Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

I started to giggle and couldn’t stop.

Andy poked me in the ribs.

What’s so fucking funny? he whispered.

We’re smuggling knishes, I said, pointing at the Zabar’s bag. Andy laughed because I was laughing, but I don’t think he got the joke.

Would youse shut up back there and act your ages, Scotchy said angrily.

We drove on for a bit and when we were close, they stopped the car.

Here, boys, Scotchy said, and reached round and gave us each a pistol. They were huge, old-fashioned things from World War I.

Where did these come from? Fergal asked.

Need-to-know basis, boys, Bob said, annoyingly.

Scotchy, what’s the job? I asked, pretending that Bob didn’t exist.

The job, Bruce, for you is just to stand there and look menacing. Me and Bob are taking care of everything, Scotchy said, soothingly.

How are we going to get drugs back into the States? Smuggling is like ten years, you know, I said.

Ten years? Fergal sputtered.

Who said anything about drugs? Scotchy growled and looked angrily at Big Bob.

I never said a word, Big Bob whispered, unsure of himself.

Don’t you worry, Bruce, it’s all been thought of. This is going to go smooth as silk, Scotchy said, looking at Andy and Fergal in the mirror the whole time.

Bob was sweating but Scotchy looked calm, so maybe it would go ok.

They drove for another five minutes and stopped again.

We’re here, Big Bob muttered up from his map.

We’d halted in a poor neighborhood in the north end of town, right on the edge of a marsh. The road was a track and the houses were finished only on one side. They were two stories and seemed as if they’d been built in the last few months. Maybe they would look ok when they were painted and the marsh was drained and the road was better and Cancún got a planning board and Mexico got sustainable growth, improved infrastructure, and an end to one-party rule.

Are you sure this is it? Scotchy asked.

Aye, he’s drawn a wee bit in pen where the map ends. This is it, Bob said.

We all got out of the car. There was no one around. The houses didn’t even look occupied. They had no electricity or phone lines.

It’s a fucking slum, Fergal moaned.

It’s not, it’s a new development. Expansion, that’s what it is. They all start like that, Scotchy insisted.

It’s the wrong place, there’s nobody here, Andy said.

I think it’s the wrong place too, Fergal agreed.

Let me see the map, Scotchy said and grabbed it out of Bob’s hands.

It’s the fucking place, Bob said, sure wasn’t I in-

Whatever Bob was in was not to be discovered, because the aluminum house door opened and a voice said:

Señores .

Scotchy looked in triumph at Fergal and Andy and marched down the dirt path to the house. Bob turned to us.

Ok, boys, weapons in your trousers. You won’t need them; don’t do anything stupid. Be super cool. These boys don’t want any fuss. You hear me?

We nodded, and Andy said: I hear you.

We walked down the path to the house. There were tire tracks from several vehicles in the clay soil, and at the time I thought this was a bit odd. Tire tracks but no sign of a car. I didn’t think about it too much, though. We went inside the house. Dust was everywhere, and it smelled of resin, wood sealant, and tobacco smoke. Scotchy was in the front room with three Mexican guys in jeans and T-shirts. They were talking in English. Scotchy presented Big Bob, and they shook hands with him. We weren’t introduced. I leaned up against the wall. My throat ached from last night and all the dust in here wasn’t helping. Big Bob opened the shopping bag and brought out bundles of twenty-dollar bills. One of the Mexicans opened a satchel and gave it to Scotchy. He looked inside. There was white powder inside plastic bags. He gave it to Big Bob to check, but before Bob could do anything the side door burst open and two men in ski masks appeared with pump-action shotguns. They were yelling:

You are under arrest, you are arrested.

The Mexicans all produced guns and screamed at us to lie down on the floor.

A man appeared behind me and I tried to shove past him and make a break for it, but there was no chance. With infinite patience he blocked me and hit me on the head with his rifle butt.

The cell was very nice: new and concrete, and if you stood up and held on to the bars you could see out over Cancún and towards the sea. It contained an iron bed, a plastic-covered mattress, thin black woollen blankets, and a stainless steel toilet without a seat that lurked in the corner but worked well when I flushed it. It was all a bit dark, but clean. I paced twelve feet by eight feet, which wasn’t too bad at all.

When I woke it was night outside, and I was very disoriented, but soon I climbed up to the bars and stared out over the town. There didn’t seem anything else to do but go back to sleep, so I did. I lay down on the bed and kipped quite well, considering.

In the morning, the door opened and a very old guard came in with toilet paper and a stainless steel cup of water and tortillas with bean paste on them.

Buenos días , I said.

Buenos días , he said and laughed.

His teeth were terrible, but his grin was infectious and I found myself mirroring it.

Eat fast, I take away, quick, he said in heavily accented English.

I ate the tortillas, which were warm and spongy. The water was ice-cold and hit the spot.

He took the water cup and the tray and ripped me off about four sheets of toilet paper and went for the door. Another guard stood in the corridor with what I took to be a stun gun in case I tried anything silly.

Where are the others? I’m an Americano , I want a lawyer, I said anxiously.

The guard shrugged, didn’t reply, and closed the metal door behind him.

I sat down on the bed.

Jesus fuck, I muttered, and put my head in my hands. I sat for a long time and I think I might have gotten weepy a little. I cursed Scotchy for the eejit born of an eejit that he undoubtedly was. I yelled out Scotchy’s name, Andy’s name, all of their names. I yelled and yelled and banged the walls. I listened for answers, but I heard nothing. A few hours after the guard had gone I heard some tapping and I thought it might be a Darkness at Noon type of message or something, but I realized after ten minutes of eager listening that it was the plumbing in the ceiling above me.

I seemed to be alone in the whole cell block. Had the others escaped somehow? Or maybe they’d tried to shoot their way out and they were dead. I paced the cell and tried to stay calm. Panic was mounting inside me and I wasn’t sure if it was a good thing to let it out or not. Maybe I should.

I banged the floor and thumped the mattress and tried to lift the bed, but it was bolted down. I kicked at the toilet, but it was pretty indestructible too.

I want a fucking lawyer. I’ll have you all on fucking 60 Minutes , I screamed through the door.

I groaned. Every time I go abroad I end up in the bloody slammer. Saint Helena, here. I must be bloody jinxed. No, just an idiot. Trusting Scotchy with something as important as my entire future. I deserved it. Really.

I sat down on the floor and found myself laughing.

That glipe Scotchy. That dick Sunshine. Ten years we’d get for this. Fucking drug smuggling. I could protest ignorance. I mean, I really didn’t know anything about it all until that morning. I could volunteer to take a lie detector. I didn’t know anything. It was just bad luck.

Night came, and even after all my anxiety I slept well. The bed was extremely comfortable and the cell was cool. In fact, it was a lot nicer than my apartment in New York.