Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [19]
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.
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?