Six Bad Things (7 page)

I tell them how Mickey wanted to climb the pyramid even though it had started raining, how we went around back to look at the view, how he wanted to stand near the edge while I took his picture, how his foot slipped on the rain-slick stone, and how we reached for each other, our hands colliding rather than grasping, sending him tumbling down the steps. And Sergeant Morales rattles something in Spanish to Sergeant Candito, who looks at something in his notebook and rattles something to the translator, who turns to me and asks me if I could please tell them what that was about, the argument?

—Um, argument?

The translator says something in Spanish and Sergeant Candito answers and the translator turns back to me.

—The sergeants have a statement from a witness that you and your friend were arguing and they would like to know if you can tell them.

—That was nothing. I mean, we were arguing, but it was just about me wanting to get going and him wanting to stay longer. That’s all.

The translator translates and Morales looks at Candito and Candito looks at Morales and they both look at the translator, who shrugs his shoulders.

And they let me go.

Of course they let me go. I’m an American citizen of some apparent wealth who has chosen to live and spend that wealth in Mexico.

But they keep my passport.

Which means they don’t buy it.

And they don’t buy me, either.

I SIT at the bar. Pedro pops the top off a seltzer for me and I tell him that Mickey is dead. I don’t tell him the truth. This is not because I don’t trust him. I do. I don’t tell him the truth for the same reason I’ve never told him who I am and what I’m running from: to keep him the hell out of trouble.

Pedro finishes cleaning up, opens a beer for himself, and sits on the swing next to mine.

—Dead.

—As a door nail.

—Como?

—A door nail. It’s a turn of phrase.

—Sure.

He squeezes a wedge of lime into his beer.

—Nails that are special just for doors?

—I don’t know.

—What is so dead about them?

—I don’t know.

—Deader than… a coffin nail?

—I don’t know.

He nods, finishes his beer, crawls up onto the bar, and leans far over so he can pluck another from the nearly empty tub. He wobbles, almost falls, but I grab his belt and pull him back. Pedro slides onto his swing.

—Gracias. So what now?

—Nothing.

—They took your passport.

—It’s no big deal. The guy was clumsy, he fell, the cops will investigate, and it will be over.

I drink my seltzer and Pedro drinks his beer.

—But I’ve been thinking about taking a trip.

—Claro.

—Maybe you could talk to Leo, tell him I might want some help.

—Claro. Cuando?

—Soon.

—American time, si?

—Yeah.

—OK.

I help him dump the water from the ice tub and offer him a ride in the Willys. He declines and pedals off on the tricycle. I drive over to my bungalow. I take my groceries, the tape gun, and the cardboard box inside. Bud is restless and darts around the room when I come in. I can see a little pile of cat poop in the middle of the room. He never does that.

—Not getting enough attention these days, guy?

He looks at me like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, which I suppose is literally true, but he knows, he always fucking knows. I clean up the crap, open a can of cat food, and sit on the floor next to him while he eats.

—Better?

He makes a little rumble in his throat that I interpret as a yes, so I flip on the boom box and put in
Wish You Were Here.
“Shine On You Crazy Diamond” starts playing and I get to work.

Out to the back porch. I open the footlocker and grab the shovel. It’s developed a thin sheen of rust, like many of my tools. I should really keep them oiled, but I like the rust. It reminds me of old farm equipment piled in the yards of houses on the outskirts of my hometown.

Home.

I push that thought back down. Soon, but not yet, I can think about home.

I go back in, drop the shutters, and drag the bed into the middle of the room. I put a candle on the floor and feel around for the crack between the tiles.

WE HAD a great time building The Bucket and my bungalow, me and Pedro and Leo and a couple of their cousins. We hung out on the beach, working hard in the morning, taking a nice long siesta, then more work, then kicking a soccer ball around for an hour or two while the sun went down. Then everyone else would head home and I’d camp out to keep an eye on the tools and materials.

The Bucket was a breeze. We dug the holes for the pilings by hand, sank them, buried them, and built the roof frame. Then we built a box frame for the squared horseshoe of the bar, faced it, and anchored it to some four-by-fours we also sank in the sand. And that’s about all you want to do for a beach bar because the whole thing is gonna blow away every few years when a hurricane blasts through. The bungalow was a bit more involved. We hired a guy with a Cat to come down and drill our piling holes extra deep, framed the roof and floor, nailed plywood over the floor, and planked the walls. Then the pros came in.

The pros were three brothers, their father and grandfather, and about ten of their little kids. These are the guys who do the palm thatching. They came in, took one look at the roofs we’d framed, tore them apart, and put them back together. Then they spent two days walking around up there, bundling and tying palm fronds together in such a way that a trapeze artist could drop on them from five stories and wouldn’t break through. It was cool. The plumbing and sewage guys came during the next week and put in the water tank, toilet, sink, shower, and septic tank. And all that was left was the tiling, which I did myself.

I FIND the crack.

I keep a flat, stainless steel bottle opener on my keychain, but I don’t use it for opening bottles. It’s there for one purpose only, and this is its first time doing the job. I slip it into the crack, flex it, and pull slowly upward. The edge of a square of tile and plywood lifts away. I wedge my toe against it before it can fall back. I drop the bottle opener, get a fingertip grip on the panel, lift it up, and set it off to the side. Now comes the fun part: standing in a space not quite a yard square and shoveling sand in the dark.

I first dug this hole on one of the nights I spent alone on the beach. We’d staked out the frame for the bungalow, but hadn’t started building it yet. I picked the spot where I planned to put the bed, dug a hole, and got a big box from the bed of the Willys. Then I lowered it into the hole and filled it in. After the bungalow was done, I built the secret panel into the floor. Of course, I didn’t realize then that when the time came to dig out the box I’d be doubled over with my back in knots, rapping my knuckles on the edge of the hole in the floor with every stroke of the shovel. It takes awhile.

The shovel clunks into the top of the box. It’s one of those indestructible packing cases rock bands use to haul their equipment in. I get down on my knees to clear the sand away from the lid and twist and flip the clasps. The top pops off and there’s a Hefty bag inside. I squat, grab the top of the bag, heave it out of the box, up through the hole, and into the bungalow. I put the top back on the box and jerk the handle side to side, wiggle it free of the sand, and into the bungalow. Then I push the sand back into the hole, which leaves me with an only slightly smaller hole because the box is no longer in it. I end up slithering around under the bungalow, scooping sand to the hole to fill it in. Once again, it takes awhile.

When I’m done with the sand I put the plug back in the hole in the floor, push the bed into place, and open the Hefty bag. The money belt is on top, prepacked with a hundred grand American. I put that to the side. Underneath is a Ziploc bag. I put that to the side. I’m not ready yet. Beneath that is a huge block of plastic-wrapped money. And seeing it for the first time in around two years, I remember just how confusing dollars can be when there are over four million of them together in one place.

You really do get more for your dollar in Mexico. After I leased my beach property, built my bungalow and The Bucket, and put a nice chunk in a bank up in town, I still have just about four million right here.

My mad money.

And I am mad now, make no mistake, I am mad as hell.

THERE WAS a moment as Mickey fell away from me, arms outstretched, hands grasping, where I might easily have grabbed him and pulled him to safety. But I didn’t try. I watched his body twist in the air and his arms flail as he tried to brace himself for the first impact. He crashed against the steps and his head jerked and slapped the stones. He bounced and tumbled all the way down, blood pinwheeling from his body.

And right there, I answered the old question,
What would you do if someone threatened your family?

I’d kill him.

I PUT the money back into the packing case, cut the cardboard box so that it lies flat on the floor, then place the case on top of it. I wrap the case in cardboard and enough reinforced packing tape that you’d have to saw your way through. That done, I get into the shower and rinse off all the sweat and sand stuck to my body. Finally, when all the cleaning is done and the box is standing near the door and I’ve tugged a sarong around my body, I take the lantern out onto the porch, light a cigarette, and open the Ziploc.

The first thing I pull out is the police photo of the bruises on Yvonne’s dead body. Nowhere to go from there but up.

I haven’t looked at the photo for years. I haven’t needed to. I can see it whenever I want to, just by closing my eyes. Now, I look at it, study it, close my eyes and see the same pattern of bruises flashed against the inside of my eyelids. I will never look at it again. With my eyes still closed, I tear the photo into eighths. I open my eyes, put the pieces in my ashtray, and set a match to them.

—Sorry, baby.

But I don’t really need to apologize. Not to her. Not for this. She would have approved of this gesture, would have done it herself long ago. Yvonne Ann Cross, not one for carrying ghosts around.

Next are three business cards.

First: Detective Lieutenant Roman. Roman, the hero cop gone bad who orchestrated the slaughter at Paul’s Bar. A snapshot from my memory: a pile of bodies, my friends, on the floor.

Second: Ed. Brother of Paris. The DuRantes. Bank robbers. Killers. A snatch of brain-movie: In their car, bullets from my gun erasing Ed’s face. Paris’s last word, his brother’s name.

I toss the cards on the tiny fire and look at the third.

Third: A glossy black card with the name Mario embossed in gold gothic script. I smile, remember pot smoke and disco music in the back of his Lincoln as he drove me to the airport and the plane that brought me to Mexico. Nice guy, Mario. I burn him.

I take an envelope from the bag. Inside: the ID and credit cards of John Peter Carlyle, a man who never was. The custom-made identity I came to Mexico with. I won’t be able to travel in Mexico as the man I’ve been for two years, not while the cops are looking into Mickey’s death. My real name isn’t an option. But I might be able to get away with being Carlyle again. I flip open the passport, look at the photo. I’m twenty pounds heavier now, an even two hundred, bulked up through the shoulders and chest from all the swimming, but with a little roll of rice and beans around the middle. The hair that was buzzed and bleached in this photo is now a sun-lightened brown and collar length. Once clean-shaven, I now have a short beard. And the tattoos. Tattoos scattered across my chest and down my arms, tattoos that were meant to help hide me, but have become a way of marking the passage of time. I don’t look anything like this photo. I can cut my hair and shave so I look more like Carlyle, but I will also look more like the man I was, the man wanted for murder. Fuck it, the passport’s date of issue is years old, there’s no reason I shouldn’t look different. I stuff it and the rest of Carlyle back into his envelope and set him aside. There’s only one piece of paper left in the Ziploc.

United Flight #84
12/20/00
Depart: New York JFK 8:25 AM
Arrive: Oakland 11:47 AM

A ticket home, old and out of date. It had been meant to get me there for Christmas. I didn’t make it that time, maybe this time I will. It burns quickly.

I FILL out the International Airway Bill, stopping for a moment when I get to the boxes where I’m supposed to write in the total value for carriage and customs. If I value this thing at less then two hundred bucks, it may very well zip past customs with nary a look. Then again, in the U.S.A.’s current state of heightened security, some clever boy could notice that a guy in Mexico has paid more to ship this box than the stated value of the contents. And that is an invitation to have this thing ripped open by people wearing yellow biohazard suits. Option two: value it at a couple grand, fill out all the supporting documentation, have it go through customs the old-fashioned way. Of course, this involves someone picking it up at a post office in the destination city to pay the duty fees. A great way to get ambushed by Feds. Tricky. This is why I’m at the Pakmail in Cancún, talking to Mercedes. She is going to help me ship four million dollars to America via FedEx.

I finish the Airway Bill, putting the value at two thousand and listing the contents as books. I take a piece of paper from my wallet. It lists the titles of a number of difficult-to-find to semi-rare Mexican art and history books I’ve been collecting. The titles, that is, not the books. I write those titles on the Pro Forma Invoice. To make things extra special tidy, I also have a Certificate of Origin that I had notarized earlier when I stopped by my bank to pick up a few things.

I lift the box onto the scale and Mercedes makes a little woof sound when it tips in at over sixty kilos. She makes the sound again when I hand her the Airway Bill and she sees the destination. Like most service workers in Cancún, her English is good. She says everything with a little song. I like it.