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—When?

—Tomorrow?

Leo shakes his head.

—No, man, too soon.

—Day after?

He squints, stares out at the water.

—Yeah, I think so.

—How much?

He shrugs.

—For me, nada. But something for Rolf, some other people . . .

—How much?

—Ten thousand U.S.

I go inside, come back out and hand him twenty thousand.

—And ten for you.

He looks at the money.

—I don’t want that.

—Leo.

—Fuck you, I don’t want it.

—Leo.

He peels off ten grand and tosses the rest back at me. I set it on the porch next to his knee.

—Leo, it’s gonna be dangerous.

—Chinga! What do I fucking do for a living, maricone?

—More dangerous than that, it could get. People, the people who are looking for me might come around. You might have to hide for a little while if they do.

—Hide? Fucking!

He starts spewing Spanish, stuff about me and my mother and pigs and what I can do with my money and what he’d do to anyone who came around and thought they could make him hide. He runs out of steam after a couple minutes, drains the rest of his beer, starts to say something else, stops himself, and throws the empty bottle toward the water. We hear it thunk down in the sand.

I get up and walk over, pick it up and bring it back. I sit down and nudge the money closer to him with my toe.

—If they come. They’ll be killers if they come, Leo. Take the money. I’m a pussy little girl and it will make me feel better if you take the money.

He snorts. I start talking in a high voice.

—Take the money, Leo. You can burn it later. Just let me see you take it. Make me feel better because I’m such a mujer.

He picks up the money and walks into the darkness.

—Be at my brother’s at sunrise, day after tomorrow. And learn fucking Spanish, man. A mujer is a woman. A niña is a little girl.

WHEN PEDRO shows up the next morning I’m already at The Bucket, with the grill fired up and the coffeepot gurgling. I help him unload the ice and a couple cases of beer, then tell him to sit down. He sits on one of the swings.

I heat up some refried beans, throw a couple of the tortillas he brought from home on the grill, and fry two eggs. I smear the beans onto a plate, put the hot tortillas on top, then the eggs, then pour his wife’s salsa over the whole thing. I put it in front of him and pour his coffee in my cup with lots of milk and sugar like he likes it. He looks at the plate of huevos rancheros, and then at me.

—I had breakfast two hours ago.

I SPENT close to a year sitting at Pedro’s bar doing my drunken gringo act. He was pretty patient with me, I have to say. Some of that was because I was a great tipper, but we also hit it off from the start.

I had been in town for a couple weeks and spent most of the time in my room, growing facial hair, drinking, and lying low while news about me had a chance to die down. One night I lurched over to the main drag, Calle Cinco, and ended up getting my first tattoo: a heart wrapped in a banner that said MOM & DAD.

Afterward I started walking toward the darkness at the end of the street. That’s where I found Pedro, working at a little patio restaurant with no one in it. I took a stool and he asked me what I wanted. There was a huge menu of drinks hanging behind the bar.

—Surprise me.

He fills the glass with ice, pours 151 over it and pineapple juice and orange juice and almond syrup and Coco Lopez and grenadine, shakes it, floats some dark rum on top, takes a very long straw from a box on the bar, cuts it in half and sticks both halves into the drink, and puts it in front of me on a little napkin. I pick it up, the napkin sticks to the bottom of the glass. I take a sip.

—Wow. That’s good.

—Mai tai.

—No kidding. You know, I’ve never actually had one before.

I take another sip.

—This is great.

He points at the bandage on my shoulder.

—Tattoo?

—Yeah.

—What?

I set the drink down and peel up the bandage. He reads it.

—Mom and dad.

—I love my mom and dad.

—Bueno.

He lifts the sleeve of his shirt and shows me his shoulder: MAMA y PAPA.

—I love my mom