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—Yes, I understand. With my father’s “business,” there were things I could not talk about.

—Right. Good.

I get up and walk to the door and peek back inside.

—But, sometimes, people would, you know, talk anyway. And I would hear things.

—Uh-huh.

Both Cubans are squeezed onto the bed, asleep.

—Stories.

—Yeah.

I should have told Leo to hit a pharmacia in town for some antibiotics.

—When we go to Chichén Itzá tomorrow?

—Yeah?

We should be getting them into him now.

—You should bring a million dollars with you.

I turn from the window.

—Otherwise, I will tell my father’s “business” partners where you are with their money and your cat.

I look down. There are droplets of blood on my feet, sand stuck to them. I rub my feet together to grind them off.

—We’ll have to go to Mérida, to the bank. My safety deposit boxes are there.

HE STILL wants to stop at Chichén Itzá to see the Mayan ruins. Guy’s banking on a million at the end of the road and he wants to get some snapshots from the top of Kukulkan. Whatever.

I turn north onto Mexico 307 heading for 180 West, the toll road outside of Cancún. I stop at one of the Pemex stations on the highway and gas up. Mickey’s not talking, still waking up. It’ll take about an hour to get to Cancún, another two or three to Chichén Itzá.

We swoop onto the 180. There’s hardly any traffic. I put the pedal down and open the Willys up a little to clean it out. It’s a 1960 Utility Wagon. A previous owner chopped the roof off and installed a ragtop. I bought it when I moved to the beach; had Baja tires put on because the trail floods out at least a couple times every month. I don’t really drive it much. I used to not drive, period. Not since the time in high school when I rammed my Mustang into a tree and killed my best friend. Rich. I used to have nightmares about Rich. But that was a long time ago. And I’ve killed more people since then.

Mickey’s waking up and becoming his chatty self.

—This place, I love it, you know.

—Huh.

—The whole peninsula, jungle, all the way to the beaches. It is beautiful. I started in Mexico City, you know, and that was wonderful, but very much like Manhattan, but if it were always hot. And then, I went to Guadalajara and to Puerto Vallarta and around the coast to Acapulco and east to Oaxaca and then into Guatemala and Belize and then up to Quintana Roo and the jungle and the beaches and the Caribbean and it is the most beautiful thing that I have ever found, and also very lucky for me, I think, because that is where I found you.

He wants me to know it’s nothing personal.

—And I did not come down here to look for you, you know. I wanted to see Mexico and get drunk on beaches and fuck women, but I had heard the stories.

—Tell me about the stories.

—Oh.

He starts to laugh.

—Oh, are they pissed at you. My father, when he was still alive and in “business,” I can remember I was at school and came home to their house for a visit to see my mother. And my father, he was very angry. Stomping, slamming, cursing. And he said your name! And, you know, I had heard your name because this had just happened with all the people being killed and your picture was in the newspapers and on the TV and I was living in Manhattan for school and I was very scared of you. Really. Everyone I knew was scared. And then I go home, out of the city until the killing stops, and I go to my parents and my father is cursing your name. And many people were cursing you, but this was, he was cursing you like he would curse me when he got angry, like you did something to hurt him.

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