• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

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