SB: Chapter 2 - Dead Man Walking (Part II of II)
CHAPTER 2 - DEAD MAN WALKING
PART II
Sands was wallowing in his chair and his misery and considering jacking off (just to reassure himself that some things still worked-and anyway, he hadn’t since before the Day of the Dead) when he heard that familiar little jingle again.
He furrowed his brows. What was Chiclet doing back? It was usually eight or nine o’clock or so when he left-it was late.
Sands heard the keys rattling in the lock, and then Chiclet burst through the door, shutting it quickly behind him and locking it again as he did.
“What’d you forget, kid?” Sands asked absently, his light voice belying the tinge of wariness that had popped into his head at the sound of the kid’s quick breathing and hurried movements.
“The light-I left it on-but there’s something-something else I have to tell you, Señor,” he said, and Sands followed the kid’s voice across the room as he came to stand beside him, as he always did. Sands didn’t like the way Chiclet sounded-he sounded just like he had the day he’d told him that Nuñez had started asking him not-so-oblique questions as to who Sands was and why he hiding.
“Well, sit down and spill it,” he said, already more alert than he had been, and more aware of the weight of the gun tucked in the waistband of his pants.
“Señor, it’s-it’s the house next door. You-you have a neighbor.”
Sands hated it when he couldn’t think of anything to say immediately. And he hated it even more when, after such an embarrassing silence, the only thing he could think of to say was an outraged, “What?!”
He could all but feel Chiclet nodding apologetically. “Sí, Señor. And I know who he is, too.” Chiclet paused, and Sands knew he was worrying at his fat little lower lip.
“Well, don’t sit there staring at me, who the fuck is it? And why the hell didn’t you know he was there in the first place?!” he demanded accusingly. “I told you to find me with no one around!” Goddammit, was it just utterly impossible to find competent help these days?!
“I didn’t know! The place next door looked just like all the rest-I thought it was empty like all the other houses on the street!” The little shit sounded very sorry-as well he should be. “But-but Señor,” he said hesitantly after a moment, “nobody knows where Don Greene lives, so-”
“Oh, Don Greene, is it? Well, kid, I’m afraid you’re mistaken about that, because I sure as hell know where Don Greene lives-he lives right in my goddamned lap!” Sands dearly wanted to pace-he hated sitting still when he was angry or agitated; it made him feel impotent. But his right leg was stubbornly refusing to cooperate, so he settled for drumming his fingers heavily on the arms of his chair (which wasn’t much of a settle, in his opinion). “Okay, okay-tell me who this guy is. Who he is and what he does.”
“He sells things in town.”
“Like what?”
“Little bottles of medicines and things-I think he makes them himself.”
“Oh, beautiful-I live next door to a witch doctor.”
“He comes every weekend-he sits in the square and waits for people to come to him.” Chiclet’s voice began to brighten as he warmed to the topic. “We bought something from him once for my mamá-”
“How long has he been here?” Sands asked, cutting the kid off-he wasn’t interested in hearing about the old crank’s snake oil.
“I’m not sure-I know he’s been in town at least a year before I met you. Most of the people around here know about him, even if nobody really talks to him or knows where he lives,” Chiclet said, and Sands could hear him fussing with the hem of his shirt like he always did when he was getting nervous-Chiclet hated giving Sands bad news.
“The whole town knows him…every weekend, been here for months…” Sands said softly to himself, tilting his head back and smiling humorlessly. His eye sockets itched more than ever. “So not only is he a witch doctor, but he’s also not someone that I cannot properly dispose of at the moment, because if I did, the town would notice. How utterly delightful.” He flopped his head back in the chair, face angled up towards the ceiling. “How well do people know him? Doesn’t anybody talk to this guy? What do they say about him and whatever crap it is he sells?”
“They kind of make fun of him-his Spanish isn’t all that good; he speaks English, but doesn’t talk like an American. I think people are kind of afraid of him, really-he’s very scary,” Chiclet said. “He doesn’t like people, I don’t think.”
“Well, then he and I should get along fine,” Sands growled. He snapped his head back so he was facing Chiclet again. “What’s he look like?”
Chiclet hesitated again before replying. “Taller than you. He has gray hair, and a beard. He always wears lots of heavy clothes and hats and sunglasses, so I don’t really know what he looks like. He just looks mean at people a lot.”
“Oooo, scary,” Sands sneered. “Shit.” He rubbed his temples, willing the aspirin to work faster, which didn’t happen. “Anything else?”
“Sí.” Sands hated the reluctant way that the kid said that, and he “looked” hard at Chiclet.
“Well?”
“Uh…I think he knows you’re here.”
If the day had been bad before, it had been nothing compared to this. “Well!” Sands said, voice falsely cheery. “This situation is just dandy, isn’t it? So fucking peachy!” His hands gripped the arms of his chair until they creaked beneath his fingers. He twitched his head towards Chiclet as he heard him move, heard the sound of crinkling plastic; the kid was getting him a cigarette. “Don’t you try and give me a pacifier, you little shit!” he snarled. And after a moment, he said, “Gimme that,” and Chiclet set the cigarette into his open palm. As he jammed it irritably between his teeth (after feeling both ends to make sure he didn’t get a mouthful of tobacco), he heard that damned kid flick the lighter open. He grudgingly leaned forward and let him light it, sucking hard and letting smoke fill his lungs and nicotine seep into his system.
That goddamn kid knew him too goddamn well, and he goddamn hated it.
“He saw me leaving the house. And…with the light on…I’m sorry, Señor,” he said miserably.
If he hadn’t had the cigarette clamped in his mouth, Sands was sure he would’ve told him exactly what he could do with his simpering little apology. Instead, he said nothing, his cigarette dangling from his lips, sunglasses staring emptily out into space.
“You say nobody knows where he lives, hmm?” he said mostly to himself.
“Sí-not that I know of. He just shows up in the plaza in the mornings and leaves in the evenings,” Chiclet answered, sounding relieved that Sands was not angry with him-at least, not outwardly. “I think that if anyone did know where he lived, he’d probably get egged or something-most of the kids around here don’t like him.”
“Well, that’s a little bit better-if nobody knows where Greene lives, that means nobody knows where I live, either, right?” He knew Chiclet was nodding. “So let’s hope that stays that way, shall we?” He took another drag, tapping the ash on what he thought was his floor. He pursed his lips when he heard the sound of Chiclet setting the ashtray back on the coffee table. “I’ve told you not to do that,” he said sharply.
“Sí, Señor.” He glared pointlessly at the little shit-that answer told him he’d be doing it again. They “stared” at each other for a few moments more before Sands leaned forward a little.
“Tell me-how much does this ‘Don Greene’ character scare you?” he asked, rolling the cigarette between his fingers.
“Not so much anymore,” Chiclet answered matter-of-factly. Sands raised an eyebrow.
“Meaning he did before?”
“Sí-he is very nasty. But now I work for you-he’s not so bad.”
Christ, he could not believe this kid. “Thank you,” he said flatly, digging around in his pocket and pulling out his comfortingly fat money clip. “Here,” he said, throwing a couple of tens at him (and he knew they were tens, because the kid had helped him organize his stash by denomination). “Down payment. You watch him as best you can, and make sure he can’t tell what you’re doing. Try and look in his window-no, don’t try that, just follow him around and watch him.” He considered Chiclet for a moment, who’d already picked the bills up off the floor, before tossing one more at him. “Now fuck off.”
“Sí, Señor! I’ll come back tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you do that,” he muttered, grimacing when Chiclet plucked the finished cigarette from his fingers, hearing the crunch of the paper and ash and unfinished tobacco in the ashtray. “And stop doing that!” he hollered at what he knew to be Chiclet’s retreating back, hearing him turn off the light by the window as he did.
“Sí, Señor!” he called brightly, and Sands flipped him off. The door snapped shut, and then the knob rattled as Chiclet made sure it was locked. A few moments later, the tinny jingling of the bell on his bike sounded as he rode off, leaving Sands by himself for the night.
By himself-except for his neighbor.
Sands was not ignoring Chiclet-not really. He knew the general idea of what the kid was talking about-mostly what the family had been buying with the new funds he’d been bringing in since getting his new “job.” No, Sands just wasn’t listening, and there was a difference between not listening and ignoring. The only time he’d deliberately tuned out his babble was when Chiclet had started talking about how his little brothers and sisters kind of missed him, and he had mentioned that they’d asked him to spend a little more time at home instead of going off to wherever it was he went to work. Sands had no desire to hear about that, because it was out of the question. Chiclet was needed here, dammit.
He shifted uncomfortably, brushing his long (and getting longer), greasy hair out of his face and pushing his sunglasses a little farther up on the bridge of his nose while his ass continued to fall asleep from sitting on the front step for so long. At least Chiclet had the alternative to get up and walk around for a bit when he got tired of sitting-no, no, not him, though, because his leg had decided to act up again today-complaining so fiercely this morning he’d woken up out of a sound sleep with his teeth clamped on his lip until he tasted blood-so standing really wasn’t something he could do right now. Especially since he was saving his energy for when his neighbor came back from town.
It was Friday evening. Friday was one of the days that Greene spent down at the plaza. It was around nine o’clock-he should be due back from the office any minute now. And when he did, Sands would be waiting for him.
If this had been the good old days, Sands would have just marched next door and shot the old geezer. That was the way things should have been, back when he was King Turd of this particular Shit Mountain. But everything had been easy for King Turd-the same could not be said for a blind fugitive whose safety depended staying hidden and not being noticed. So the only option for said fugitive upon discovering that he was not alone in his hidey-hole was to take the long way around, starting with finding out who the hell he was sharing space with.
Greene had proved to be quite the elusive quarry, which pissed Sands off to no end. Chiclet had managed to get only a little spying done for him that week, as Greene had only left the house once more before his regular weekend excursions-that Wednesday, and it hadn’t been for anything interesting.
“He went shopping for groceries,” Chiclet had told him.
“And just what did he buy?” Sands had asked in return, not really caring but wanting some information to show for his trouble. Chiclet had rattled off a list of mundane and boring items, all entirely normal except for the rather large assortment of both fresh and dried herbs and spices (what the hell was this guy, a quack or a chef?).
Sands had set out with every intention of finding out exactly who or what Greene was that week. For two days, he’d spent hours on end pressed up against the adjoining wall of his house, just listening. The first floor hadn’t been very exciting at all-just normal noises, and all strangely muffled (no wonder he hadn’t realized he was there before): Greene walking around, Greene making breakfast, Greene occasionally listening to a very quiet radio. Then he’d go upstairs, and Sands would follow him. The second floor was a little more interesting. He guessed that was where Greene did his voodoo, because he usually heard some not-so-normal noises from there. Bubbling, chopping, banging around-it sounded like a busy kitchen. He heard other noises that he couldn’t quite place, too-rattling, rustling, strange soughing sighs, and sometimes a weird, strange rasp like something slithering along the plaster, but through the wall, he couldn’t place it. So, after a few days of listening, he’d come to a rather unpleasant conclusion-barring some vague guesswork, he really wasn’t sure what Greene did in his house all day.
He didn’t like that at all. He remembered all too well what had happened when he’d made some kind of plan without knowing enough-he remembered it every single morning when he woke up and every minute of the entire day until he managed to go back to sleep. All he knew at this point was that Greene was pissing him off by his very existence-to say nothing of his uncanny ability to thwart Sands’s attempts to figure him out.
At least Chiclet had been moderately successful in combing the plaza, absolutely brimming with general information when he returned from asking about Greene from the bastard’s best customers. Turns out opinions varied-some made fun of him, others said he was intimidating, and at least one semi-respected him. However, one opinion did not vary-everyone who’d was in a position to know said his brews always worked, no matter what they’d been made for. And Greene did make quite the variety-he mostly seemed to cure stomach ailments, headaches, aches and pains, hangovers, and those sort of garden-variety ills, but Chiclet had found one or two people who said he cured PMS, sore throats, and acne as well.
The other particularly interesting tidbit of information Chiclet got was from an American who regularly came to Sinaloa on business and seemed to favor Greene’s medicines as well. The native English speaker had been able to peg Greene’s accent where his little Mexican could not-Greene was apparently British.
Great. A European. He hated Europeans-they never bathed. That was why he’d requested to be stationed in Mexico in the first place.
And while it certainly didn’t make the situation any better, it did make it a little stranger. People who moved down here from outside the country, particularly from that far away, came here for either family or real business-what on earth was a Limey doing in Mexico, holed up in a nasty little building that probably needed to be condemned and selling snake oil out on the streets of Culiacán?
Sands left the house for the first time since he’d moved in to find out. It was Wednesday; Greene had been out getting his groceries, Chiclet on his tail, and so Sands had hobbled outside, limping more than he’d liked. Feeling his way down the street, hand on the side of the row of houses, he’d made his way towards Greene’s door, thinking of how he had a good mind to trash the place when he got in, of how he still had no idea why Chiclet hadn’t noticed somebody might be living in the house next door, and of how he couldn’t hide properly if someone knew where he was. Although at least the big boys who would be after him were gone. Barillo-at least that bastard had met his maker, and he hoped that Guevara had gone down with him (Ramirez, you’d better have done as ordered). If that was the case, the cartel would be in shambles and likely not worrying themselves with looking for some MIA spook like himself. Even if he had killed the heiress apparent.
He still wished he could’ve seen Ajedrez’s face when he’d shot her-that was the sight that he’d regretted missing most of all since that day-but oh, that smile had felt so good, his first smile of that day, and he felt that same one creeping slowly across his face as he remembered the way he’d shot her, right in the stomach, then heard her fall in front of him, on her knees in the dirt at his feet, where she belonged-
And then he’d realized that he’d forgotten about Don Greene and had walked right past the guy’s house.
Turning carefully around and shaking himself a little, he’d made his way back towards Greene’s, feeling the markings Chiclet had put beside each doorway to make sure that he didn’t lose his way should he decide to leave the house. He was two past Greene’s place. What the hell.
So he’d started back, and in front of the first house he’d tripped on something lying in the road, and that had pissed him off. He hated tripping, because it made him look blind, made him feel blind, and Jesus Christ on a pogostick, he hated being blind and he especially hated looking it, because the words “look blind” were so fucking twisted in their own special way. And even if he couldn’t see it, everyone else could, and that was unacceptable. However, tripping had made his leg hurt again, so he stumped across the room and twisted the cap off of his bottle of aspirin and taken two, irritated by that because he’d gone almost a whole day already without taking one and now here he was, sucking at the bottle again-
…his bottle of aspirin…?
That’s when he’d finally realized that he was back in his own house.
What the fuck?
He’d fallen back into his chair, feeling like he’d totally lost his mind and hating it. He’d briefly contemplated going back and trying again, but he didn’t know how long Greene would be out, and having that happen to him twice was far too unsettling (and his thigh was burning). So he’d tried to take a nap instead, letting the pills work their magic. He stopped hurting (a little, anyway), but he hadn’t slept. He’d just sat there.
That was when Chiclet had come back and had told him all that he’d found out, which brought him back to where he was-which was a good thing, because Chiclet suddenly spoke, and when he did it was something that snapped him right out of his reverie. “Señor-it’s him.”
Sands was immediately alert and on point. “You sure?” he asked quietly.
“Sí-I think he sees us, but I can’t tell.”
“Right.” Sands heaved himself to his feet, leaning mostly on his left leg. “Get inside.”
Chiclet obeyed, and once the door had closed behind him, Sands folded his arms, leaned on the doorframe, listening, and waited for the sound of Greene’s footsteps to reach him.
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