Shooting Scars: The Artists Trilogy 2 (20 page)

“Two jokes in one day,” I said. “A record.”

He smiled, then covered it up by turning off the light. There was a chance he was finally warming up to me.

I didn’t bother getting under the sheets, the oppressive heat filled up our tiny room in minutes and the rickety fan overhead did nothing disperse it. I closed my eyes and thought of Ellie.

There was a moment back in high school that Ellie never knew about. I never wanted to tell her, what would be the point? We were both sixteen and hadn’t talked properly for years. It was after I’d done the photography project on her and frankly I knew she hated my guts. She considered me a freak, thinking I was creepy and obsessive and a bit of a stalker. Sadly, I was all of those things. That was just me and it couldn’t be helped.

There had been a school dance, the “Spring Fling” or something lame like that. Ellie didn’t go. I never expected her to. But I did. Just to be a pain in the ass, really. I wanted to show up and have people whisper to each other, “oh The Queen is here.” The attention, no matter how fucked up, was better than staying at home listening to my dad scream at my stepmother. He always would scream at me after.

I went, dressed in a tux, like a normal person, except my tux was pastel blue. Yeah, I was trying to do an homage to
Dumb and Dumber
and it was lost on most of the school. So, of course I was already shoved by a few dickheads by the time I’d arrived.

But there was this one dick, Curran Simpson, a real fucking jackass with big fists and a bigger mouth, who came barrelling up to me and spilled all of his punch down the front of my tux.

The anger was already threatening to come out. I did what I could to keep it inside, to do what I had always done, which was to take it, take it, take it.

Then he says to me, his voice low, as if he didn’t want to be heard, “Where’s your retarded girlfriend? The one you’re stalking all the time. Have you ever stolen her fake leg yet? Do you jack off to it?”

None of what he was saying really made any sense. He was a fucking idiot through and through. But it didn’t matter. This was the first time I’d lost it, when I let the blackness out and I was high above my body, pummeling the shit out of the guy. I don’t know how I did it. Suddenly he was knocked to the ground and I was on top of him, punching him like a man possessed. I got maybe three good hits before one of his friends pulled me off and held me there while he retaliated. And of course he retaliated worse.

I had a broken nose from it and Curran was suspended for a week. Even though I threw the first punch, even though I actually knocked the big fucker down, no one ever mentioned it. The teachers were so used to me getting beat up, that they were more than happy to put him out of school for a while. I wasn’t his only victim. As for me, it got twisted into an urban legend, that Camden finally went crazy and we better make sure he doesn’t bring homemade bombs to school. The kids definitely stayed away from me if they hadn’t already.

That was probably my first shining moment, that feeling of actually winning for once. The adrenaline coupled with the fear of myself and what I could do, what I might do, was addicting. But I never acted out like that again. I wouldn’t do it for just anyone.

Only for her. Only for Ellie.

I must have fallen asleep soon after those thoughts because before I knew it, the morning sun was streaming in through the window and I thought I was going to choke on the humidity. I sat up, feeling disgusting. The bed was soaked from my sweat and when I put my glasses on, they fogged up in seconds.

I got up and pulled off my sticky shirt just as Gus came out from the bathroom, completely dressed and looking ready to go.

“Jesus,” he said as he eyed my chest and abs.

I looked down. Sometimes I’d forget about my tattoos. Or rather I’d forget that not everyone had them. “Not a fan of tattoos, Gus?”

“Not after seeing you wield a needle,” he said and motioned for me to turn around. I did so, not feeling shy in the slightest. If there was anything I loved to talk about it, it was my tattoos. And, well, I’d been working out pretty much every day for the last seven years. My body was hard and ripped as shit and it felt good to make Gus take notice, to let him know that I wasn’t some pushover, that I could do more than hold my own in a fight.

But I guess I already proved that the other day.

“These are something else, you do them yourself?”

“Only the ones I can reach but I’ve drawn them all. I have a few artists in Palm Springs that I trust to carry them out.”

“Are they everywhere?” He was wincing as he said it.

I winked at him. “I think that’s between Ellie and I.”

He gave me an unimpressed look then went over to the door. “I’ll go get us some breakfast for the road. Can you be ready in five? We’re meeting someone.”

I nodded and ten minutes later we were back in the GTO, munching on a doughy pastry, the smell of hot dirt blowing in through the open windows.

“Who is this someone?” I asked, crumbs scattering in my lap.

He said, “An old friend.” Wasn’t that always the case? The old friend. That was the case between us right now. Me and Ellie’s old friend.

We drove for some time, flipping through an assortment of Spanish radio stations, before the air began to lift a bit and the sharp bite of salt hit us. The Gulf of Mexico sparkled amid refinery plants as we hit Tampico. We went through the city sprawl, the startling amount of Starbucks and Burger Kings and Walmarts, before we entered the real Mexico again and were hurtling down a pale dirt road, dust flying behind us like flour, dodging giant potholes and overhanging branches.

We eventually arrived to a little piece of paradise. A cream sand beach was lapped by azure water while a beach shack stood nestled in a crop of palm trees. Gus pulled the car up beside a mud-splattered Jeep just as a man with an even bigger mustache than his came out of the house, arms wide.

“Gus!” the man cried out. Gus gave me a sheepish look.

“This is Dan,” he explained. “He’s very … affectionate.”

We got out of the car and Dan immediately embraced him. I held back a chuckle as Gus awkwardly hugged him back. Gus then waved me over.

I shuffled through the sand, absently enjoying the breeze that washed over me while keeping my senses on high alert. As nice – or huggy – as Dan seemed, I wasn’t one to trust the old friends. Sometimes I wondered if I even trusted Gus.

“Hello, Camden,” Dan said, taking my hand in a two-handed shake. He was about a foot shorter than me, in his early fifties, with a huge handlebar mustache and fake Ray-Ban sunglasses. His hair was cropped short and unusually dark and he had pock marks on both cheeks left over from bad acne. His teeth were yellowed. Overall the vibe was genuine and I was glad for the lack of hostility so far, even though I knew things could always turn.

If they haven’t turned already.
Gus’s phrase repeated in my head.

“Hello, Dan,” I told him, trying to make my smile look easy. “Beautiful little spot you got here.”

“You like?” he said, eyes gleaming. “Oh you must come inside. I’ll get you Americans some beer. Real beer, you know?”

We went inside and sat down on his small screened porch that faced the incoming surf and chugged back three Bohemias. The small talk came first, Gus and Dan catching up on old times while Gus would occasionally fill me in as Dan smoked like a chimney, one cigarette after another. They knew each other when Dan used to live in San Diego, illegally, and Gus’s ex-girlfriend and his wife were friends. Dan eventually got deported, even though Gus tried to pull a few favors for him with the LAPD, and settled here to open his own business renting kayaks to tourists. I didn’t know what happened to the business since I didn’t see any kayaks and the Tampico area wasn’t a big tourist attraction. But fronts were fronts and I knew how to spot one.

Dan’s wife was now dead, something he glossed over very quickly and I knew from the way his eyes burned at the mention of her that it wasn’t accidental. The drug cartels had their fingers in absolutely everything here.

“Now, Gus,” Dan said, his face growing serious after he finished off the remainder of his beer. “You know I love to see old friends. When I heard what happened to you …”

A strange hush came over them and both their eyes darted to me and back again. This thing, this mysterious health problem that had afflicted Gus had come up again and again but I had yet to figure it out. I didn’t want to ask. Maybe I was going to have to. I didn’t want the man having a stroke on me if that’s what it came down to.

“I miss you, you know?” Dan continued. “But please tell me what brought you here all of the sudden.”

Gus sucked in his upper lip until the bristles of his mustache stood out. “We need to find Travis Raines. He’s somewhere in Mexico, maybe Veracruz.”

Dan’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “You want to find Travis Raines? The Hombre Blanco?”

“What, seriously, that’s his nickname?” I blurted out.

Dan ignored me, getting out of his wicker chair and walking over to the kitchen. “My God, my God. We need some coffee. Yes, we do.”

Gus and I exchanged a glance as Dan put on the kettle and began carrying things over to the table for us, cups, saucers, a sugar bowl, non-dairy creamer. Then he sat back down and lit another cigarette. His hand shaking.

“Tell me why you need to find him.”

“It’s not so much him that we need to find but a man who is after Travis. He has a woman with him. We think he’s planning on using her to assassinate the Hombre Blanco.”

He blinked a few times, puffing back rapidly. “I see. And this is a bad thing?”

“He will get the woman killed. Getting to Travis Raines isn’t easy. If it was, he’d already be dead.”

“Yes, Gus, I know this. What do you think I do all day here? Think of fairy tales?”

I looked at Dan imploring. “The woman, Ellie, is very important to me. The man she’s with will hurt her. She’s not a gun for hire. She’ll have to do it against her will and it will end very badly, for everyone, if we don’t get to her first.”

“Who is the man?”

“Javier Bernal,” Gus supplied.

Dan’s eyes widened and he quickly put out his cigarette. “Javier is here in Mexico?”

“You know him?” I asked.

Dan gave me a petulant look and got up to the kettle which was just starting to steam. “Yes, I know him. We all know him. We are all part of the same family when you trace us back. Sinoala.”

The
other
extremely dangerous and fanatical cartel.

Dan poured the water into a French press and brought it over to the table.

“This sounds like something Javi would do.”

And now he knew him on a first name basis. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be good. I shot Gus a look but he was focused on the coffee. I wanted to keep staring at him, get him to look up, but Dan was already observing me, eyes narrowed.

I cleared my throat and nodded at the press. “Local coffee?”

Dan watched me for a few painful beats before he said, “Yes, of course. None of that American shit.”

Gus smiled. “I’m pretty sure half of the American shit comes from Mexico at any rate.”

Dan shrugged lightly. “This is true. But we don’t put chemicals in our coffee.”

“Not like what you’re putting in your lungs,” Gus joked.

And suddenly they seemed like old pals ribbing each other again. Maybe I was creating these situations in my head. Maybe my gut was wrong.

But my gut was never wrong.

Dan poured us both a cup of the fragrant, dark liquid and said, “Do you know where Javi is?”

We shook our heads. “No,” Gus spoke, “we figured you could tell us.”

“Why would I tell you?”

“To be a friend, I guess.” Gus was still smiling but his posture changed ever so subtly. He was aware now, more alert. Maybe because Dan was being stubborn. Or maybe because Dan and Javier were friends, something Gus couldn’t have seen coming, and friends sometimes go to great lengths to protect each other. If my devotion to Ellie had brought me here, perhaps Dan’s loyalty to Javier was just as strong.

The bad feeling in my gut multiplied when Dan put the coffee press down and one of his hands, so easily, so slowly, went to his side and under the table. I didn’t look, I didn’t acknowledge it. I only sipped my coffee all the while knowing he had a gun under that table, maybe affixed to the underside, and it was pointing at us.

We wouldn’t be walking out of here alive. Not if we could do something about it.

“Well, I don’t know where Javi is. But Travis is in Veracruz. Fucking Zetas have taken over the whole city, such a shame.”

“Where in Veracruz?” I asked.

Dan smiled wryly and took a sip of his coffee, bringing his hand back on the table. “I do not have his address, if that is what you’re asking. It’s a large compound in the hills. Where the rich bastards live.”

“How do you think Ellie will get close to him?” It was a longshot, but one I felt I needed to ask. If I was right and there was a gun under the table, he’d be telling us the truth because the dead don’t talk. The dead wouldn’t spoil this attempt on Travis’s life, someone both Javier, Dan, and maybe Ellie, would want killed.

“I don’t know,” he said carefully. He put his coffee cup back down. One hand went under the table while the other was going for a cigarette.

“Can I have one?” I said quickly, putting my hand out. “I always wanted to try the Mexican kind.”

Dan laughed out of the corner of his mouth. “Okay, fine.”

He gave me a cigarette, his other hand never straying. I held mine out for the Zippo lighter and he gave me that too.

I really hoped Gus was right about Coffee Mate being extremely flammable, and that the theory extended to all non-dairy creamers, not just the name brands. If he was wrong, we’d be dead. But if I sat there and did anything else, we’d be dead too. The minute either of us would reach for our guns, he’d know and pull the trigger. He had the upper hand. I had the lower cut.

I started playing with the flame, running my thumb over the wheel again and again. “So you don’t know what Javi’s plan could be? I thought you were good friends.”