Six Bad Things (6 page)

Great.

—But then, I did not know anything until later. When he was sick and his friends would come over to talk “business” at the house where my mother had put in the hospital bed and hired the nurse, and I would come home sometimes on the weekend to visit. But they were not really talking, you know, “business” with him. They drank vodka and told stories and tried to make him laugh, but all of them always ended up crying. But in a way that was good, you know?

The jungle presses right up against the two-lane blacktop. We’ve passed a tour bus and a couple trucks and an abandoned VW Bug. There will be two toll stops and one gas station between here and Chichén Itzá. After that, nothing until we join the regular road at Kantunil.

—Sometimes I would listen to the stories and always there was the one that they would tell. The story about you and how you killed so many of their men and stole their money and they would curse you and drink to your death and curse you some more. And they would then talk about where you had run to and what they would do when they found you. And, but, you know, they would almost always say something about you in Russian that would mean you were a sly, crafty, tough bastard and that they would have done what you had done if they could have, but that they would kill you anyway.

Every so often there are little dirt trails cutting off the main road and into the jungle. These lead to small rancheros that are, almost without exception, abandoned. People buy these little plots of land hoping to have a place in driving distance to the beach, but the jungle always kicks their ass. Turn your back on it and the jungle is at your back door. Any one of these little roads would do. I could say I needed to pull off and take a leak.

—So of course, you know, when I came to Mexico I knew your story and I had many times heard my father’s friends talk about you and that they thought Mexico was a place you could be, and I had seen your picture and a picture of your cat from the TV. But I did not come here to look for you, but I also remembered to look a little, because it would be stupid not to. But not for them. I don’t look for them, for my father’s friends and their “business.” I would not do that to you, tell them where you are so they can kill you, but I am not so stupid that I do not want something, you know, to not tell them. So the million dollars is a good deal for both of us because you will still have so much and it will be so much more than they would give me.

I spot one of the trails up ahead, slow the Willys, and start to pull off.

—What?

—I have to go.

—Me too.

I drive a hundred yards to a partial clearing. Sure enough, there’s a cinderblock house, abandoned and being disassembled by the jungle. I shut off the engine, climb out, and undo my fly. But I don’t have to go. I hear Mickey get out the other side. A groan as he stretches, a zip and then splashing. I button up, turn, and there’s Mickey, his back to me, watering a tree. There’s a piece of broken cinderblock right at my feet.

I get back behind the wheel. Mickey gets in next to me. I start the engine.

—Hang on.

I get back out, turn my back, and undo my fly again. Because now that I know I’m not gonna kill this guy, that I can’t kill him, I can pee. I get back in the truck. Mickey smiles.

—Missed some?

—It crawled back up.

—I hate that.

—Yep.

I steer the truck back onto the highway, going west. I’ll take Mickey to Chichén Itzá. I’ll climb the temple steps with him and walk around the ruins. And when it’s time to go I’ll tell him the truth, that the money’s not in Mérida, it’s back at my place. I’ll take him home, give him the million, and send him on his way. Then I’ll start looking for a new place to hide, a new country. I’ll do it that way, take the chance, because I don’t want to be a murderer again. I don’t want to be a maddog.

A COUPLE hours later we pull off at the exit for Piste, drive a couple miles of open road and then through the town itself. Every time we have to slow for a speed bump, kids mob the car with mass-produced Mayan souvenirs. I ease the truck through them while Mickey laughs. On the other side of town it’s another mile or so to the National Park where the ruins are. I take a ticket from the parking guy, find a spot, and turn off the engine, killing a mariachi-rock version of “Twist and Shout.”

The rain is coming down hard and people are coming out of the park, climbing into their cars and refilling the tour buses. I look at the sky, look at Mickey.

—Might not stop for awhile.

—I like it, let’s go.

He reaches in his pack and pulls out his poncho and rain hat. I do not have a poncho or a rain hat. We get out of the truck and I am soaked through before we get halfway to the main building. Once we are safely under cover the rain slackens to a gentle drizzle. Fucking Caribbean. I have to buy Mickey his ticket. He tells me he owes me. We go through the turnstile, past the gift shop, the bookshop, the coffee shop, through another turnstile where they snap on our wristbands, and then into the park itself. You walk through a little tunnel of trees. Into a clearing, and there’s Kukulkan. And you know, it is pretty cool.

I’m not big on sightseeing, but I’ve been out here a couple times in the last few years, enough to pick up some details, and now I play tour guide for Mickey. He wants to save the climb up the temple steps for last, so we start with the Ball Court. We stand at one end and look down the length of the stone stadium. Mickey nods his head.

—Big.

—Two hundred and seventy-two feet by one hundred and ninety-nine.

—Big.

We walk down the court and stand under one of the stone hoops mounted at midpoint on either side of the Court. Mickey leaps and tries to touch the bottom of the rim, but can’t get close.

—That is where they put the heads through to score?

—Nah, they used a rubber ball.

—I thought heads?

—No. The Toltecs, when they took over, there’s some evidence that they might have sacrificed the losing team.

—And they played like soccer.

—Any part of your body but your hands.

—See, soccer rules. Much better than American football.

I can say it now.

—I don’t like football. I like baseball.

—See, you know, I know this about you also. But still, soccer is also better than baseball.

I turn my back and walk toward the rest of the ruins.

WE DO the Temple of Warriors and the Thousand Columns and the smaller features of the main clearing, and then Mickey is ready for the climb. Kukulcan, aka The Temple, aka The Castle, aka The Pyramid, aka El Castillo: it’s why people come here. The seventy-nine-foot ziggurat built over a smaller pyramid that is still housed inside. There’s debate over whether it was built by the Mayans or the Toltecs, but they both seem to have used it as a place of worship and sacrifice, and also as a calendar of some kind. There are ninety-one steps on each of the four sides and a small temple on top representing a single giant step. Do the math: three hundred sixty-five steps altogether. Neat. There’s more! Kukulcan was a golden serpent god, and on both the spring and autumnal equinoxes, shadows that look like writhing snake bodies play on two of the staircases. No shit. But mostly, mostly, it’s a long fucking climb up a stone staircase on something around a forty-degree incline. A climb that will be made in the rain today. Rain that is getting harder.

Mickey trots up, of course. I keep a pretty brisk pace, but, having a stronger sense of my own mortality, I take time to plant each foot firmly on the rain-slick steps, gravity tugging at my back the whole way up. We’re climbing the west stairs, which have been restored and even have a handrail running up the center. The north stairs have also been restored, but only have a rope strung from top to bottom. The east and south faces have been allowed to erode so tourists can get a sense of the condition the place was in when it was found. I pass a couple people crawling down backward on all fours, but nobody going up.

Mickey is waiting for me at the top, arms thrust up in a V. He wants me to take a picture of him like that with the jungle in the background. I do. A few people are up here, hiding just inside the temple, waiting for the rain to ease off before they go down. Mickey wants to go inside the temple and see the Jaguar Throne.

—You go ahead.

—No, but you must go with me.

—I’ve seen it.

—You can show me then.

—Look, it’s tiny in there and I don’t really like tiny places. Besides, it’s smelly.

He steps a little closer to me, still smiling.

—No, but, you know, you really must go with me because I do not want you to be alone.

Jesus H.

—Mickey, can I have a word with you?

We edge around the outside of the temple, away from most of the people, to the east face of the pyramid. Looking out over the endless jungle.

—What is it?

—I’m not going anywhere. What I am going to do is keep our bargain. I’m gonna give you a million dollars to keep your mouth shut because I don’t want to die. I’m not looking to ditch you, so just go poke around inside and then we can look at the Observatory if you want and then we’ll drive back to the beach and I’ll give you your money.

He squints at me.

—We will go to Mérida and you will get me the money.

Sigh.

—The money’s not in Mérida, it’s at my place.

—You said Mérida.

—I lied.

—Why?

—Because.

His mouth tightening into a straight line.

—You wanted to take me to Mérida, for what? To do something. To do something to me.

—Look.

—No! You cannot fuck with me. I know what this is, what you were trying. My father was in “business,” I know about “business.” You were thinking to kill me.

And funny as it may be, him saying it fills me with shame.

—Yeah. Yeah, I was.

—Fucking, fuck. I cannot trust you.

—Let’s just.

—I will tell you what we will just do. You, you will take me to the money and you will give me two million. No, you will give me
three
million.

He’s getting loud and spittle is flying from his lips. I look around to see if we’ve drawn an audience, but the rain is letting off and the other people are moving to the north and west sides to climb down.

—Mickey.

—Do not call me Mickey. That is for my friends. You now call me Mikhail, like my father named me.

—You need to settle down, and we’ll work this out.

—It is worked out, you will give me three million or I will tell where you are.

I can keep my cool here. I know I can.

—You’re going to get a lot of money, but I will not give you three million. I can’t.

He throws up his arms in disgust.

—You are wanting, you know, to bargain with me? You are selfish. Yes, because this is not just about you.

—What do you mean?

—A selfish shit dog of a man.

—What do you mean, not just about me?

—My father’s friends, they are not stupid, they know where your family lives. And you, selfish man, want to bargain with your family’s life?

—No, I don’t.

And I push Mickey down the rubbled east staircase of the Temple of Kukulcan. The first human sacrifice here in nearly a thousand years.

ON THE way home I stop in town to pick up a few things at the store. I go to the Chedraui, Mexico’s version of Costco. I find the tape gun and reinforced packing tape I want, but none of the cardboard boxes they have for sale are big enough. I grab some cat food and a few other things, then go outside and pull around to the loading dock. They have a big pile of discarded boxes and the guys let me take my pick.

It’s after ten when I get to The Bucket. There must have been a couple folks hanging out late because Pedro’s just locking up the booze. I turn off the Willys and walk over with a huge sack of limes from the Chedraui.

—Sorry I’m late.

He takes the limes and stuffs them into one of the cabinets.

—No problema.

—Everything OK today?

—Si.

He looks at the Willys.

—You dropped off the Russian?

—Yeah. I dropped him off.

IT TOOK over an hour for the Federales to show up.

In the meantime the local police throw a tarp over Mickey and keep me sitting on the steps next to him. They don’t shut down the park, just wave curious tourists away from the body, and share their Boots cigarettes with me because I left mine out in the truck.

Over the years the reputation of the Mexican police force has taken a beating. Everybody has heard stories of Mexican traffic cops scamming tourists for
mordida,
planting pot on unsuspecting kids on spring break, and the notorious involvement of the military in the international drug trade. And most of it is just plain true.

These guys get paid next to shit to do shit work and are given shitty equipment with which to do it. What’s the worst job in the world? Mexican cop. So I wouldn’t be surprised if the Federales who show up to question me turn me upside down and start shaking to see how much cash falls out of my pockets. Instead, they turn out to be honest, hardworking cops just trying to do the job.

Sergeants Morales and Candito are appallingly young, neither can be more than twenty-two, but they seem quite good at what they do. Which may be unfortunate for me. Their English isn’t good enough to make up for my Spanish, so we conduct our interview through a translator. One of the tour guides from the park.

We sit in a small room in the park’s administration building. Morales and Candito light Marlboros and give me one and the tour guide lights one of his cheap Alitas. The room chokes with smoke and they start asking questions about me and Mickey.

I tell them I just met Mickey a couple days ago and don’t really know much about him. I tell them how I offered him a ride on my way to Mérida. They ask me why I was going to Mérida and I tell them I was just going up for a couple days to eat at one of my favorite restaurants and do a little shopping. They ask me what I do for a living and I tell them I’m retired. They observe that I seem youthful to be retired and I tell them I made a certain amount of money on the stock market before the American economy folded. All of which is consistent with my FM2 immigration documents, U.S. passport, and the other ID that Leo supplied me with two years ago. Then they ask me what happened.