

“Me preguntó,” Esteban says simply.

We all remain silent. Soon, Esteban’s house comes into view and we pull up to it. We get out of the truck, I tell Gilberto and Diego to wait outside as Esteban and I go into the house.

When we enter, I see that Sonja is in such deep conversation with Lucinda, sitting at the kitchen table, they hardly react to our return. “And what have you two been talking about?” I ask, with mild interest.

Sonja turns and smiles at me, but it’s Lucinda that answers. “Just woman talk” she says patting Sonja’s hand. Sonja told me that you two will be getting married, so I’m giving her some matrimonial advice. That’s all.”

I can easily imagine the type of advice that Sonja is giving Lucinda in return. And if that’s so, Esteban is going to be one happy hombre tonight.

Say, Esteban,” I say to him, as he grabs the coffee pot on the stove and a couple of mugs. “Remember old Señor Lopez at the Universidad?”

“Quien?”

“You know. Very old. Older than the history he taught us. Walked with a cane.”

“Si,” Esteban says, pouring the coffee. “Maybe I remember.”

“Gracias,” I nod to him as he hands me a mug. “That’s where we learned about the Trojan War and all that Greek philosophy.”

“I never needed that stuff, so I don’t remember.”

“I think that I need a Trojan horse.”

“Que?”

“Diego out there. He’s my Trojan house.”

Esteban chuckles and says, “I don’t think that Diego hombre out there knows the difference between a Trojan horse and a Trojan condom.”

Suddenly, Sonja’s ears perk up, she stops her conversation with Lucinda, turns to Esteban and says, “What? A horse that needs a condom?”

I add to her amusement by answering, “No, dear. Diego outside, is as big as the Trojan horse.”

“And he needs a condom for that thing?” she says with a witty smile. “My, I think I’ve underestimated him.”

We all laugh as Sonja looks at me with the satisfaction of her witty, well-timed, though off-color, joke. I return her smile with equal satisfaction and a somewhat surprising pride of her being my betrothed.

Maybe I underestimated Sonja. Maybe she is more, or can be more, than just a stunning bed-mate. Maybe I’ve just become more serious about her becoming my new wife.

Though I know full well that ‘the whore-with-a-heart-of-gold’ is just a fairytale for naive men, maybe Sonja has some undiscovered gold hidden by her more obvious, more-valuable-than-gold, aphrodisiac inventiveness.

Maybe I’ll start taking the time to dig for her hidden treasures. No, I won’t find a heart of gold, but there are other things that are equally precious. Or perhaps I’ve gone far beyond naiveté, and I’m now heading towards delusional on the way to my destruction.

To be, or not to be? That is the question.

Perhaps the Trojan horse is the answer.

11

My old high school sweetheart, Gabriela, knows better than to wave when she sees me from afar. She simply nods her head and walks my way. I’m standing at the old Tempolo de San Andres in Tejupilco. The small town of Tejupilco is where I sent Gabriella and my secretary Ophelia just before Martinez sent his hit-squad after me five months ago.

Tejupilco is an out of the way town, so secluded that it was one of the last places to stop paying tribute to Spain. Even so, it took another 150 years and an eleven year war to kick those Spanish assholes out of our country. You learn stuff like that when you go to the Universidad. Stuff that just pisses you off and has no other value, except perhaps to learn not to pay tribute to anyone.

Pretending to be visitors to this old temple are Gilberto and Diego. They are far enough away to not hear my upcoming conversation with Gabriella, but close enough to come to my aid if need be. However, we made sure that no one followed us during the three hour drive here. And with this place being on top of a hill with one road in, it would be hard for someone to sneak up on us. However, my two men remain vigilant.

Gabriela approaches, looking much better and happier than she did months ago when we had our ‘little adventure’ and she helped me kill Manolo Gonzales.

“Buenos tardes, Rodrigo,” she says. “I was so happy when that man came to tell me that you would be here.”

“Buenos tardes, Gabriella,” I say. “That was Gilberto. We stopped by your apartment building and let him run up to give you the message. I hope he didn’t frighten you, but it’s always best to remain cautious and meet away from town.”

“Si, yo compredo. Pero,” she hesitates, then asks, “Is there anything wrong?”

“No,” I lie to her. “I just wanted to check on you and Ophelia. Did you tell her I was here?”

“Well, she’s not here anymore.”

“What? I told her to stay with you.”

“No, it’s not like that. Ophelia did stay with me for four months or so. She helped me a lot. But, even though you told her to stay away from her boyfriend for a few years, she couldn’t help it and she called him. He came here to visit her a few times and then last month, they went away together.”

“Donde?”

Gabriella shrugs her shoulders. “They didn’t say. And I didn’t want them to say.”

“Not back to Ciudad Nueva, I hope?”

“No, not back home. They both know the danger. I think they went north. But she said that she would check in on me from time to time.”

“Well, it will be safe enough for them soon. For all of us.”

“Why do you say that?” Gabriella asks with sincere concern in her voice.

“I don’t want to go into that now, but things will be taken care of. So relax. Things are good, no?”

She smiles. “Si, bueno.”

I notice that her teeth are much improved. “You look nice,” I tell her. “And much more relaxed.”

“Si. I feel good. I went to the doctor to be checked up and he pushed me to eat well.”

I smile at her. “That’s good.”

“And like you told me to do, I found a good dentist. Not, here, but Ophelia took me to Toluca to get the work done. He still has more to do.” She looks away, out over the town, and then turns back to me. “I want to thank you, Rodrigo. You really saved me.”

I see her start to tear up, so I say, “It’s okay, Gabriella. No tears, please. I’m the one who sent you down a bad road, so I’m glad I could help a little. I just wish it could have been sooner.”

“You didn’t sent me down any road, Rodrigo” she says, controlling her tears, “I went down it all by myself.”

“Well, I still take responsibility for showing you that road,” I tell her, as I pull out my handkerchief and hand it to her.

She slowly takes it and then says, “Just now, I thought you were going to dry my tears for me.”

“Of course,” I say. “I want to.” I take back the handkerchief and gently dab her tears, as she smiles slightly.

“Gracias, Rodrigo.”

“Now,” I say, changing my tone, as I return the handkerchief to my pocket, “to business.”

“Business? Here?”

“Si,” I smile and point behind me. “Right in front of the tempolo, out in the sunlight, where all business should be conducted.” I pull three small envelopes out of my inside jacket pocket. “I have each of these marked with your name, Ophelia’s name and our son’s name. If anything happens to me, these accounts will fill up with money for you three to access anytime. These are the bank cards and the password as well.”

“What does this mean?”

“Well, this is just in case something happens.” I digress and say, “I tried to get insurance on myself, but, even though I can pass the physical, every insurance agency I called, did a quick search of my name. The first thing that comes up is: Ciudad Nuevo Mayor’s Home Attacked. So they figure that I’m not a good risk and decline me over the phone. No se puede evitar,” I shrug. “So, instead of insurance, these bank cards will do the job.”

Gabriella takes the envelopes from me. “Pero, what about your wife and children?”

“Soon, to be ex-wife,” I correct her. “She and my children have nothing to worry about financially. They are far away and I won’t see them again, no matter what happens.”

“Es verdad?”

“Esmeralda wants it that way, and it’s better for the children. And more important, it’s safer that way.”

“You’re about to do something serious, aren’t you?” Gabriela says, in a hushed tone.

“Si.”

“About Martinez?”

“Si.”

“Well, I guess it has to be done.”

“I have no choice,” I tell her calmly. “I tried to run and hide, but Martinez sent a hit man after me. Hit woman, I should say.”

“Woman?” Gabriella shakes her head slowly. “Don’t tell me what happened.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Before you do this thing,” Gabriella says slowly, choosing her words carefully. “Don’t you want to see your son? I mean…. It might be your only chance.”

“You’re assuming that I won’t be able to take care of Martinez,” I tell her, trying to avoid answering.

“I’m sorry, but it could go badly for you and you’ve never met your son.”

“Gabriella, mi amour, it’s not like he’s ten years old, or even fifteen. He’s a grown man. How can I talk to a son that is already a man? I wouldn’t know how to do it.”

“Yo compredo, pero…”

“….Let’s leave it at that for now. You get that bank card to him and when Ophelia checks in with you, give her the bank card.”

We both stand silent for a few moments. I look behind me and see that Gilberto and Diego are both on the job and the area is still safe. Then Gabriella softly breaks the silence. “If you die, Rodrigo, I will have nobody.”

“You have our son. And with that money, you both can have a good life.” Then I chuckle under my breath and say, “Besides, you’re assuming again.”

“I wish I could help you with Martinez.”

“You already helped me enough with Manolo at La Escalera.” I smile at her. “You sure are a handy woman to have around when things get tough.”

Gabriella forces a smile. “We killed that bastard pretty good didn’t we?”

“Es Verdad. We make a good team, Gabriella. You, me and that pimp-sticker of yours.”

“And now it’s Martinez’s turn.”

“That’s right.”

“You want to borrow my pimp-sticker?” she smiles.

“I’ve got something better than an ice pick. And I’m going to use it to cut off Martinez’s god-damned head.”

12

Today is D-Day. Or maybe I should say Trojan Horse Day. Do-or-Die Day, though the actual quote is ‘do and die’, which makes me even more apprehensive as I sit here contemplating it. And what a place to sit at while one speculates on his mortality. This place has to be the worst dive in Cotinzia, if not the worst in Mexico.

The lice-ridden bartender stands behind eight or ten boards on saw-horses that are supposed to be a bar. The patrons, of which there are many, look like they’ve just been kicked out of debtors’ prison. And the women, of which there are few, well, I won’t say, because I now have more respect for what these women must have to endure at the hands of men like these, now that I know what Gabriella had to endure at my hands and the hands of other unenlightened men. God forgive us all.

I notice next to the back wall, there is a little raised platform that is probably used as a stage for when they have some less-than-premium strippers entertain the drunks for thrown centavos. I hope Gilberto and I are well out of this place before the show starts up. I swear to God; this is last time I’ll ever be in this kind of dive. Christ, I’d hate to die in a place like this, because my spirit would just stay here and save me the trip to hell.

Gilberto is sitting at the wobbly table with me. We’re drinking bottles of Mentejo beer, named after the Spanish Conquistador that conquered the Yucatan, leaving a trail of blood behind him. But the Mayans finally kicked his ass. Looking at that bottle of beer, I think; I’m no Mayan, and Antonio Martinez is no Conquistador, but he’s about to get his ass kicked today, if all goes well.

On the floor next to me is a briefcase full of cash. Next to that, is a guitar case which holds a shot gun and a bunch of shells loaded with double-ought buckshot. I truly pity the men that will get hit today by 12 gauge patterns of that size lead. It’ll spread them out like a crazy woman’s quilt.

However, that is the life that Martinez’s men chose, so it’s out of my hands, I try to convince myself, as I think of their upcoming deaths. Then I realize that instead of their deaths, today may bring my own.

When I returned to Ciudad Nuevo last week, I bought Sonja an engagement ring, gave her some cash, arranged an account with a hundred-thousand pesos for her and a bank card to go with it.

I promised Sonja that I’d get a quickie divorce from Esmeralda, as the gingos say, and marry her, if I survive this attack on Martinez. And if I don’t survive, I won’t have to marry her. It humors me to think; either way I win.

Sonja promised to stay away from La Escalera until I either come back alive or come back dead. If dead, then I’m sure, even with the money I gave her, that she’ll go back to work there. And why not? That’s what she likes to do; make money and entertain men.

It’s also been a week since Diego, my Trojan horse, has reported back to work at Martinez’ house. He’s been in contact with me via walkie-talkie, to maintain secrecy, as to the situation with him and Martinez. It seems he really got chewed out for messing up the hit on me and getting one of Martinez men killed in the process. But at least Diego survived going back to the Martinez gang, as there was a risk that Martinez would punish or even have him killed. I guess Martinez figured that a large and loyal soldier like Diego is hard to come by and would be a waste of material to get rid of him.

Thinking of Diego’s loyalty does give me pause, because how can I be sure that Diego hasn’t switched his loyalty back to Martinez, now that he’s returned to a place where he is comfortable and used to? But that’s the chance I’ll have to take to get this job done.

Diego communicated to me that he’s back on guard duty during the day. On some shifts he’s inside the house. Other times he walks the grounds or is in the surveillance shed with the TV monitors. I just hope he’s where he’s supposed to be at the right time.

From out of the blue, a horrifying image hits my mind. I shake it off and take a quick drink of my beer. Is my hand shaking?

“I’m ready for this, boss,” Gilberto says. “How you doing?”

I’m sure Gilberto spoke because he read the fear that must have appeared on my face for a second. “I’m good,” I tell him calmly, setting my beer bottle down as steadily as I can on the table. “It’s just that I remembered this dream that I had maybe three or four times.”

“A bad dream?” he asks.

“No, it’s a good dream. All the way through until I wake up, it’s a damned good dream.” I look at Gilberto’s face and see that he’s interested, see that he wants to know more. What the hell, two men that are going into battle soon need not hide the truth from each other. “In the dream,” I tell him, “I’m walking on the beach. I think it’s at Cat Island. And down the beach I see a beautiful woman with long black hair, wearing a white bikini. At least, I think she’s beautiful because I only see the back of her. I’m always walking towards her and never get any closer. And then I wake up.”

“Nothing bad about that, señor.”

“Well, that night in the desert at Esteban’s place when I slept in the Land Rover, I had that dream again. Only that time, I caught up to the girl. I tapped her on the shoulder and as she was about to turn around, I woke up.”

Gilberto shrugs his shoulders as he takes a sip of his beer. “Still nothing wrong with that. She’s your dream girl. Maybe the next time you will see her face. Maybe it will be Sonja.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But what I’m starting to imagine is the next time I have that dream, she will turn around and it will be a hideous face, or a skull. It will be death.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, boss. I think it will be a beautiful woman. Like I said, maybe Sonja.”

“I’m afraid it will probably be hellish.”

“Hey, boss. We’d be lucky to have another dream after today,” Gilberto says seriously. “If we did have another dream, that means we survived today, so we would be alive to go to sleep tonight. So, I say, any dream after today is a good one.”

I nod, but then add, “What if I get shot today and as I’m dying I have that dream and see the face of death on that girl?”

Gilberto thinks, then raises a finger, as if he’s got a great answer to tranquilize my fear, but before he can speak, a deep threatening voice comes from behind me. “Hey, amigo. You play la guitarra?”

Gilberto looks up and sees a large drunk hombre. “Ah, no señor,” he tells him.

I don’t turn around and pretend to be in a slight stupor to appear as if I don’t care who’s approached our table. However, I’m ready to make a grab for my .38 if this hombre has to be dealt with.

“Then why have you got the guitar?” the hombre says, slurring his words as he steps to the side of our table and comes into my view.

Gilberto gives me a look that asks; What do I do now? I roll my eyes meaning; Who knows?

Gilberto looks back up at the hombre. “I just carry it…,” Gilberto thinks for a second, “…to practice when I’m in the mood.”

“Are you good?” the hombre asks.

“Not very,” Gilberto says.

“No matter,” the hombre says. “Sing us a song. It’s too quiet in here and Pedro over there,” he says pointing at the bartender, “can’t afford a singer, or even a god-damned juke box. He’s just got a radio with a cracked speaker for the stippers to dance to.”

“I think I’d rather just drink for now, señor,” Gilberto says.

The hombre puts two large hands on our table, moves his fat, sweaty face closer to Gilberto and says, “I think that I’d rather have you play.”

I shake my head slightly at Gilberto, so he doesn’t do what I know he’s thinking, namely, smashing his beer bottle into this hombre’s face. But Gilberto knows that an altercation would blow our subterfuge. On the other hand, if Gilberto has to open the guitar case and this hombre notices that there is something below the guitar and questions it, we’ve got a problem.

“Well, let’s see…” Gilberto thinks, looks at me again and then back at the hombre. “….Maybe I can give you one song.”

“Bueno,” the hombre says standing back from our table. “Bueno.”

Gilberto gives me the eye meaning; get ready for anything, because the guitar is lying on a piece of black cloth that has the shotgun and shells under it, so it’s raised up because of that. If this hombrenotices it, he may wonder what’s under the cloth. Gilberto slowly leans down in his chair to unsnap the case and then hesitates as he sees the hombre look down at it. Gilberto slowly sits back up.

I’m thinking that Gilberto can’t take this asshole’s demands anymore and is ready to give him some well deserved pain. My body tenses for the upcoming battle with this big, drunken hombre and any friends that might come to his aid.

Gilberto looks around the bar, sees the small stage and says to the hombre “Would you mind putting a chair on the stage?”

“Si, no problema,” the hombre says and slowly staggers over to it.

Gilberto quickly leans down, opens the case, grabs the guitar and quickly shuts the case. The hombre picks up an old wooden chair and puts it on the stage. Now Gilberto looks at me with a ‘now what do I do?’ expression because he’s no guitar player, as far as I know. And as for singing? A few moments from now I’ll find out, but I doubt if he’s any Pablo Portillo.

Gilberto stands and slowly makes his way to the stage, sits down on the chair and does not disappoint my expectations as he fakes strumming a few chords and starts singing the worse rendition of Sombrero Blanco that I’ve ever heard.

After the first verse, the drunken patrons start whooping and cheering Gilberto on. And by the time Gilberto gets to the first chorus, I see the most bizarre thing since he shot my bed-mate at Cat Island; Gilberto is now starting to smile because of the adoration he’s getting.

Lord have mercy. Here I am in this low-life bar, engaged to a prostitute, ready to assassinate my enemy, and I have to sit through this Mexican version of A Star is Born. It’s enough to solicit the devil to come and get me out of this farce of a life.

As Gilberto raises his voice in confidence, belting out the words; La manera de los vaqueros, so that he’s heard over the cheers of his new fans, I look down at my watch. It reads: 2:43 in the afternoon. It’s getting close to 3:10. Too close. But screw it. I’ve made my decision; either I get Antonio Martinez or he gets me.

Gilberto finishes with the final words of the song; Necesito un hombre que esté en sintonía siempre dispuesto, meaning; ‘I need a man who is in rhyme with his time.’ A very auspicious ending, hopefully.

The drunks cheer and encourage Gilberto for more, but he waves them off, steps off the stage and returns to his table. “Pretty good, huh, boss?” he says with a smile.

I nod and say, “You certainly have the talent to perform under fire.”

“Si, I think so, señor,” he happily agrees, and then, coming instantly back to our purpose, says under his breath, “Now let’s go kill us some hombres.”

13

My watch reads 3:08, as I stand alone near, but out of sight from, Antonio Martinez’s front gate. Diego has not walkie-talkied in, so everything should be okay, with him being at the front gate in two minutes.

Gilberto is stationed down the street with guitar case at the ready and will snap into action at exactly 3:30. God protect him.

I look at my watch again and now it’s 3:09. The minute that has just gone by was remarkably long and I’m sure the next minute will be as well. Thoughts of my mortality flash through my brain, too many and too fast to examine them. And then they suddenly subside and just one image takes its place; the girl on the beach turning around to reveal a rotten scull.

Screw it, I think, to bring myself back to the task at hand. The die has been cast. The pin has been pulled. El Toro has been let loose.

I don’t look at my watch, but it must be 3:10. I start walking forward, heading to Martinez’s house. I reach the large wooden front gate and knock loudly on it, hoping that Diego will be the one to answer it.

The gate creaks slowly open. I see Diego’s face. It’s in character as one of Martinez’s men, but is he still loyal to me? The next few minutes will unravel that mystery.

“What do you want?” Diego asks sternly.

“I want to see Señor Martinez,” I say calmly.

“What for?” Diego asks, with no expression of everything-is-as-planned on his face.

“I want to talk with him.”

“Who does?”

I raise my voice. “I do.”

“You tell me what you want, hombre, or you can turn around and leave now,” Diego pushes.

He’s really doing a good job of acting, I think. Or he’s turned back to Martinez’ side. “I want to give him this briefcase,” I tell him.

“What’s in it?”

“Cash,” I say, acting annoyed. “Lots of it.”

“Show me,” he demands.

I open up the case and give him a quick look at the money, as another of Martinez’s men approaches Diego from behind. He’s tall, thin and better looking than the usual Martinez men that I’ve seen and killed. He asks Diego, “Que pasa?”

“I got this, Fernando,” Diego answers him. Then to me he says, “I’ll give this to Señor Martinez.”

“Not with this much cash in it. I have to deliver it myself,” I tell him, as I look at the frowning Fernando standing behind him. “Besides, this is not the only cash I have for Señor Martinez. I have more to give him, but I have to tell him what the deal is.”

Diego looks back at Fernando who nods his approval. “Okay,” Diego says, “Step over here. I have to frisk you.”

I walk in and Diego closes the gate behind me with a loud thud. He then starts to pat me down and finds my .38 in my shoulder holster. “You tried to come in here with this?” he asks sternly.

“I’m always armed when carrying cash,” I say, more for Fernando’s benefit than Diego’s. “Besides, I knew you would frisk me and take it.”

“Anything else?” Fernando asks.

“A switchblade in my inside jacket pocket,” I say.

Diego reaches in, finds it and takes it. He continues to pat me down all the way to my legs, but makes sure not to pat too hard on my right leg. “He’s okay, now,” he tells Fernando.

Fernando steps forward and starts patting me down himself to Diego’s annoyance and my fear. He pats my butt and crotch, the maricon, and then starts down my pants. I give Diego the eye, but he remains stone-faced. Thankfully, Fernando is either too lazy or too unconcerned to bend down and pat the bottom of my pants. “He’s clean,” he says to Diego.

Diego groans slightly, “I told you he’s clean. When I frisk, I frisk.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Fernando says.

Diego motions at Fernando . “Go tell Señor Martinez that he’s got a visitor with cash for him.” Then Diego turns to me. “What’s your name, señor?”

“You know who I am,” I tell him with a smirk. “I’m the man you tried to kill at La Escalera, Rodrigo Villalobos.”

“Jesus,” Fernando says to Diego. “Why didn’t you say it was him?”

“I just wanted to see how far he would go with this game,” Diego says, defending himself calmly, playing out our well-planned script like a method actor. “So, go tell Señor Martinez how it is out here.”

Fernando looks at me with incredulous admiration for having the audacity to walk in here knowing that a hit-contract has been put on me by his boss. He then turns and walks to the house.

I look at Diego who, though remaining expressionless, makes a slight move of his head to gesture behind me. I wait a few seconds and then casually look around to see, three men standing in front of a shed that has the door open behind them. That must be the surveillance shed with the video screens. Is there another man inside? I wonder. If there is, that would make four armed men that Gilberto will have to take care of. More probably, considering there will be one or two men on the other side of the house. But Gilberto is ex-military, so he’s used to situations like this.

From what I can see of the small, old, hacienda-style adobe and tile house, there may be six or seven rooms inside. It’s just the kind of house I’d suspect that an old-school, 75 year old gangster would have. The kind of gangster that wants to think himself as Mexican nobility, like the indigenous families who, by marriage, acquired titles of nobility from European countries. Screw that. A gangster with a title is still a gangster. A lesson I had to learn when I acquired the title of mayor.

I heard that Martinez married a much older woman when he was young just to get himself prestige and money. That’s what a lot of these gangsters do; marry for money and status, park the wife in a bedroom of her own, and then set up mistresses all over town to visit when they take a few hours off from their criminal activity.

Well, I can’t criticize, because I guess I’m a little like him, except I used education, money and contacts to get where I am. I married a beautiful young woman; for money and position, true, but still I didn’t have to park her in a private bedroom. Esmeralda and I slept together. Now it’s going to be me and Sonja sleeping in the same bed, if my compardres and I can shoot our way out of this soon-to-be hacienda-style tomb.

In a few moments, Fernando comes out of the house. “Señor Martinez will see you,” he says. “But if you make any sudden movements, you’re dead. Do you understand?”

I nod my head at him.

“Say it,” Fernando pushes, in a threating tone.

“I understand,” I tell him calmly, and can’t wait to put one in his chest and one in his head, if I can get my hands on a pistol when hell is set in motion.

With Diego behind me, I follow Fernando into la casa de Martinez.

I go from bright daylight into a dark entrance room. Then still following Fernando, with Diego behind me, I walk through an even darker hallway that finally ends up in a large living room that is only slightly brighter. The shades are drawn over the windows with just enough ambient light to see all the old Spanish antiques and furniture that make up the stuffy atmosphere. Seated behind a large, thick oak-wood table is numeral uno in this area of Mexico, the hombre grande himself; Señor Antonio Martinez.

Even in this dim light, Martinez looks much older than his seventy-five years. Thus the reason for the dim light I suppose, so he’s not taken for ninety when he does business.

At both ends of the long table are two more bodyguards, one of whom is dressed up like Pancho Villa; bullet bandolier, large sombrero and all. Christ, what is this, Halloween? Is he supposed to scare visitors? Screw him. He gets it first.

I look back over to the seated Martinez, who’s eyeing me. “Oh, don’t mind him,” he says, motioning to his Villa-impersonator. “He’s very friendly.”

I don’t comment, but merely set my briefcase on the table, under the watchful eyes of Fernando and the other two men.

“So you survived my men at the whorehouse, huh?” Martinez says.

“Si,” is all I give him.

“And you killed one of them, no? Not to mention the ones at your house and on the pier last year.”

I give him a smirk and say, “And what about that bitch you sent to Cat Island to screw me to death?”

“Oh, her. She’s one of Fernando’s American girlfriends,” he says pointing to him, now standing behind me. “She borrowed a lot of money from us, so I gave her a chance to pay us back.”

“Well,” I say stoically, “She missed her chance.”

Fernando steps slowly to my left side. “Where is she, by the way?”

I turn my head slightly to look him in the eye. “She’s being eaten by sharks in the Atlantic, as we speak.”

Fernando eye-screws me, but I don’t look away. “Cabron,” he growls, teeth clenched. “You’re acting very calm considering what we’re going to do to you.”

“Step back, Fernando,” Martinez says. “We’re not doing anything until we find out more.”

Fernando takes a few smalls steps to move back behind me. I can almost hear his teeth grinding.

“Like I say,” Martinez continues, “all those men, and now that woman. Too many.”

“I was fighting for my life,” I tell him plainly. “It couldn’t be helped.”

“This one,” Martinez says, pointing at Diego. “I should have killed him when he came back like a chicken that was plucked. Pero, que sabe. I guess I’m just too good to my men, but this one gets no pay, no women, nada, until he’s back in my good graces.”

“Lo ciento, mucho, señor,” Diego says to Martinez softly. I stand here hoping that Diego doesn’t suddenly decide to get back into Martinez’s good graces by revealing our plan, assuming he hasn’t already.

“So, I’m told you have something for me.” Martinez says, looking at the briefcase on the table in front of him.

I slowly unsnap the two locks of the case, which gives me a chance to look at my watch without arousing suspicion. “Si. This is for you,” I say slowly, “if we can make a deal.” It’s 3:21. Damn. Too much time to kill. I didn’t think I’d be in front of Martinez so quickly. I have to stall him for nine more minutes.

“What kind of deal do you want to talk about, señor?” Martinez asks with some sarcasm creeping into his voice. “Is it something like begging my forgiveness for killing the bartender at the Iguanabar? And asking me for my pardon for killing my man Manolo at La Escalera?”

“Something like that,” I say.

Martinez pulls out a large cigarro and lights it, which makes me happy as it uses up at least 20 seconds of time. “So tell me your offer clearly.” He puffs out smoke at me as he speaks.

I open the briefcase which gives me another quick look at the time. 3:22. I turn the briefcase around slowly so Martinez can see the contents.

“Hmm. How much money do you say you have there?” he asks, licking the end of his cigarro.

“One million pesos,” I say.

While Martinez takes another long puff of his cigarro and thinks for a few seconds, I glance over at Pancho Villa to the right of me, and then at the man to my left. Including Fernando behind me, that makes three armed men in the room.

If Diego is still on my side, and if he’s quick enough, he can take care of the two on the other side of the table, but that leaves Fernando behind me and Martinez in front of me. I wonder if Martinez is armed. Still, he’d be the slowest one to reach for a weapon since he’s relying on his three men to protect him.

Martinez shakes his head and then points his cigarro at me. “I don’t think we can talk with that little money on the table. How about something more on the table, Señor Villalobos?” He says my name long and slow, emphasizing each syllable, so as to insult my family and everyone under my protection. It’s all I can do to keep from leaping over the table and making him eat that damned cigarro.

“This money is just the beginning,” I tell him. “If you can guarantee my safety from now on, and the safety of my family and friends, then I will give you say…. a hundred and fifty thousand pesosevery month.”

“Muy intersante,” he says, smiling with tobacco-blackened teeth. “And how long will you keep giving me this monthly money?”

“Every month,” I say. I know he’s working me, but I don’t care. Let him. Just let the time get to 3:30 and I’ll stuff that cigarro down his throat, for sure. I just hope Gilberto is on time, or, better still, early.

“Every month, forever?” he asks.

“For the rest of your life,” I tell him. Jesus, I have to think of something more to say to stall for time. “And I promise that if you ever need a favor from me, I would be happy to come to your fine home to talk with you and to help you out anyway I can.”

“That’s an interesting offer, but you know what……?”

It sounds like he’s about to get down to it, so I interrupt him. “I repeat with much respect, Señor Martinez, that I will do anything you want me to do, to make amends with you. I’ll even help to take care of the family of the man that got killed at La Escalera the other night.”

“That’s none of your business,” Martinez barks out. “I take care of my men and their families, so that’s none of your god-damned business.”

“Si, señor,” I say, feigning fear. I’m not afraid of his words, but I am afraid of the time. What the hell time is it? I put my hand back on the briefcase as an excuse to give my watch another quick look. It’s 3:26.

“Why are you looking at your watch?” Martinez says leaning forward. “Do you have someplace to go?”

God, these old-time gangsters always take in everything around them. Everyone’s movements, the weight of everyone’s words, even the blinking of someone’s eyes. In their world, their survival depends on it. My senses have always been heightened, too, but not to the extent of these big time criminals. “Si,” I tell him. “I want this done and need to get back to Ciudad Nuevo.”

Martinez chuckles and then coughs. “Why? Do you have some high-class puta waiting for you?”

“Si, señor. Es verdad, pero, I have time to make this right between us,” I tell him with as much phony honesty in my voice as I can muster.

Martinez puts his hands on the table to ready himself to stand. Immediately Pancho Villa moves to pull out his chair. Martinez stands slowly, looking me in the eye and says, “Well, you will have to tell all your whores to wait a little god-damned longer, because I spit on your million pesos.” And then he does, twice into the briefcase. “This money is chicken-shit to me. And so is your god-damned one-hundred-fifty-thousand pesos a month. Chicken-shit as well.”

I continue eye contact with Martinez to let him run out the clock, let him talk himself to death.

“This money is meaningless to me,” he continues, “because you killed a member of my family at the Iguana bar last year. And señor, you cannot buy your way out of that.”

“The way I heard it,” I tell Martinez, with a slight attitude coming on, “is that the bartender, who attacked me with a baseball bat first, by the way, was not a relative. He was only a relative to a friend of your wife. And that your wife had a hard-on for getting justice, just to show off to her friend.”

Martinez’ face turns red as his men brace themselves for trouble. “You talk to me like that?” he spits out. “You use words like that when talking about my wife? I tell you what. You will not …..”

The sound of a shotgun going off four times outside stops him. Diego pulls his pistol and fires at the two bodyguards on each side of Martinez. First Pancho Villa and then the other one on the left, one in each chest, one in each head.

As he does, I reach down to my pant leg, pull it up quickly and grab my meteor-filled Bowie knife taped to my leg. Behind me, Fernando has already reached for his pistol, but I stand and swing my Bowie in a single motion at Fernando’s neck. Diego turns to fire at him, but when he sees the two separate parts of Fernando falling to the ground, Diego knows there’s no need for a bullet.

Martinez stands frozen and screams as his three men fall to the floor. I spin around, locking my arm with my Bowie’s razor-edge heading towards my enemy. Martinez’s scream isn’t the only thing my Bowie cuts off. His head hits the dining table and quickly rolls to a stop.

Another bodyguard runs in through a back door, pistol in hand. Diego drops low, fires twice and hits both his marks, chest and head, Esteban-style.

“Señor Villalobos,” comes Gilberto’s voice down the hallway. “Don’t fire, it’s me, Gilberto.”

“Si. Come ahead, Gilberto,” I call to him.

Gilberto enters the dining room that’s now become a morgue, shotgun at the ready. “Are you okay, señor?”

“Si,” I tell him. “How about you?”

“I took care of four hombres outside. Got a slug in my vest, but it didn’t go through. Maybe cracked a rib, but I’m okay.”

Suddenly there is a high-pitched scream, heading our way fast. I turn and see a-witch-of-a-woman who has to be over ninety, running into the room holding a revolver with both hands. I push Gilberto out of the way and step back with my Bowie ready to strike. The witch fires. The bullet hits Diego near his heart. Diego fires back at her as he falls onto the dining table. His bullet hits her in the chest. Diego dies before he can fire another shot. The old lady falls back screaming and hits the floor dropping her pistol.

Gilberto steps forward to finish her with his shotgun, but I hold my hand up as a don’t-fire signal.

I look down at her as she raises her arm and points a boney, wrinkled finger at me. Her lips move in what is, I suspect, an inaudible ancient witch’s curse. And then her arm falls back to the floor as she blows out her dying breath.

Looking at that old hag’s wrinkled face framed by a large turquoise necklace, I can see that she’s not a maid, she’s not a grandmother, she has to be Martinez’s wife. Damn her for coming out at us like that. Double-damn her for killing Diego who took a big risk remaining loyal to me. What the hell was this burja malvada thinking, attacking us like that?

This old woman is the one that started the cannon ball rolling months ago, on all this killing. Si, according to Manolo, who came to my town looking for the hombre that killed the bartender at the Iguana, it was Martinez’ wife who wanted revenge for the bartender’s death. And the bartender wasn’t even a relative of Martinez’s wife. No, it was a relative of some friend of hers.

Christ, how many men are dead, just because she pushed her husband to take revenge on me? Let’s see, Manolo dead, six or seven dead at my house, Ramon dead at the pier, along with two more of Martinez’ men there. And then that woman that came to Cat Island to kill me, who used her hot body like it was a mouse trap. Then eight men here, Diego and this old hag. How many is that? Seventeen or eighteen? For what? To revenge one lousy bartender in that low-life dive, the Iguana? All her fault. Not mine at all. Seventeen dead to satisfy this mummy-faced bitch?

However, I can rationalize all day long, but God’s going to get me on this one.

“Señor,” Gilberto says. “We’d better go. No?”

“Si, pero, put your shotgun in that dead hombre’s hand,” I tell him, pointing at Pancho Villa. Gilberto knows the plan, but I just want to make sure he didn’t forget during all this hog-killing. The shotgun is clean of any identification marks and with Gilberto wearing gloves, it’s best to leave it here than get caught with it during our getaway.

“Si, I know, señor.”

“Bueno,” I say. “Just double-checking.”

“Right, señor.”

As Gilberto places the shotgun in the dead Villa’s hand, I put my Bowie inside my brief case, close the lid and snap it shut. I can’t leave it here as it could be traced to me. And besides, no matter where I end up living, it will look good on my wall as the knife that killed Señor Martinez. And after a few years, when this blows over, it will make a nice conversational piece for anyone that visits me and Sonja.

I also can’t leave my .38 and switchblade knife here. I reach into Diego’s jacket and fetch them out.

Then, I take one last look at my enemy, Señor Antonio Bastardo Martinez. His head, lying on the table, is facing Diego, as if it wants to say; You betrayed me, Diego. You’ll be punished for this.

Martinez’s head looking at Diego is one image that will take me a long time to forget, if ever. What a sight.

“Okay, señor,” Gilberto says, as he starts moving toward the hallway that will lead outside.

I follow him at a quick walk. We exit the house and move through the front garden which Gilberto has turned into a cemetery. I see four bloody bodies lying about. “You sure are hell and Jesus with a shotgun, Gilberto,” I tell him in awe.

“Gracious, señor,” he says casually.

“You really double-ought bucked them to death,” I say, as my humor defense mechanism kicks in as it always does in the aftermath of violence.

Gilberto gets my jest and joins in with, “I just hope we can get out of here so I can get back to Cat Island and back to bucking my woman there.”

I smile at him as we walk. “You really want to go back there?” I ask, as Gilberto picks up the guitar lying near the front gate and puts it into the case that lies next to it.

“Si, señor. I miss my woman there.” He snaps the lid of the case shut and grabs it.

“What’s her name again?”

“Tyesha,” he says, as we walk through the front gate and out into the street.

“Well, when this all blows over,” I say, as we turn to the right and head down the street, “if we don’t get caught, I’ll see that you get back there.”

“Gracias, señor,” he says, as we leave la casa de Martinez, the new mortuary we just created, behind us.

We’re in luck as there is no one in the area at the moment. We continue down the street at a medium speed walk, hoping to not run into any police who might have been called by neighbors hearing the shots. But we see no one.

Three blocks away is where we parked the Land Rover. If no one stops us on the street to ask Gilberto to sing another song, we’ll get to it in a few minutes.

We don’t speak a word on the entire ride back to Ciudad Nuevo.

14

It’s been almost two weeks now, since killing Martinez and there have been no reprisals. One thing I remember clearly from literature classes at the Universidad is what Edgar Allan Poe wrote; I must not only punish, but punish with impunity.

Yes, I like that, and I seemed to have pulled that off. According to reports coming out of Coatinzia, the killings at Martinez’s house are being attributed to a rival gang who wanted to take over the Martinez drug trade. So the policia are at least satisfied.

I figured that I’d be questioned about it because of my well-known altercation with the Martinez hit-squad at my house, but the authorities never came to ask me about it. If they had, I would have told them that Gilberto and I were staying at my friend Esteban’s house in the desert, and Esteban would back me up on that, even though it would be risky for him. But my alibi wasn’t needed.

Sonja is now pretty much living with me here at my home in Ciudad Nuevo. I found out that the so called quickie-Mexican-divorce is not so quick and that there will be a 3 month wait, but I’ll put in my papers soon. Sonja says she’s satisfied to wait.

Si, she’ll wait as long as I give her a couple of centimeters of cash every week. She says it’s for shopping and her parents, but I imagine that she’s just squirrelling most of it away for her future, knowing that one way or the other, our marriage will be short lived.

There’s one thing positive I can say about Sonja, and that’s two things. One; she is indeed voluptuous. And two; she never says no. Now as I look down at her sleeping in my bed, I feel lucky to have survived all that has happened in the last six months, so that I can enjoy her. Enjoy her in the safety of my home.

Even though I have updated my home security system, Gilberto sleeps out in the front room just in case we missed any of Martinez’s men. Or in case some relative of Martinez’s figures out that I was the one that raided his home, beheaded him and got his wife killed. Jesus, I still can’t get that witch’s face out of my mind.

Not feeling sleepy yet, I get up and put on some underwear.

Sonja wakes up slightly and mumbles, “What’s wrong, Rodrigo?”

“Nothing mi amour,” I whisper. “I’m going for a swim. Go back to sleep. I’ll be back soon.”

“Are we getting married soon?” she says, not really aware of what she’s mumbling.

“Si, pronto.”

“And we honeymoon in America?”

“Si, of course.”

She rolls over onto her back, but keeps her eyes closed. “Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon?”

I start walking out of the room. “Si.”

“And Mount Rothmore?”

I control a chuckle. “Si, there, too.”

“I’ve always wondered,” she continues to mumble. “is that place natural or man-made?”

I walk out of the room with a chuckle escaping my lips quietly. Sonja is no Universidad educated Esmeralda, but she makes up for it in other ways.

I walk to my back garden where I’ve had the swimming pool cleaned and filled for Sonja. Not that she swims much, but she loves to lay by the pool in one of her many bikinis. And I have to say that she decorates the back garden beautifully when she does.

Now I stand by the pool and look into the filtered water. Not as clear as the water at Cat Island, but it will do. I dive in. The water is heated perfectly and greets my body like a womb. I surface and do a few easy breast-strokes to the other side of the pool.

I think; If I died right here, it would be fine with me. But then I think again; No, life is a gift. It’s not right to have such thoughts. I’ve been gifted with my life many times by God recently. It’s not right to be satisfied to leave life at this point.

Besides, I have to see that Gilberto gets back to his woman and a lifestyle that he’s come to love at Cat Island. And, what the hell, it will please me to make Sonja happy and show her the natural wonder of Mount Rothmore.

After one more slow lap in the pool, I get out, grab a towel, walk back to my bedroom and join Sonja in slumber. Now asleep, I return to Cat Island in that same reoccurring dream.

I’m walking on the beautiful beach and there again, in the distance, I see the beautiful woman. At least she is beautiful from behind, because even though this is my fourth or fifth dream of her, I have never seen her face. I start walking up to where she is standing. I reach her. I gently tap her on the shoulder.

As she turns her head I brace my mind for the face of the grim reaper, that I suspect will reveal itself.

To my bewilderment, it’s my beautiful, ex-wife, Esmeralda. She smiles at me.

However, I’m not comfortable with seeing her. Something’s wrong. Slowly, like a time-lapse dying flower, her smile turns to resentment.

Suddenly, from down the beach behind me, I hear screaming. I turn and see my children, Marco and Pasha, jumping and playing in the water. Their screaming gets louder as the sound of a siren starts blaring out from somewhere in the ocean. Now the sand beneath my feet starts shaking. It seems to be an earthquake. I look down as the water begins to recede from the beach. I look up and see that Esmeralda is gone. I feel myself slowly awaking to the real world.

Lying on my stomach, the shaking bed and sound of the burglar alarm blaring wakes me up completely. I turn my head to see Sonja, standing next to the bed screaming her head off, trying to cover her naked body with her hands.

The bed continues to shake, as I reach under my pillow and pull out my .38. With my other hand I grab my Bowie knife on the night stand. I jump out of bed and spin around, ready to fire and slash. I see Gilberto running into the room saying, “I’m sorry señor, I couldn’t stop them.”

I look up and see Marco and Pasha bouncing on the bed screaming in shock as they see me naked, holding the gun and knife. Sonja scoops up her clothes and heads for the door. She passes Esmeralda, who walks in and glances down at Sonja’s retreating ass. I drop my pistol. My children scream louder, jump off the bed and run out of the room.

I drop my Bowie knife. “Esmeralda, mi amour. You came back.”

Esmeralda, shakes her head at me in disgust. “Rodrigo, you get into so much bullshit.”

-END –