SB: Chapter 8 - Many Happy Returns (Part I of II)
Title: Chapter 8 - Many Happy Returns
Author: das_mervin and Mrs. Hyde
Word Count: 9,655
Summary: Sands about town.
CHAPTER 8 - MANY HAPPY RETURNS
PART I
“-and that’s when Miguel let it slip that my family was going to have a surprise birthday party for me this evening, so I’ll have to leave early today, but don’t worry, I’ll be staying as long as I can. I told them that you might be doing something for me-that didn’t mean that you had to-but I do appreciate it!-but anyway, they’re going to have the party be at dinner instead of lunch like we’d always done before I started working for you. I feel bad about knowing, but it’s probably for the best, in case you’d asked me to stay late and that would’ve spoiled their whole plans. I would’ve felt really bad about that, and besides-I can at least pretend to be surprised, can’t I? So I’ll probably leave around four, ’cause I think the party’s gonna start at about five. I hope you don’t mind, Señor-”
Sands did mind. He minded a lot. But to respond at all would imply he’d been listening, and he didn’t want Chiclet to get the idea that he cared. He only listened to Chiclet when he was being useful, and at the moment he was most assuredly not.
Today was Chiclet’s birthday. He was fourteen, the little peckerwood. Sands had forgotten that the kid had turned thirteen just a month or two after all that nastiness on the Day of the Dead-God, had that really been over a year ago? Anyway, it had been a bit of a surprise (he hated surprises). For one thing, he’d thought the kid no more than eleven when he’d met him, and he still had that idea, even though he knew better. Oh, well. Late bloomer, that one.
Sands had already thanked him for choosing to be born in December, where it wouldn’t be so frackin’ hot when Sands took him out for said birthday. Not that Sands truly wanted to take Chiclet out and let him have a good time-no, it was the principle of the thing. First thing this morning Chiclet had dropped on him the unpleasant surprise that he’d not be staying as late as he usual, because his family finally had the funds to give him a genuine birthday party, instead of their usual small celebration and one present that tended to consist of a pair of shoes or new clothes. Not to be outdone by some bigass Mexican family that leeched off of their kid, Sands had immediately informed Chiclet that, that being the case, the two of them would spend the day out, seeing it was Saturday and Chiclet wouldn’t be holed up in school learning all manner of useless things. He’d winced at the way Chiclet had been oh-so pleased by that particular announcement, but it was too late now.
They were already well over half through the day, after having eaten at a pretty high-class joint that had served excellent pibil (fortunately for the cook, still not the best), and then they’d left for the ice cream parlor. And now here they sat, with Chiclet babbling at top speed about stuff Sands didn’t care about over a huge bowl of chocolate ice cream with fudge and sprinkles (and how Sands was going to enjoy turning the hyperactive little shit back over to his parents-they were going to have a rip-roaring good time with that). Sands himself had ordered one scoop of mint and another scoop of strawberry on top of that-with whipped cream, of course, and lots of it. He hadn’t had ice cream in a long while, and this stuff wasn’t half bad. Wasn’t anything like what he could get in the States, of course, but it would have to do. Now if only these wetbacks knew the meaning of cheesecake-then he’d be pretty much in heaven.
Food-wise, that is. Otherwise, he was still in hell, trapped in this hole-in-the-road of Dante-esque proportions, and he was right at the bottom of it.
Well, no-he should be fair with himself. He was crawling his way up now-because he’d well and truly hit the bottom a month and a half ago.
He scowled and stabbed his spoon into his ice cream. What was probably the most off-pissing of the whole debacle last Halloween was that there wasn’t anyone else he could blame it on. He had simply made the spectacularly stupid mistake of drinking all fucking day without even Chiclet to supervise him (goddammit-that kid was not his wet nurse!). He admitted it-it royally chapped his caboose, but he admitted it-it had been a mistake. A big mistake. Because he’d gotten pig-drunk and promptly wound up in the middle of the street. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there or why, but the fact of the matter was that he had, and if Greene hadn’t decided to choose that moment to show up, who knows what would’ve happened to him. But show up he had.
Sands still hadn’t decided if Greene was a blessing or a curse (curse), because on the one side, Greene had taken him inside and apparently watched him until he passed out. On the other side, Sands had talked. While he still wasn’t sure what all he’d said, he knew he’d said enough. He’d talked, and he’d said things he most assuredly should not have. The one thing that he clearly remembered amidst all his drunken recriminations and Greene’s less than comforting bedside manner was saying who he’d killed that day-Susana Ajedrez, Barillo’s daughter.
And that was a disaster waiting to happen. Of all the incriminating names he had filed away that he could blab, he’d just had to go ahead and spill that one. If it got back to certain members of the cartel-loyal members, and every cartel had them-he’d be in a world of hurt.
And that old doucherocket Greene fucking knew about it.
“I’m done, Señor,” Chiclet said brightly, jarring him out of his thoughts.
“It’s about time,” Sands said, throwing his napkin on the table and pulling out his cash. “Will ten cover this?”
“Oh, very much so, Señor,” Chiclet said, sounding pleased with Sands’s supposed generosity. He gave the kid a warning look and tossed what he knew would be a ten down before scooting away from the table, snapping his fingers for Chiclet to get in front of him, which he did. He followed the kid out, winding through the tables to the sound of Chiclet’s footsteps, until they were once again standing out in the warm sunshine of the early afternoon.
“Where are we going now?” Chiclet asked, taking Sands’s hand like a little kid to guide him around a parked car (the kid really wasn’t doing anything to disabuse Sands of the notion that he was still eleven).
“Time to buy you something. What do you want?” Sands asked, rooting around for a cigarette.
“Oh, I don’t want anything. Anything I need to buy I buy with the money you give me, and I haven’t really needed anything,” Chiclet replied cheerfully. Sands snorted down at him.
“Jesus Christ, kid-don’t you ever do anything for yourself? And don’t try and tell me that you buy stuff for yourself with what I pay you-you give all that cash to your family and I know it-so come on, Gary Coleman. We’re buying you a new bike.”
“Oh, no, Señor, those are expensive-” Chiclet began to protest, but Sands silenced him with a look.
“What, and I’m so poor, is that it? That thing you ride around on now is bigger than an elephant. I don’t know how you stay on it-I personally would be embarrassed to be seen on it. So take us somewhere that sells bikes-good bikes, not wholesale aluminum cans,” he said sternly.
“Sí, Señor.”
Sands was quite pleased to hear that note of barely restrained happiness in Chiclet’s voice-sit on that and spin, Santiagos.
Despite his protestations to the contrary, Chiclet had obviously been ogling a new bike-a specific new bike-for quite some time, because he took him straight to a store a few streets over and had one selected in under a minute. “This one, Señor.”
“Gimme the specs,” Sands said, folding his arms and acting as if he was looking it up and down.
“Ten speed, tubeless tires, front and rear handbrakes, aluminum frame, dropdown handlebars, cushioned seat-and its blue and black with silver trim.”
“That’ll do, if you’re that in love with it,” Sands sighed, dragging out his money clip again. “How much is this thing in American money?” he asked the salesman who’d approached while they were checking out the merchandise; Sands could tell that his money clip was being eyed greedily.
“This model runs around a hundred and fifty,” the man said.
Sands raised an eyebrow. “I must have missed the gold plating,” he said pleasantly. “One hundred even, or I take my kid and my business elsewhere.”
“I can knock it down to one thirty, sir, but I do have to turn a profit,” the salesman returned. “It’s a fine piece of equipment-and think of your son, sir.”
“He’s not my son, so I don’t have to think about him. Throw in a lock, chain, basket, and bell on top of that one thirty, you’ve got yourself a deal,” Sands said, thumbing out the twenties even as he hitched up his shirt enough so that the butt of his gun peeked out from his pants.
The salesman took him up on his offer with all speed. Sands really was a shrewd trader, when it came down to it.
Sands immediately regretted buying the thing-Chiclet would not shut up about it. He gushed endlessly about Señor’s generosity, and how fast he could go now, how smooth and silent the chain was, how it wasn’t rusted, like the old one, and how much cooler it looked, this, that, and the other, and dear God, Sands wished he would be quiet.
“Yeah, all of that’s great, kid,” Sands interrupted, breaking up Chiclet’s second monologue about how some little punks he went to school with would be so jealous, “but you use that lock and chain. You let that thing get stolen, and I’ll make you pay for it.”
“Sí, Señor!” Chiclet replied happily, and if Sands could have rolled his eyes, he would have. And then Chiclet was off again, already talking about new things regarding the bike, when all he was really doing was confirming that he’d been coveting that bike for a while now, only he hadn’t said anything-why he never asked for anything or never used all his money for his own ends was beyond Sands.
Sands’s brows furrowed. Any time he found himself thinking of money, it invariably led back to thinking about the mariachis. The ones that got away-with his money. His mood had been bad enough-what with his spilling God knew what to Greene while drunk off his ass-but it was thoughts of those two bastards that really set him off. He’d been brooding on them for months-Chiclet’s birthday had in fact that the first time he’d actually been out and about town since José had clued him in to the exaggerated reports of the deaths of the men that he’d hired to do his dirty work for him.
He didn’t want to admit it, but somehow, going out and showing Chiclet a good time cleared up his mind a bit, even now as they were heading back home, with the kid going on at top speed about the bike and how he was going to let his little brothers and sisters ride it at his party this evening, and how his family would thank him as well for buying him such a nice bike. He wished Chiclet would stop talking about his family-he hated being reminded that there were other people in the kid’s life, because he really only had room for one.
“What time is it, Chiclet?” Sands asked, listening to the quiet tic-tic-tic of Chiclet’s new bicycle. He heard the kid shift a bit as he checked that huge watch he wore.
“Three forty-five, Señor.”
“Come on-let’s head back to my place. I need to teach you how to cheat at poker.”
“I don’t even know how to play poker, Señor.”
“I’ll teach you that, too. These are important life skills, kiddo. You need to know them-and who else to teach you them but me? We can do tequila shots later.”
The tic sound moved, and he followed after it, reaching out a hand to rest on the soft rubber of the handlebar grips, ambling neatly beside Chiclet as he changed directions for home, and they walked the bike together. The walk was always pleasant-Sands hated being cooped up in his house, and now that he knew the CIA wasn’t looking for him and the Barillo cartel had mostly been absorbed, he was much freer to wander about and get some air. As such, though he would never admit it, the walk home was much shorter than he would’ve liked.
Chiclet obediently used the new chain and lock on his bike, chaining it to what Sands knew to be the rusty handrail outside of his house (as if that would be much of a deterrent-you could probably just kick the things right off and steal the railing along with the bike) as Sands unlocked the door to the house.
Sands was highly annoyed when Chiclet firmly turned down the tequila.
“No, thank you, Señor,” he said in that patient but almost scolding tone that he used when he came over on those lousy days when Sands just sat in his chair all day and let the cigarette butts fall onto the floor. “I should be going, anyway-my family-”
“Yeah, yeah, your family,” Sands said crossly. “Well, bug out, then. I’ll just sit here all by myself and drink until I fall asleep.” He didn’t like to bring up his sleeping habits with the kid, because it was a dig at his own pride, as the kid was the only one who knew how bad his nightmares could get, but he made the sacrifice, as mentioning it was a very pointed barb that the little shit was sure to feel.
And he did, too-Sands could hear him shifting uncomfortably. But then Chiclet took in a breath as if to speak, but he hesitated, and Sands didn’t like the sound of that. “Señor, I-I know you don’t like him very much, but…well, Don Greene’s medicines are very good,” he said.
Sands felt his fingers tighten on the arm of his chair. “And just what does that have to do with the price of cheesecake at Mindy’s?” he asked evenly.
Chiclet waffled for a moment before answering. “Well, Señor, I asked-I asked around a little, and he…well, he sells things to make you sleep better, and people say that when you take them you don’t dream, and I-I thought that maybe-”
“You thought what?” Sands interrupted, one eyebrow raised, voice low and dangerous. “You thought I might want some? Forget it-I’m not taking jack shit from that quack.”
He heard Chiclet shuffling his feet beside him. “So you-you wouldn’t take it?” he asked tentatively.
“No. I’m not taking it-I’m not taking a damned thing he has to offer,” Sands growled. He was furious-because he knew, he could just tell that the little shit had already bought something from the old SOB, and Greene wasn’t stupid and would know exactly who Chiclet had bought it for. Greene saw him sprawled out on his face in the street, Greene probably heard him screaming when he had particularly bad nightmares…and now this. Christ.
“Go away,” he said irritably.
Chiclet obeyed, giving a subdued, perfunctory goodnight before exiting the house and ringing his new bell on his new bike, pedaling away from Sands and back to his stupid family.
It was probably better that the little shit leave now, anyway, before Sands took it into his head to break his foot off in Chiclet’s ass. Besides-Sands needed to think. So he got up and walked over to his cabinet and pulled out the half-full bottle of tequila near the end, giving a quick jiggle to hear how much was in it before meandering back to his favorite chair, knowing his usual glass would be next to it. Pulling out a cigarette, he poured a liberal shot of booze before lighting up. He let the smoke fill his lungs, letting it slide back out of his mouth in lazy plumes. Think. He had to think.
He had important business to attend to soon. Those two mariachis…nobody screwed him over. Nobody. Not even Barillo’s pretty daughter had gotten away with it, so there was no way in hell those two were going to get off light (like she had). If they honestly thought that they were going to get away with so thoroughly botching the job and going behind his back, letting El get killed, offing Marquez before the President had kicked it, and then snatching up the twenty million pesos that were rightfully his, he, the one who set the whole thing up, setting up each card delicately and deliberately in place-
It was their fault almost as much as hers-and he’d die before letting those two get away with his money.
Time to make a few phone calls.
Sands usually didn’t out and out hate his contacts. He had no respect for them and held them in the utmost contempt, but they were too useful to really hate them.
But if he ever decided to, Gracia Hadrienos would be the one to hate. That one he would’ve enjoyed shooting under the table-many times over. It was almost a shame she’d proven so useful-because then he didn’t have an excuse to do so.
He’d been scouring the whole state via his slowly recovering network of contacts for information as to what El had done and where he had gone in those few days leading up to the coup, and he’d gotten lucky-El had gone to a mariachi bar right in Culiacán. He’d been elatedly positive at first that that was where he would find his two rogues, but they had apparently given him the slip-they had been there, but now they were gone. A few discreet questions had lead him to Hadrienos, the leading lady of the place-and the woman who interacted the most with the marachis that trailed in and out of the nasty little dive. So he’d sent her a little love note asking her if he might have a word with her, to discuss a business proposition.
He’d been vaguely disgusted but entirely unsurprised to discover that when he’d said he’d had business, she’d thought he’d meant business, not information. Still, he’d almost been startled into shooting her when the noise and press of people of the bar had masked her approach so that he hadn’t known she was there until he’d felt her hands suddenly on his shoulders, rubbing unpleasantly. But he’d kept his cool, and told her in no uncertain terms that he was not paying her for that sort of nonsense (he’d never paid money for sex in his life, and he certainly had no intention of starting now). She’d been put out at first, until he’d reassured her that he still wanted to pay her for services rendered-just not the usual.
What he’d wanted from her was simple-just to come up with any information pertaining to two marachis that had been here a year and four months ago-and that maybe they’d been seen with a third one, a man who’d been a little tall, with dark hair to his shoulders and with an exceptionally cold look in his eyes. She said that already sounded familiar…but had decided to milk the situation for what it was worth and told him that it would probably take another meeting and another lunchbox, as she put it. But he hadn’t said anything, merely smiled and tipped his hat and left, inwardly lamenting on his way out that it was bimbos like her that illustrated why he never bothered to collect many female contacts-men were just far more reliable (and God, but when the female of the species decided to turn on you, they went straight for the balls-straight for the eyes). But she’d already contacted him again and told him where to meet, because she had the info he wanted-and hopefully, after he got what he came for, he could wash his hands of her for good.
If she would ever actually arrive, that is. She was late, which didn’t do much to help the female stereotype. While he did appreciate being able to get to the meeting place before the contact that he would be ready with both his arm and his gun, he didn’t appreciate being forced to wait any longer than necessary. He hadn’t even wanted to come to this place, anyway-he’d been here before, and the pibil was crap.
He was already halfway through said pibil (Chiclet had inhaled his tamales like a little Mexican Hoover) when she’d finally decided to sashay into the dive.
“There she is,” Chiclet said quietly around a mouthful of tortilla, and Sands’s back straightened, his finger squeezing tight on the trigger when he heard the click of her high-heeled shoes.
“It’s good to see you again, Señor Andrews,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Who’s the kid?” She didn’t wait for him to answer before he heard her turn to face Chiclet. “You’re a handsome little thing-what’s your name?”
“Never mind him-he doesn’t talk,” Sands said sharply. “Now,” he said, his voice dropping down into its usual, more even cadence. “I have your pay-and you said you had, as you put it, ‘a regular goldmine’ of information?”
She huffed, irritated. “Yes, I do.” Her voice took on a smug quality. “I asked around. And while I have the goods on what those two looked like, a couple of the other girls remembered exactly who they were. Exactly, as in I have their names.”
Sands couldn’t believe his luck. She had names. She had two names, which could lead to locations.
“One sang, the other played-kept groping me,” she sniffed haughtily. “I saw the singer meet that big Mexican by the doorway-long hair. That’s how I remembered who you were talking about. But I left after that. I don’t know who the big one was, but I know the other two-”
“I know you know those two, you just said you knew them. Now, could you please disclose the names of the individuals in question? I would greatly appreciate it,” he said, admiring himself for the only slightly brittle tone.
“Why do you want to know them, anyway?” she asked, and he suppressed an agitated grimace.
“They owe me money,” he said softly, giving her his most charming smile. “Now-names, please? Names and faces to go with them, or you don’t get the rest of your pay, darling.”
She paused for a moment, and he could feel her regarding him. “Lorenzo was the name of the one who did the singing. He was tall, short hair, nice eyes and a pretty mouth. Thin. No surprise to find he owed you money-it was his favorite. His friend preferred the liquor, but he needed money too, to get it. Fideo was his name. Short, a little fat and not as pretty, with kind of long, curly hair. Liked the ladies, but was drunk most of the time. And that’s all I know. Now pay up,” she said, her voice sharp.
Sands smiled amiably, and swung down to pick up the Beauty and the Beast lunchbox Chiclet had purchased for him. “Five grand, all in there,” he said, setting it down in the clear spot he’d already scouted with his fingers. She snatched it up immediately, her long fingernails ticking on the thin plastic, and he heard her snap it open (he was reminded unpleasantly of Belini and once again cursed him for having the nerve to be dead when he actually needed his sleazy services).
She sniffed through her nose. “I thought I said I wanted it in fifties.”
“It’s money, sugar,” he replied. “Fifties or hundreds, it doesn’t much matter, so long as it folds and fits nice and neat in the box-or tucks in your g-string. Services rendered are now paid for. Thank you-you may go,” he said, sliding a cigarette from the pack in his pocket before leaning over to Chiclet for a light.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Señor Andrews,” she purred, sounding much happier after rifling through the neat stacks of bills that he’d put in the box-hundreds notwithstanding. “You will give me a call if you ever need anything else?” she asked, and he could feel her leaning over the table and wiggling a bit-no doubt to display her cleavage to the best advantage.
That ploy never worked with him-even when he’d had eyes. “I’ll call you first thing if I ever get a hankering for a case of the clap,” he said smoothly.
She spluttered, and he could tell she was trying to work up a good insult, but she clearly didn’t have the brains to manage it and she simply swept away, taking the lunchbox with her, angrily clacking her way out of the dive.
“Gone now?” he asked in a low voice.
“Sí, Señor,” Chiclet answered.
“Finally,” he muttered, putting his cigarette down momentarily to disengage his fake arm, setting down the knife in its plastic grip before tucking it away in his bag. “Was it just me, or was she ugly?” he asked Chiclet, cocking his head a little.
“No, Señor-she was pretty,” Chiclet answered.
“Good. I hate ugly chicks.”
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Author: das_mervin and Mrs. Hyde
Word Count: 9,655
Summary: Sands about town.
CHAPTER 8 - MANY HAPPY RETURNS
PART I
“-and that’s when Miguel let it slip that my family was going to have a surprise birthday party for me this evening, so I’ll have to leave early today, but don’t worry, I’ll be staying as long as I can. I told them that you might be doing something for me-that didn’t mean that you had to-but I do appreciate it!-but anyway, they’re going to have the party be at dinner instead of lunch like we’d always done before I started working for you. I feel bad about knowing, but it’s probably for the best, in case you’d asked me to stay late and that would’ve spoiled their whole plans. I would’ve felt really bad about that, and besides-I can at least pretend to be surprised, can’t I? So I’ll probably leave around four, ’cause I think the party’s gonna start at about five. I hope you don’t mind, Señor-”
Sands did mind. He minded a lot. But to respond at all would imply he’d been listening, and he didn’t want Chiclet to get the idea that he cared. He only listened to Chiclet when he was being useful, and at the moment he was most assuredly not.
Today was Chiclet’s birthday. He was fourteen, the little peckerwood. Sands had forgotten that the kid had turned thirteen just a month or two after all that nastiness on the Day of the Dead-God, had that really been over a year ago? Anyway, it had been a bit of a surprise (he hated surprises). For one thing, he’d thought the kid no more than eleven when he’d met him, and he still had that idea, even though he knew better. Oh, well. Late bloomer, that one.
Sands had already thanked him for choosing to be born in December, where it wouldn’t be so frackin’ hot when Sands took him out for said birthday. Not that Sands truly wanted to take Chiclet out and let him have a good time-no, it was the principle of the thing. First thing this morning Chiclet had dropped on him the unpleasant surprise that he’d not be staying as late as he usual, because his family finally had the funds to give him a genuine birthday party, instead of their usual small celebration and one present that tended to consist of a pair of shoes or new clothes. Not to be outdone by some bigass Mexican family that leeched off of their kid, Sands had immediately informed Chiclet that, that being the case, the two of them would spend the day out, seeing it was Saturday and Chiclet wouldn’t be holed up in school learning all manner of useless things. He’d winced at the way Chiclet had been oh-so pleased by that particular announcement, but it was too late now.
They were already well over half through the day, after having eaten at a pretty high-class joint that had served excellent pibil (fortunately for the cook, still not the best), and then they’d left for the ice cream parlor. And now here they sat, with Chiclet babbling at top speed about stuff Sands didn’t care about over a huge bowl of chocolate ice cream with fudge and sprinkles (and how Sands was going to enjoy turning the hyperactive little shit back over to his parents-they were going to have a rip-roaring good time with that). Sands himself had ordered one scoop of mint and another scoop of strawberry on top of that-with whipped cream, of course, and lots of it. He hadn’t had ice cream in a long while, and this stuff wasn’t half bad. Wasn’t anything like what he could get in the States, of course, but it would have to do. Now if only these wetbacks knew the meaning of cheesecake-then he’d be pretty much in heaven.
Food-wise, that is. Otherwise, he was still in hell, trapped in this hole-in-the-road of Dante-esque proportions, and he was right at the bottom of it.
Well, no-he should be fair with himself. He was crawling his way up now-because he’d well and truly hit the bottom a month and a half ago.
He scowled and stabbed his spoon into his ice cream. What was probably the most off-pissing of the whole debacle last Halloween was that there wasn’t anyone else he could blame it on. He had simply made the spectacularly stupid mistake of drinking all fucking day without even Chiclet to supervise him (goddammit-that kid was not his wet nurse!). He admitted it-it royally chapped his caboose, but he admitted it-it had been a mistake. A big mistake. Because he’d gotten pig-drunk and promptly wound up in the middle of the street. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there or why, but the fact of the matter was that he had, and if Greene hadn’t decided to choose that moment to show up, who knows what would’ve happened to him. But show up he had.
Sands still hadn’t decided if Greene was a blessing or a curse (curse), because on the one side, Greene had taken him inside and apparently watched him until he passed out. On the other side, Sands had talked. While he still wasn’t sure what all he’d said, he knew he’d said enough. He’d talked, and he’d said things he most assuredly should not have. The one thing that he clearly remembered amidst all his drunken recriminations and Greene’s less than comforting bedside manner was saying who he’d killed that day-Susana Ajedrez, Barillo’s daughter.
And that was a disaster waiting to happen. Of all the incriminating names he had filed away that he could blab, he’d just had to go ahead and spill that one. If it got back to certain members of the cartel-loyal members, and every cartel had them-he’d be in a world of hurt.
And that old doucherocket Greene fucking knew about it.
“I’m done, Señor,” Chiclet said brightly, jarring him out of his thoughts.
“It’s about time,” Sands said, throwing his napkin on the table and pulling out his cash. “Will ten cover this?”
“Oh, very much so, Señor,” Chiclet said, sounding pleased with Sands’s supposed generosity. He gave the kid a warning look and tossed what he knew would be a ten down before scooting away from the table, snapping his fingers for Chiclet to get in front of him, which he did. He followed the kid out, winding through the tables to the sound of Chiclet’s footsteps, until they were once again standing out in the warm sunshine of the early afternoon.
“Where are we going now?” Chiclet asked, taking Sands’s hand like a little kid to guide him around a parked car (the kid really wasn’t doing anything to disabuse Sands of the notion that he was still eleven).
“Time to buy you something. What do you want?” Sands asked, rooting around for a cigarette.
“Oh, I don’t want anything. Anything I need to buy I buy with the money you give me, and I haven’t really needed anything,” Chiclet replied cheerfully. Sands snorted down at him.
“Jesus Christ, kid-don’t you ever do anything for yourself? And don’t try and tell me that you buy stuff for yourself with what I pay you-you give all that cash to your family and I know it-so come on, Gary Coleman. We’re buying you a new bike.”
“Oh, no, Señor, those are expensive-” Chiclet began to protest, but Sands silenced him with a look.
“What, and I’m so poor, is that it? That thing you ride around on now is bigger than an elephant. I don’t know how you stay on it-I personally would be embarrassed to be seen on it. So take us somewhere that sells bikes-good bikes, not wholesale aluminum cans,” he said sternly.
“Sí, Señor.”
Sands was quite pleased to hear that note of barely restrained happiness in Chiclet’s voice-sit on that and spin, Santiagos.
Despite his protestations to the contrary, Chiclet had obviously been ogling a new bike-a specific new bike-for quite some time, because he took him straight to a store a few streets over and had one selected in under a minute. “This one, Señor.”
“Gimme the specs,” Sands said, folding his arms and acting as if he was looking it up and down.
“Ten speed, tubeless tires, front and rear handbrakes, aluminum frame, dropdown handlebars, cushioned seat-and its blue and black with silver trim.”
“That’ll do, if you’re that in love with it,” Sands sighed, dragging out his money clip again. “How much is this thing in American money?” he asked the salesman who’d approached while they were checking out the merchandise; Sands could tell that his money clip was being eyed greedily.
“This model runs around a hundred and fifty,” the man said.
Sands raised an eyebrow. “I must have missed the gold plating,” he said pleasantly. “One hundred even, or I take my kid and my business elsewhere.”
“I can knock it down to one thirty, sir, but I do have to turn a profit,” the salesman returned. “It’s a fine piece of equipment-and think of your son, sir.”
“He’s not my son, so I don’t have to think about him. Throw in a lock, chain, basket, and bell on top of that one thirty, you’ve got yourself a deal,” Sands said, thumbing out the twenties even as he hitched up his shirt enough so that the butt of his gun peeked out from his pants.
The salesman took him up on his offer with all speed. Sands really was a shrewd trader, when it came down to it.
Sands immediately regretted buying the thing-Chiclet would not shut up about it. He gushed endlessly about Señor’s generosity, and how fast he could go now, how smooth and silent the chain was, how it wasn’t rusted, like the old one, and how much cooler it looked, this, that, and the other, and dear God, Sands wished he would be quiet.
“Yeah, all of that’s great, kid,” Sands interrupted, breaking up Chiclet’s second monologue about how some little punks he went to school with would be so jealous, “but you use that lock and chain. You let that thing get stolen, and I’ll make you pay for it.”
“Sí, Señor!” Chiclet replied happily, and if Sands could have rolled his eyes, he would have. And then Chiclet was off again, already talking about new things regarding the bike, when all he was really doing was confirming that he’d been coveting that bike for a while now, only he hadn’t said anything-why he never asked for anything or never used all his money for his own ends was beyond Sands.
Sands’s brows furrowed. Any time he found himself thinking of money, it invariably led back to thinking about the mariachis. The ones that got away-with his money. His mood had been bad enough-what with his spilling God knew what to Greene while drunk off his ass-but it was thoughts of those two bastards that really set him off. He’d been brooding on them for months-Chiclet’s birthday had in fact that the first time he’d actually been out and about town since José had clued him in to the exaggerated reports of the deaths of the men that he’d hired to do his dirty work for him.
He didn’t want to admit it, but somehow, going out and showing Chiclet a good time cleared up his mind a bit, even now as they were heading back home, with the kid going on at top speed about the bike and how he was going to let his little brothers and sisters ride it at his party this evening, and how his family would thank him as well for buying him such a nice bike. He wished Chiclet would stop talking about his family-he hated being reminded that there were other people in the kid’s life, because he really only had room for one.
“What time is it, Chiclet?” Sands asked, listening to the quiet tic-tic-tic of Chiclet’s new bicycle. He heard the kid shift a bit as he checked that huge watch he wore.
“Three forty-five, Señor.”
“Come on-let’s head back to my place. I need to teach you how to cheat at poker.”
“I don’t even know how to play poker, Señor.”
“I’ll teach you that, too. These are important life skills, kiddo. You need to know them-and who else to teach you them but me? We can do tequila shots later.”
The tic sound moved, and he followed after it, reaching out a hand to rest on the soft rubber of the handlebar grips, ambling neatly beside Chiclet as he changed directions for home, and they walked the bike together. The walk was always pleasant-Sands hated being cooped up in his house, and now that he knew the CIA wasn’t looking for him and the Barillo cartel had mostly been absorbed, he was much freer to wander about and get some air. As such, though he would never admit it, the walk home was much shorter than he would’ve liked.
Chiclet obediently used the new chain and lock on his bike, chaining it to what Sands knew to be the rusty handrail outside of his house (as if that would be much of a deterrent-you could probably just kick the things right off and steal the railing along with the bike) as Sands unlocked the door to the house.
Sands was highly annoyed when Chiclet firmly turned down the tequila.
“No, thank you, Señor,” he said in that patient but almost scolding tone that he used when he came over on those lousy days when Sands just sat in his chair all day and let the cigarette butts fall onto the floor. “I should be going, anyway-my family-”
“Yeah, yeah, your family,” Sands said crossly. “Well, bug out, then. I’ll just sit here all by myself and drink until I fall asleep.” He didn’t like to bring up his sleeping habits with the kid, because it was a dig at his own pride, as the kid was the only one who knew how bad his nightmares could get, but he made the sacrifice, as mentioning it was a very pointed barb that the little shit was sure to feel.
And he did, too-Sands could hear him shifting uncomfortably. But then Chiclet took in a breath as if to speak, but he hesitated, and Sands didn’t like the sound of that. “Señor, I-I know you don’t like him very much, but…well, Don Greene’s medicines are very good,” he said.
Sands felt his fingers tighten on the arm of his chair. “And just what does that have to do with the price of cheesecake at Mindy’s?” he asked evenly.
Chiclet waffled for a moment before answering. “Well, Señor, I asked-I asked around a little, and he…well, he sells things to make you sleep better, and people say that when you take them you don’t dream, and I-I thought that maybe-”
“You thought what?” Sands interrupted, one eyebrow raised, voice low and dangerous. “You thought I might want some? Forget it-I’m not taking jack shit from that quack.”
He heard Chiclet shuffling his feet beside him. “So you-you wouldn’t take it?” he asked tentatively.
“No. I’m not taking it-I’m not taking a damned thing he has to offer,” Sands growled. He was furious-because he knew, he could just tell that the little shit had already bought something from the old SOB, and Greene wasn’t stupid and would know exactly who Chiclet had bought it for. Greene saw him sprawled out on his face in the street, Greene probably heard him screaming when he had particularly bad nightmares…and now this. Christ.
“Go away,” he said irritably.
Chiclet obeyed, giving a subdued, perfunctory goodnight before exiting the house and ringing his new bell on his new bike, pedaling away from Sands and back to his stupid family.
It was probably better that the little shit leave now, anyway, before Sands took it into his head to break his foot off in Chiclet’s ass. Besides-Sands needed to think. So he got up and walked over to his cabinet and pulled out the half-full bottle of tequila near the end, giving a quick jiggle to hear how much was in it before meandering back to his favorite chair, knowing his usual glass would be next to it. Pulling out a cigarette, he poured a liberal shot of booze before lighting up. He let the smoke fill his lungs, letting it slide back out of his mouth in lazy plumes. Think. He had to think.
He had important business to attend to soon. Those two mariachis…nobody screwed him over. Nobody. Not even Barillo’s pretty daughter had gotten away with it, so there was no way in hell those two were going to get off light (like she had). If they honestly thought that they were going to get away with so thoroughly botching the job and going behind his back, letting El get killed, offing Marquez before the President had kicked it, and then snatching up the twenty million pesos that were rightfully his, he, the one who set the whole thing up, setting up each card delicately and deliberately in place-
It was their fault almost as much as hers-and he’d die before letting those two get away with his money.
Time to make a few phone calls.
Sands usually didn’t out and out hate his contacts. He had no respect for them and held them in the utmost contempt, but they were too useful to really hate them.
But if he ever decided to, Gracia Hadrienos would be the one to hate. That one he would’ve enjoyed shooting under the table-many times over. It was almost a shame she’d proven so useful-because then he didn’t have an excuse to do so.
He’d been scouring the whole state via his slowly recovering network of contacts for information as to what El had done and where he had gone in those few days leading up to the coup, and he’d gotten lucky-El had gone to a mariachi bar right in Culiacán. He’d been elatedly positive at first that that was where he would find his two rogues, but they had apparently given him the slip-they had been there, but now they were gone. A few discreet questions had lead him to Hadrienos, the leading lady of the place-and the woman who interacted the most with the marachis that trailed in and out of the nasty little dive. So he’d sent her a little love note asking her if he might have a word with her, to discuss a business proposition.
He’d been vaguely disgusted but entirely unsurprised to discover that when he’d said he’d had business, she’d thought he’d meant business, not information. Still, he’d almost been startled into shooting her when the noise and press of people of the bar had masked her approach so that he hadn’t known she was there until he’d felt her hands suddenly on his shoulders, rubbing unpleasantly. But he’d kept his cool, and told her in no uncertain terms that he was not paying her for that sort of nonsense (he’d never paid money for sex in his life, and he certainly had no intention of starting now). She’d been put out at first, until he’d reassured her that he still wanted to pay her for services rendered-just not the usual.
What he’d wanted from her was simple-just to come up with any information pertaining to two marachis that had been here a year and four months ago-and that maybe they’d been seen with a third one, a man who’d been a little tall, with dark hair to his shoulders and with an exceptionally cold look in his eyes. She said that already sounded familiar…but had decided to milk the situation for what it was worth and told him that it would probably take another meeting and another lunchbox, as she put it. But he hadn’t said anything, merely smiled and tipped his hat and left, inwardly lamenting on his way out that it was bimbos like her that illustrated why he never bothered to collect many female contacts-men were just far more reliable (and God, but when the female of the species decided to turn on you, they went straight for the balls-straight for the eyes). But she’d already contacted him again and told him where to meet, because she had the info he wanted-and hopefully, after he got what he came for, he could wash his hands of her for good.
If she would ever actually arrive, that is. She was late, which didn’t do much to help the female stereotype. While he did appreciate being able to get to the meeting place before the contact that he would be ready with both his arm and his gun, he didn’t appreciate being forced to wait any longer than necessary. He hadn’t even wanted to come to this place, anyway-he’d been here before, and the pibil was crap.
He was already halfway through said pibil (Chiclet had inhaled his tamales like a little Mexican Hoover) when she’d finally decided to sashay into the dive.
“There she is,” Chiclet said quietly around a mouthful of tortilla, and Sands’s back straightened, his finger squeezing tight on the trigger when he heard the click of her high-heeled shoes.
“It’s good to see you again, Señor Andrews,” she said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Who’s the kid?” She didn’t wait for him to answer before he heard her turn to face Chiclet. “You’re a handsome little thing-what’s your name?”
“Never mind him-he doesn’t talk,” Sands said sharply. “Now,” he said, his voice dropping down into its usual, more even cadence. “I have your pay-and you said you had, as you put it, ‘a regular goldmine’ of information?”
She huffed, irritated. “Yes, I do.” Her voice took on a smug quality. “I asked around. And while I have the goods on what those two looked like, a couple of the other girls remembered exactly who they were. Exactly, as in I have their names.”
Sands couldn’t believe his luck. She had names. She had two names, which could lead to locations.
“One sang, the other played-kept groping me,” she sniffed haughtily. “I saw the singer meet that big Mexican by the doorway-long hair. That’s how I remembered who you were talking about. But I left after that. I don’t know who the big one was, but I know the other two-”
“I know you know those two, you just said you knew them. Now, could you please disclose the names of the individuals in question? I would greatly appreciate it,” he said, admiring himself for the only slightly brittle tone.
“Why do you want to know them, anyway?” she asked, and he suppressed an agitated grimace.
“They owe me money,” he said softly, giving her his most charming smile. “Now-names, please? Names and faces to go with them, or you don’t get the rest of your pay, darling.”
She paused for a moment, and he could feel her regarding him. “Lorenzo was the name of the one who did the singing. He was tall, short hair, nice eyes and a pretty mouth. Thin. No surprise to find he owed you money-it was his favorite. His friend preferred the liquor, but he needed money too, to get it. Fideo was his name. Short, a little fat and not as pretty, with kind of long, curly hair. Liked the ladies, but was drunk most of the time. And that’s all I know. Now pay up,” she said, her voice sharp.
Sands smiled amiably, and swung down to pick up the Beauty and the Beast lunchbox Chiclet had purchased for him. “Five grand, all in there,” he said, setting it down in the clear spot he’d already scouted with his fingers. She snatched it up immediately, her long fingernails ticking on the thin plastic, and he heard her snap it open (he was reminded unpleasantly of Belini and once again cursed him for having the nerve to be dead when he actually needed his sleazy services).
She sniffed through her nose. “I thought I said I wanted it in fifties.”
“It’s money, sugar,” he replied. “Fifties or hundreds, it doesn’t much matter, so long as it folds and fits nice and neat in the box-or tucks in your g-string. Services rendered are now paid for. Thank you-you may go,” he said, sliding a cigarette from the pack in his pocket before leaning over to Chiclet for a light.
“A pleasure doing business with you, Señor Andrews,” she purred, sounding much happier after rifling through the neat stacks of bills that he’d put in the box-hundreds notwithstanding. “You will give me a call if you ever need anything else?” she asked, and he could feel her leaning over the table and wiggling a bit-no doubt to display her cleavage to the best advantage.
That ploy never worked with him-even when he’d had eyes. “I’ll call you first thing if I ever get a hankering for a case of the clap,” he said smoothly.
She spluttered, and he could tell she was trying to work up a good insult, but she clearly didn’t have the brains to manage it and she simply swept away, taking the lunchbox with her, angrily clacking her way out of the dive.
“Gone now?” he asked in a low voice.
“Sí, Señor,” Chiclet answered.
“Finally,” he muttered, putting his cigarette down momentarily to disengage his fake arm, setting down the knife in its plastic grip before tucking it away in his bag. “Was it just me, or was she ugly?” he asked Chiclet, cocking his head a little.
“No, Señor-she was pretty,” Chiclet answered.
“Good. I hate ugly chicks.”
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