Chapter 25: Siste, viator (Stop, traveler)

Sands followed the dull crunch of Jackson’s footsteps on the dirt. If El had survived the Day of the Dead, then El was here, and Sands was willing to bet that El was anything but dead.

So Sands’ real task was not to search for the legendary El Mariachi, something he’d be hard pressed to do, but to draw the man to him.

After a short walk across the square he heard Jackson come to a halt in front of him so Sands followed suit. Stopping just beside Jackson, Sands pretended to look at the merchandise as Jackson greeted a man at the booth ahead of them.

Sands however didn’t bother with such pleasantries.

"¿Habla algo de Inglés?" (Speak any English?)

"No, lo siento, Señor," (No. Sorry, Sir.) the man replied, and Sands wasn’t surprised. The man sounded very much like an old and weathered Mexican who’d seen little outside his tiny town.

Sands shrugged indifferently at the man’s apology. "No piel de mi espalda," (No skin off my back) he said, not caring that the man had probably never even heard the expression before and had absolutely no clue what Sands meant. Sands continued before the man could ponder it for too long. "¿Ha vivido toda su vida en este encantador tazón de polvo?" (Have you lived in this charming dust-bowl your entire life?)

"Lo he hecho," (I have.) the man answered shortly, and Sands guessed that he’d already aroused the seller’s suspicion.

Sands smiled the sweetest smile he could manage, trying his hardest to look as innocent as possible, which unfortunately, wasn’t very innocent at all.

"Entonces usted debe hacer un joder malo como guitarra, soy yo derecho?" (Then you must make some fucking bad ass guitars here, am I right?)

Sands rocked back on his heels as he waited for the man to reply. He must have been somewhat startled, as it took him a minute to answer.

"¡Eso sí que hacemos!" (That we do!) the man at the booth boasted proudly as Sands stopped rocking on his heels and put on a serious face.

"Entonces ha de haber escuchado sobre El Mariachi." (Then you must have heard of El Mariachi.)

A pause. "Él es un mito." (He is a myth.)

Sands chuckled. "Para nada. Él es tan solo altamente sobreestimado." (Not at all. El is just highly overrated.)

Sands heard another man start to move forward, and he tensed up ever so slightly, very much on his guard, but he remained calm on the outside with well practiced ease.

Jackson watched Sands work, and had to wonder what he was up to. He hoped to hell Sands had a better plan than the one he was currently implementing, as he was sure they were getting nowhere fast.

Sands leaned toward the man as he continued in a calm but demanding voice.

"¿Dónde se esconde?" (Where is he hiding?)

"No sé de lo que me está hablando." (I don’t know what you’re talking about.)

Sands tilted his head a bit and smirked, knowing full well the man was lying, no doubt trying to protect the brooding Mariachi. "Sé que anda escondiéndose en algún lugar por aquí…" (I know he’s skulking around here somewhere…) Sands paused and leaned back casually, continuing to rock back and forth on his heels.

"Él no está aquí." (He is not here.)

Again, Sands shrugged, as if all his questioning was of no consequence at all. "Ah, que se joda. Él no vale mi tiempo." (Fuck it. He is not worthy of my time anyway.)

"Siento que haya hecho el viaje para nada." (I’m sorry you made the trip for nothing.)

Sands raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. "Ahora, ¿quién dijo que hice el viaje hasta aquí para ver a Él? Después de todo, este pueblo vende guitarras y sucede que yo me encuentro buscando una." Sands pointed at himself to express his point. (Now, whoever said I made a trip here to see El? After all, this is a town that sells guitars and I just happen to be looking for one.)

The man was again silent before the salesman within took over. "¿Oh? ¿Entonces, cuál le gusta?" (Oh, then which one would you like?)

Sands quirked a dark eyebrow at the man. "La mejor, claro." (The best of course.)

The man must have nodded because he said nothing as he walked off to what Sands could only assume was another side of the booth to get ‘the best’. Sands took the opportunity to light up one of his remaining cigarettes and take a long drag. Jackson got a couple steps closer, about to ask a question, when Sands low voice stopped him. "Not a word, Tonto."

Jackson wisely backed off, not saying a word, and gave Sands his space.

A wicked smile played over Sands’ lips as a feeling crept over him.

It was a feeling that most people experience at one time or another, but since that fateful day it seemed to be another magnified sense to add to his ever growing collection.

Someone was watching him.

Sands heard the man take down a guitar and bring it back over as he took another puff of his cigarette. Truthfully, Sands had no intention of buying the guitar but it would serve its purpose well.

"Nuestra mejor guitarra, Señor." (Our best guitar, Sir.)

"Ponla ahí," (Set it down) Sands said while he pretended to casually glance around as he smoked. He had no intention of tipping anyone off about his weakness by blindly reaching for the guitar. Once he heard the guitar’s gentle thud on the booth, Sands knew where it was. Taking a step closer he pretended to be inspecting it. "Your useless opinion Jackson?"

Jackson started a bit, not expecting to be talked to at all. "Uh, it’s… nice."

Sands’ head moved in Jackson’s direction, one eyebrow raised. "Jackson, do I strike you as a man looking for something nice? What I want to know is… do I need to counterbalance such workmanship?"

Jackson blinked. He had no idea what Sands was talking about. "Uh…"

"Is it so beautifully well crafted that I need to shoot the craftsman?"

Jackson’s eyes opened to about three times their normal size as he stared at Sands, at a loss for words.

Sands turned back towards the guitar and cocked his head thoughtfully. Placing the cigarette in his mouth, he lowered a hand down lightly until he felt a string underneath his fingertips and then lowered the other hand. Taking a step closer he ran a hand slowly along the guitar, feeling it out. To the unwitting onlookers it just looked as if he was admiring the craftsmanship of the piece.

Sands’ face was serious, but not overly hard either – an impossible to read mask perfected over years of service for the Company. He gently lifted the guitar off the counter and slipped the leather strap over his shoulder, still feeling an intense gaze on him as he did so.

Jackson came up beside him and whispered in his ear. "There’s a man in a building to your right watching us from a second floor window."

Sands only nodded his head once ever so briefly to acknowledge Jackson’s words before he tried out a chord. Stepping away from Jackson, Sands slowly began retracing his steps to their parked car. He smiled lightly to himself. He was no idiot. El was watching… waiting to see what he was up to and no doubt trying to decide what to do about the situation. Sands thought that for a killing machine, the man really was quite a square.

The cigarette dangled precariously from his mouth as he idly walked towards the car. He played with the strings, experimentally at first, listening to the unique sound each pluck made as he slid one hand up and down, the other striking chords. It needed to be tuned, but it wasn’t a bad instrument. He paused a moment and turned back towards the small booth, taking the cigarette out of his mouth as he did so.

"Este es un patético pedazo de madera. ¿La mejor?" (This is a rather pathetic hunk of wood. The best?) Sands tilted his head and let out a disbelieving grunt, "¿Cómo se alimentan?" (How do you feed yourselves?) he asked, his voice laden with sarcasm, speaking loudly enough so that perhaps El could hear as well. Truthfully, it was a nice guitar, but it wasn’t the best.

No, the best guitars made in Paracho would always be reserved for one man. El.

Turning his back on everyone he took sure, deliberate, slow steps to the car and returned the cigarette to his lips. As he did so he began to pick up a simple tune that he used to play way back in what seemed like a lifetime ago. It had been years since he had played the guitar. He’d never been a great guitarist, but hadn’t been too bad either.

He felt his leg lightly touch the bumper of the car and he pivoted neatly before seating himself atop the hood. As he listened to the tune he realized just how rusty he was. The fact that he could no longer see the guitar strings was not helping matters at all. Frowning ever so slightly, he tried to lose himself in the music, in the painfully simple tune he was trying so hard not to completely wreck. Lifting his face into the wind as a gusty breeze blew by, he recognized how much more important something as simple as feeling a breeze on his skin had become to him now.

Sands sighed. ‘My, aren’t I getting all Dr. Philosophical.’

The tune began to flow more clearly as his fingers began to loosen up and remember what to do.

Sands lightly shook himself out of the memory. His ears began to shift their focus from what he was playing to the sounds beyond it. He could clearly hear Jackson’s awkward attempt at striking up a conversation with one of the booth owners, but he focused his attention beyond that. That was when he heard it. A familiar clink-drag. A sound he’d heard before. It was barely audible, but it was there, and it was growing ever more distinct by the minute.

El was coming.

Sands smiled to himself, satisfied, as he began to hum lightly.

His tune became a bit livelier as the breeze swept up his hair and carried the sounds across the barren square. The song was flowing much better now, still a bit rusty and awkward, but better than before. Sands really didn’t care, as long as it drew El out of his cave.

It was closer now, the clink-drag step that was distinctively El. He heard Jackson stop speaking, along with the man Jackson had been chatting with. Sands assumed it meant that El was now visible in the square, but he didn’t bother to acknowledge his presence as he continued to play.

Clink-drag-step, clink-drag-step, clink-drag-step.

The sound stopped right beside him and Sands could just imagine El’s perturbed stare, and all the questions that must have been running through his mind, but still Sands said nothing.

They remained that way for a good two minutes, not saying a word to each other, as if in silent competition to see which one would crack first. However, Sands knew who would win. He would, of course. It was the way things had to be. As far as he was concerned he could stay like this, waiting for El to speak, all day long. It was El who didn’t know the how’s and why’s of the situation and eventually his curiosity would get the better of him.

Another minute passed and the moment came when El could no longer contain the questions that buzzed through his mind, could no longer try to ignore the enigma sitting casually on the car in front of him.

"Nice tune," El finally said, mirroring Sands’ opening words to him when they first met.

Sands inhaled smoke from the burned down cigarette still hanging from his mouth and nodded as if only half listening, not really caring whether El was there or not. Smoke escaped through his nose as he continued to play.

"You could use some practice," El continued in his thick accent, and Sands could tell he was trying hard not to just come right out and ask Sands what the hell he was doing in Paracho.

El studied Sands intently. His black hair still hung to his shoulders, he still wore the same tacky clothes and sunglasses, and he still smoked like a chimney. It appeared that the agent hadn’t changed much since their last meeting. He was perhaps a little less tanned, but otherwise the same. Truthfully he’d thought Sands had died on the Day of the Dead, destroyed by his own conniving, and he hadn’t given much thought to the agent he believed had expired. He certainly couldn’t say he was happy about the agent’s sudden appearance on his proverbial doorstep. Yet here he was, sitting before him with the same air of indifference and silently dangerous malevolence as before. El had no doubt that the agent wanted something from him, something that El wanted no part of. Sands did nothing without expecting something in return that would be solely for his own benefit.

"I did not know you could play."

"Music, dear El, is nothing more than tequila for the damned."

El wisely decided not to linger on that comment for too long.

"What are you doing here Sands?" El finally asked, his patience spent.

Sands’ head came up for the first time since El had arrived, and seemed to stare at El through his midnight black sunglasses. His cigarette dangled from his mouth, a dangerously long column of ash hanging from it, as he stopped playing, but continued to pluck at the strings distractedly. Sands tilted his head curiously as if taking El in.

"What are you doing here, El?" Sands asked without much emotion, just mild curiosity that seemed to be born out of boredom.

El was nonplussed for a moment before answering. "This is my home. It’s peaceful…"

"This joint is deader than a Broadway flop on opening night." Sands took one last drag on his cigarette before tossing it onto the dirt road. Turning back towards El he continued, "But I suppose such a place suits a walking corpse such as yourself just peachy, eh?"

Trying to ignore Sands’ last comment El continued undeterred. "What are you doing here?"

"I have a little wet work for you El… an operation purely for your pleasure of course. From our last little rendezvous I am fully aware of how much you dig a good wet job."

El said nothing, waiting for Sands to get to the point. Sands continued to pluck at the guitar strings, deciding to play along with El, as he took his turn at mirroring their first encounter.

"I want you to kill a man."