Six Bad Things Part 2

--But we like Americans also, but here they are always so drunk.

--I don't drink.

Her toe grazes the jug.

--Except the water.

--I like the water.

--And you smoke.

--Do you want one?

--No.

She rocks in the hammock.

--Do you want to smoke with us? With me?

She takes a small baggie out of her pocket and shows it to me. I can see papers, a little chunk of hash, a tobacco pouch. I haven't been high in months, but it's not like the booze. There's no rule . . .

--Sure.

She smiles, and wobbles around in the hammock getting herself balanced cross-legged.

--Something flat?

I toss her my book. She looks at the t.i.tle before putting it in her lap.

--Steinbeck. I read for school, The Grapes of Wrath, about American farm laborers and the Great Depression.

--Good book.

--I liked it.

She takes a rolling paper from the bag and sprinkles tobacco into it. I s.h.i.+ft uncomfortably on my chair. Watching a pretty girl roll a smoke. Something inside me shakes its head.

--Before, I asked about the tattoo. The lines. What are they for?

The tobacco is spread evenly and she starts to grate hash over it, tiny flecks falling into the European-style joint. There are things I don't like to remember, things I mostly forget.

--They're things I don't want to forget.

--What things?

--Things I did. Bad things.

--You've done only six bad things in your life? You are very good, then.

--These were very bad.

She's rolling the joint between her fingers now, rolling it out smooth, tucking in the edge of the paper, pinching it with her thumbs. She runs her tongue across the glue strip, rolls her thumbs upward, spinning the whole thing into a tight, experienced joint, then pops the whole number in her mouth, covering its length with the thinnest film of her saliva. She holds it out to me, eyes sparkling.

--What kind of very bad things?

On cue, "Ain't No Suns.h.i.+ne" starts to play.

In New York, four years ago, a woman lays spread-eagle on a table, her body covered with bruises. Dead.

--You should go.

--Como?

--I really think you should leave now.

The edge in my voice. She still has her arm extended, the joint offered to me.

--Que pasa? Is there something?

--Go away. I want you to go away.

My body starting to tremble.

--You are sick? Can I?

--Get the f.u.c.k out of here. Get the f.u.c.k off my porch. Go back to your f.u.c.king friends.

Keeping my voice as steady and quiet as possible. Watching her flinch back from the first obscenity. Struggling out of the hammock, all her grace disappeared in the face of my abuse.

--Just get the f.u.c.k away from me.

Stumbling off the porch and running away, across the sand to the safety of the fire as I pick up the water jug and fling it into the darkness after her.

I kill the lamp, walk through the door over to the boom box, kick it to the floor, and the song ends. I go around the room, pulling the rods that drop the storm shutters, close and lock both doors. Bud is hiding under the bed.

--That's right, cat! Better f.u.c.king hide, know what's good for you. f.u.c.king cat! f.u.c.king cat! Nothing would have happened, nothing without you. You! Stupid! f.u.c.king! Cat!

I'm screaming now. Bud is terrified. I tear the back door open and run. I run across the twenty yards of sand to the tree line where the jungle begins and then I run through the jungle, tripping and falling a dozen times before I huddle in the roots of a tree, s.h.i.+vering and sobbing, hugging the trunk.

Having been reminded of Yvonne who liked to roll her own cigarettes, and who is dead because of me. Having been reminded of the six men I've killed, two by accidents of a sort and four in cold blood. And crouched here all night long, wretched and sobbing, I never once feel sorry for myself. Because I'm a maddog killer and I deserve everything I get.

THE FRIEND'S name was Russ. He gave me the cat to watch and then he disappeared and then guys started showing up and hurting me and killing my friends because Russ had failed to let me in on a key piece of information. He had failed to tell me that there was a key hidden in the bottom of Bud's cage, a key that unlocked a storage unit that contained a bag that contained four-and-a-half million ill-gotten, whistle-clean dollars.

Still, things turned out a f.u.c.k of a lot better for me than for Russ. He ended up dead from having his head beat in with a baseball bat. That's a fact I know for certain. I know because I was on the other end of the bat when it happened. I didn't really mean to kill him. My reason was fogged at the time. A barroom full of my friends had just been machine-gunned to death. Anyway, he wasn't the last guy I ever killed.

Or the first.

IN THE morning I go back to the bungalow. I pick up the boom box and the spilled CDs and pop the shutters open. The Spanish girls' camp is gone and the area has the look of having been broken up quickly in the dark. Sorry, girls. So sorry.

This isn't easy. Living isn't easy. But the less I expose myself to life, the easier it is. The less chance there is that something might remind me of who I am. Boozing made it easier, but I don't want to booze anymore. Because it shouldn't be easy. With the things that happened, the things I did, life shouldn't be easy. So last night is a reminder: keep your life small, keep the people in your life few, and keep them in front of you. Because life isn't easy. And you can lose control of it in an instant.

Bud watches me from the bed until I come over and sit down next to him. Then he climbs into my lap, stretches, and rubs the top of his head against my chin.

--Sorry, Buddy. You're a good cat. Not your fault, I know that.

He jumps off the bed and walks over to the cabinet where his food is. I take the hint and get off my a.s.s to feed him.

--Yeah, I know, apologies are like a.s.sholes, right? Want to make me feel better, feed me.

I leave him to eat and go into the little bathroom. It's just a tiled chamber with a showerhead at one end and a small commode at the other. A rain tank with a filter unit is on a small tower right outside. That takes care of my was.h.i.+ng-water needs, and Leo brings me a few five-gallon jugs of drinking water every week.

Where I really luxuriated when I had this place built was the septic tank. That cost a pretty penny, as does getting it pumped. But, trust me, when you grow up with indoor plumbing, you are simply not prepared for the places most people in the world have to c.r.a.p.

I wash up and find several cuts on my arms, legs, and feet from my run through the jungle. I sterilize those and take care of them with a few Band-Aids. Then I go for my morning swim, get my ears clogged so that I have to do the cigarette trick, put on shorts and a guayabera s.h.i.+rt, lock up, and walk over to The Bucket, where I find Mickey already sitting on my swing, drinking from my coffee cup, and reading my paper. And I start to remember very clearly just what it feels like when you really want to kill a man.

I MADE that call to Tim back in August. I'd been going out to the pay phone by the highway every three months to call him at home. He'd let me know what was up, if the cops were still poking around. And they poked. I mean, in the forty-eight hours I spent running around Manhattan getting chased, the death toll reached fourteen. At the time, it was a pretty impressive number. Then some really f.u.c.ked-up people rammed a couple airplanes into these tall buildings in New York and I dropped off the radar.

So things had been quiet for awhile. That s.h.i.+t 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. s.h.i.+t 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 h.e.l.l 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, f.u.c.k it, get your boss to give you a transfer and get the h.e.l.l 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 gra.s.s 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 embarra.s.sed.

--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 . . .