Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [29]
—Gracias, no, Ofi. We got to split. Andele muchachos big time.
I look at all the wonderful food and smile at her.
—Bonita, bonita. Muy bien. I’m so sorry. Gracias.
She nods.
Rolf is getting ready to grab something else off the table. She pushes him away and starts packing food in a plastic bag for us. Pedro puts down his cup and stands.
—Leo?
Rolf waves his hand.
—He’s goose-chasing the cops, he’ll be fine.
Pedro shakes his head. Ofelia finishes and hands me the bag of food.
—Gracias.
She puts her hands on my shoulders, pulls my face down close to her mestizo features, and kisses me on the cheek. Rolf grabs me and pulls me toward the door. Pedro follows us. We’re halfway out when he puts a hand on my shoulder and points at Bud, still in my arms.
—Amigo.
—Right.
I hold Bud up so I can look at his face.
—OK, Buddy, time to go.
I hand him to Pedro. He curls up in his arms and starts purring. And that’s that.
Pedro reaches into his pocket, takes something out, hands it to me, then turns and walks back into the house. Rolf hustles me to the buggy. I look back. Through the screen door I can see Pedro’s three kids running into the room screaming.
—Ay, gato!
Good luck, cat.
Rolf fires up the buggy and guns it onto the highway as I take the holy medal Pedro gave me and loop it around my neck. Christopher, patron saint of travelers.
WE’RE HEADED down 184, the local highway that cuts across most of the peninsula. Rolf is driving with his knees, both hands in his lap, trying to eke flame from a Bic to light a joint in the roaring wind of the open buggy. He gets the doobie going and takes a hit.
—Voilà!
He offers it to me, I decline and he keeps at it, smoking it like a cigarette.
—Dude, check the bag, man, see if Ofi packed us any breakfast bread.
I dig one of the sugared rolls out of the bag and hand it to him.
—Thanks.
—So, Rolf.
—Yeah?
Crumbs fly from his lips, he’s got the roll in one hand and the joint in the other as he pulls around a slow-moving pickup, passing it before a blind curve on the two-lane road.
—I have this thing about cars and speeding.
—Don’t worry, dude, I’m a good driver.
—Right now you aren’t inspiring much confidence, and seeing as how this jalopy has no seat belts, I was hoping you might slow the fuck down.
—Tranquilo, muchacho. No problem, man.
He decelerates.
—Thanks. So?
—Yeah?
—What’s the plan?
—The plaaaaan. The plan is beautiful. You are going to love the plan.
—And?
—OK, it’s total secret-agent style, the stuff I really love. None of that two-drunk-Cubans-in-a-boat shit. We are on our way to Campeche.
He draws out the last syllable: Campechaaaaaay.
—Actually, before Campeche, we’ll pull off to this place called Bobola.
—What’s there?
—Leo.
—Leo?
—Got to have Leo. He’s the man who knows the people. If I try to deliver you? No go.
—Yeah, but last time I saw him he was getting chased by a couple cops.
—He’ll get rid of the Federales and borrow Pedro’s car. He’s probably at their place right now digging into that food.
Nice thought.
—So where does Leo take us to?
—The Campeche airport. You afraid of flying, too?
—No.
—Good. I’ve seen this plane and you don’t want to be afraid of flying. So this guy with the plane will fly you across the gulf to Veracruz. There, Pedro has a guy, an American with an excursion boat. He’ll take you on, put together crew papers for you and everything, and take you back to his homeport.
—Which is?
—Corpus Christi, U.S.A., man. I know it sounds weird, but there’s actually some pretty good surf in Texas. The general vibe in that state is all fucked up, but they have some decent waves.
Then he plugs a Tool tape into the deck, cranks the volume, and that’s it for conversation.
The 184 wanders in and out of about a dozen tiny towns before it hits Ticul, where, Rolf says, we’ll jump to the 261. Each town is peppered with speed bumps to keep the through traffic from blasting over the pedestrians as drivers try to get the hell to somewhere else, but this is a detail Rolf seems to have a habit of forgetting. Fortunately,