49

Not until they’re back home and have eaten steaks and had a few cold beers and relived the fight yet again and have all sworn they’re going to sleep until mid-afternoon and he returns to his room and strips to take a shower does he see the bloody patch on the left side of his shirt and then the two holes, one where the bullet entered and one where it exited. Then he finds the small clotting gash on his left-side ribs where the bullet brushed him. And only now feels its mild burn.

He stays under the shower a long while. After drying off, he disinfects the rib wound and affixes a small bandage over it, then removes one of the butterfly stitches to examine the cheek cut, decides that it has sufficiently healed, and removes the rest of its stitches as well. He puts on pajamas, gets a bottle of beer from the little fridge, and starts toward the chair in front of the window. Then stops and looks at the still-tousled bed. He goes to it and picks up a pillow and holds it to his face. It contains the scent of her. Of her skin, her hair. The wonderful perfume smells of a woman, so long denied to him.

He settles into the balcony chair and stares out at the vast and ghostly moonlit country and sips the cold beer. It seems inconceivable that a week ago he was in prison, and that within the last ten hours he’s had sex with a woman for the first time in twenty-four years—had it thrice, with a lovely young woman—and for the first time in his life killed a man. Two men. Three, by Quino’s estimation. Any of whom, given the chance, would have killed him, and one of whom had come within inches of doing it. All he’s ever wanted was a life of … sensation. That’s as well as he can define it. He is not unmindful of the actual smallness of such a life, of its paltry essence. But the truth’s the truth. It’s all the life he’s ever wanted … and here it is. This is it. And he can have it for the rest of the ride. How did Quino put it? Forever or until death, whichever comes first.

What more could he ask?

Except to see Jessie.

Yes, well. That particular objective, he reminds himself, is currently on hold. He wonders if his worry of maybe being recognized and rousing the cops, making trouble for Charlie, maybe for others in the family, is overblown. The beach house is way back in the dunes. If all he wanted to do was look at her, he could go there at night, leave the car on the beach, sneak up to the house, peek in a window, have his gander, and get gone. She wouldn’t be any the wiser. He smiles at the thought that it could also be a good way to get his ass shot off for a burglar or Peeping Tom. Not so much by Jessie—though Charlie had told him he taught her how to shoot when she was fifteen and that she’d gotten quite good at it—as by that Jaguaro cousin, Rayo, whose style for damn sure would be to shoot first and ask later, if she asked at all. Still, if he could settle for just a look at Jessie and forget trying to talk to her, it might just work.

He goes to bed as the sky shows the thin light of false dawn.

The following afternoon he accepts Quino’s invitation to go with him and Sino in the Cherokee to turn over the confiscated cocaine to the Zetas. Midway between the ranch and Nuevo Laredo, they turn off into a winding trail that takes them to an isolated spot in the wooded hills. A large green SUV with black glass, a GMC Yukon, is already there and waiting. Five men step out of it, two of them holding small submachine guns pointed at the Cherokee. Axel recognizes them as Uzis. Quino halts the Cherokee and gets out and raises a hand in greeting, calling, Hector, how’s it going? One of them smiles and flicks a hand at the guys with the Uzis and they lower the muzzles. The man wears a T-shirt that says in English, “It’s Only Funny Until Somebody Gets Hurt—Then It’s Hilarious.” He comes over to Quino and they embrace. Quino says something that Axel doesn’t catch but that makes both men laugh, then opens a back door to expose the duffle bags. Hector smiles and asks if he’s sampled it and Quino says that of course he has, and it’s top-grade. Hector pats him on the shoulder and signals his other two men, and they get busy transferring the duffles to the Yukon.

Hector’s gaze suddenly fixes on Axel, and he says, Who’s the gringo? The guy who helped my little brother escape from prison, Quino says. I told you about him. Glowering at Axel, Hector walks up to within a few feet of him, saying, You sure he’s not some gringo cop spy? He draws a snub-nosed revolver from behind his back and points it squarely at Axel’s face. Axel raises his hands at his sides, saying, Hey, man, easy. Hector’s eyes blaze. I think he’s a fucking spy! he says, and cocks the hammer. Axel believes he’s going to be shot and he’s about to try to slap the gun aside when Hector lowers it and laughs. Oh, man, he says, the look on your face! The other Zetas laugh too. Hector claps him on the shoulder and says, You’re okay, pal. You didn’t piss or shit your pants. He whirls a hand at his men and they all get in the Yukon and a moment later are gone. Quino tells Axel that the accusation of spying is a game Hector loves to play with new men. It’s why he keeps that little revolver, Quino says, so he can cock the hammer for effect. Not a lot of people are aware of it, but some of the Zetas have a pretty good sense of humor.

“Oh yeah, no question,” Axel says.