Charlie Huston: Six Bad Things

So things had been quiet for awhile. That shit never seems to last. After Tim told me his story about people maybe looking for me in Mexico, we changed our MO. I started calling him every week at a pay phone in Grand Central.

And it didn’t take long for Tim to start noticing some things.

– What do you mean, “things”?

– I don’t know, man.

– Well that helps, Timmy.

– OK, so people, they like to talk to me, right? Always, on the bus, whatever, I’m the guy people sit next to and like to just start talking to. And, mostly, so, OK, I got ears, use ’em, right? But then, lately? I think I may have noticed something, a trend in the topics of conversation.

It’s starting to rain on me; fat, warm drops.

– Timmy?

– Yeah?

– Can you please get to the point?

– Crime, seems like people, all the time, want to talk to me about crime.

The rain gets heavier and, all at once, is a deluge.

– Want to talk about, Is it better now than it was before? Is the mayor doing all he can? Seems it was better when Rudy was around. With exceptions, of course. Shit happened even when big bad Rudy was sheriff around these parts. And then, some guy might chime in, Yeah, like remember that time? And guess what time he means?

Water is pouring down my body. I might as well be in the ocean.

– And even one of the guys at work one day pops out with, Hey, remember that guy went berserk, that guy you knew him? What the hell was that about?

The dusty ground has already turned to mud.

– So what I’m telling you here is that I think I’m noticing some things. A trend in conversations wherein people, some I know and others I don’t, are asking questions of me that frequently lead to you.

The rain stops and the sun comes out and hits my drenched body. And I tell Tim, fuck it, get your boss to give you a transfer and get the hell out of town. Now.

That’s what he did, got his boss to move him to his western operation. I sent money to cover moving expenses and whatnot, because it pays to take care of the only man in America that knows where you are. And that’s how Timmy ended up dealing grass in Las Vegas.

And I ended up being on edge every time I heard a Russian accent.

PEDRO SEES me walking up to The Bucket. I gesture at Mickey’s back and Pedro shrugs his shoulders. I lean on the bar next to Mickey. He looks up from my paper, smiles. It’s a pained smile, the smile of a man in the grips of a savage hangover.

– Good morning.

– Yeah. Look, no offense, man, but that’s my cup.

– Cup?

– That cup you’re drinking coffee from? I bought it in town, brought it all the way down here because I wanted a really big, heavy cup for my coffee.

He looks confused.

– I’m sorry, it was…

– And that’s my paper.

– These things, they were, you know, on the bar.

– Yeah, Pedro does that for me, has my stuff waiting for me. Because I live here and I pay him extra for it to be that way.

Pedro has his back turned to us, rotating my chorizo and stirring my eggs. His shoulders are shaking as he tries to keep from laughing. Mickey starts to slide the paper and coffee cup over to me.

– No, Mickey, that’s OK, just leave everything there.

Pedro is starting to lose it, little pops of laughter escaping from his mouth.

– You are sure? It is OK?

Puppy dog all over his face, he just wants to make me happy. Just to end the noise of my voice so his head will hurt a little bit less.

– Yeah, just leave it there.

He smiles, relaxes a little.

– Thank you. I am very embarrassed.

– Yeah, just leave it there, ’cause that’s also my swing you’re on and I’ll want my things right there when you get up so I can sit down.

Pedro gives in. Guffaws. Mickey gets tangled in the ropes again and almost falls from the swing. I grab his arm and direct him onto the next swing over.

– I am sorry. I did not know this was for you. I sat and I thought…

I sit. Still laughing, Pedro brings my plate, the tortillas, and a cheap plastic cup for Mickey. I stick a chorizo into a tortilla.

– Hangover?

– What? Yes. Hangover.

– Pedro, bring the guy a Modelo.

I finish making the little burrito and hand it to him.

– Eat this and drink that beer. Trust me, I know what to do to a hangover.

HE KEEPS his mouth shut this time and I pass him sections of the paper as I finish them. He eats the food I give him and drinks the beer and then the coffee and then I tell him to drink water for a few hours and he’ll be right as rain. He’s grateful as hell. He’s not really a bad guy, and it turns out he’s leaving tomorrow anyway. He’s planning to start heading north, but really wants to get over to Chichen Itza before he moves on.

– And then I must go home.

– School?

– Christmas. My mother must have me home for Christmas.

Christmas. Right. It’s December and Christmas is at the end of December. How did I forget that? But I know why I forgot it. Because I wanted to. I always used to go home for Christmas, too. And I don’t like to remember what it was like. How nice it was.

Before I know it, I’ve volunteered to give him a lift to the ruins tomorrow.

He insists on paying for breakfast and I let him. Then he takes his water bottle and walks off to loll in the sand and sweat out the rest of the hangover. Pedro picks up my plate and wipes the bar.

– He was asking about you.

– What?

– Before you got here.

– What?

– How long have you lived here. Where do you come from. Do you work.

Little shit bastard.

– So?

– So?

– So what did you say?

He looks at me and snorts through his nose.

– Cabron. I kept my mouth shut.

– Sorry, sorry, man.

– I don’t talk about you with no pinche tourist.

– Mea culpa, Pedro, it’s cool, I know you wouldn’t say anything.

I stick out my hand and he takes it.

– Si, si, but you have to watch that shit. I never talk about you.

– Claro.

Shaking his head, he starts scraping the grill. He never scrapes the grill. I light a smoke. The only way I can make up for insulting him will be to stay up late into the night while he gets drunk and we sing songs together and repledge our friendship. No relationship, no number of psycho girlfriends, can prepare you for how easy it is to hurt the feelings of a Mexican man.

I’m worrying about how to make it up to him, along with the prospect of playing “Am I really a Russian gangster?” with Mickey on a three-hundred-mile drive, when the boat pops up on the horizon and Leo drives it right up on the beach so it will be easier to lift out the Cuban with the huge machete gash in his thigh.

IT’S NOT like Mexican immigration has to fight a pitched battle to keep illegals from flooding the country, but what Leo and Rolf are up to is against the law and it would be best to keep a low profile. Mickey is dozing on the sand down by his tent; other than that, no one is on the beach yet. Pedro drove the dune buggy home last night and brought it back this morning, but it’s a rocky mile to his place and the Cuban has been bounced around plenty in the boat.

We have him on the bar. The other Cuban is holding tight to the tourniquet they made out of a belt and put at the top of his friend’s thigh. The Cuban’s foot is ice cold from lack of circulation. Fuck, his whole body is cold and clammy from shock.

– My place.

Pedro stays to get the bar ready for business, and Rolf takes care of the boat while I help Leo and the other Cuban carry the injured guy to my bungalow. Leo was one of the guys that I hired to build the place, but he hasn’t been inside since. No one but Pedro has been inside.