Part III - The San Diego Caper

Part III - The San Diego Caper    

 I decided I needed a break from all this. I needed a chance to clear my head, to make sense of it. I felt I was in a cheap Mexican spaghetti Western. I sensed danger, but I didn’t know from where exactly.

     “I gotta pee,” I said to Hank, and got up and went to the back where the sign for Banos was. 

     The door opened onto a small dirty hallway with a mop in bucket that was so dry I was surprised it hadn’t self ignited. There was a set of metal shelving holding extra cleaning supplies and candles for the tables. There were two doors: one had a picture of a bull fighter, the other a picture of a lady dressed in Flamenco attire. I went in the bull fighter door. The room was filthy with green film in the corners and black grim. There was a three part horizontal window whose middle section was tilted open into the room. There was a rusted screen and bars on the window. The bars were in a frame held in place by rusty screws. Everything seemed to have dissolved and oxidized into place over years of neglect and disinterest.

     When I came out Hank was standing by our table. There was a cheap leather briefcase on the table. It was open and four rectangular bags of white powder, wrapped in clear plastic filled the case. Three men stood looking at Hank. The one in the center was thin and sported a pencil thin mustache, and wore a slightly soiled white linen suit. If ever there was a character from central casting to play the part of a drug middleman he was it.

     The other two were big, muscular and fat. I would have burst out laughing and insisted that the director of this bad movie send these actors back to get someone more realistic, but the problem was it wasn’t a movie set. We were in a cheap bar in Mexico. No one knew we were here.

     “You deliver this to my friend,” said the man in the suit to Hank, “And everything will be okay.”

       Hank stood there. For once he didn’t know what to say.

      “Hey,” I said as I approached the table, “what’s this?”

      The man in the cheap linen suit smiled. It was, you guessed it, a cruel smile that twisted up on one side of his face. “What do you think it is?” he asked.

      “Flour,” I said, “or sugar.” I looked straight at him. He flinched. His upper lip drew up cruelly. 

      “You are mistaken,” he said. “It is some of the finest ‘product’ in all Mexico.”

      “Really?” I said. “then you don’t mind if I sample it to make sure it is as good as you say.”

      He hesitated and nudged one of the goons, who promptly slammed the case shut and held his hand on top of it.

      “That will not be necessary because it is the best in all of Mexico,” he said.

      “The best what?” I asked.

      There was a flurry of Spanish that came from the man’s lips, as if he were having a conversation with every Spanish speaker in the room. Several men laughed derisively at me.

       “You know what I mean. Now, take the case.”

       The two goons were warily moving an arm toward the middle of their backs, where I assumed they housed their revolvers. The young man was also moving his hand and it came to rest on the butt of his gun. The barkeep, who had stopped cleaning glasses, now seemed to be holding something just below the counter, like a shotgun.

     Hank looked at me and swallowed. I nodded at him. “My man,” I said to Hank. “Would you be so good as to fetch the car?” He was about to say something when I silenced him with a nod. I turned to the man in the linen suit and said, “Very well, we’ll take your advise that this is the best product in all Mexico and deliver it, but first I propose a toast. 

     “Tequila!” I shouted, “for everyone. Dos bottles please.” I said to the barkeep.

     This stunned the crowd for a moment. I was able to keep smiling an said through my teeth to Hank, “Bring the car behind this place by the men’s room window.”

      The bartender had brought over the tequila and glasses.
“Please pour,” I said. When he was done pouring we lifted our glasses in salute. “Get the car,” I said to Hank. He headed for the door and the goons let him pass. All eyes were on Hank’s departure. So when I tipped over the bottle of tequila and splashed it on the goons pants no one was the wiser and it must have seemed to them an accident.

      “I am so sorry,” I exclaimed. “Let me get a napkin.” I moved quickly to the bar where I grabbed a napkin and a pack of matches.

      “It is okay,” said the man. “Please, take the case and go.”

      “Of course,” I said. “but first I need to  - how you say? - banos?”

      He nodded and smiled.

      I grabbed the second bottle of tequila and headed for the men’s room. I grabbed the mop, tilted it mop head up against the door to the bar and set it on fire. I doused the hallway with most of the tequila. I went into the bathroom, stood on the sink and placed a foot through the window and kicked at the screen and the bars. Nothing moved. I panicked and kicked some more. It gave way just as Hank pulled up in the Caddie whale. I managed to slide my body out the window as I heard shouts from inside the bar. I threw the tequila bottle hard against the floor and heard it shatter. I lit the whole pack of matches and tossed it into the bathroom. 

     There was a harumpf  sound as the floor burst into flame. I jumped into the passenger seat and Hank stepped on the gas. He swung around the building and made sure to knock over the little Japanese rice rocket that no doubt the motorcycle assassin used. We were careening out of the parking lot when the first people tumbled out of the bar. The thugs had their pant legs burned off and were trying to fire in our direction. The young assassin and his driver were running over to the bike. I hoped Hank had done enough damage to forestall them following us.

     “We can’t wait at Customs,” I said, “They’ll find us for sure.”

     “Don’t worry,” said Hank as he looked intently over the steering wheel, “I know a shortcut.”