And I kill Pedro.

And aim the machine gun.

And I wake up.

A half hour later I’m crashing through the jungle, clutching Bud to my chest, with Sergeants Morales and Candito running after me.

THANK GOD for the swimming. Without the swimming I would have collapsed by now. Of course all that wonderful muscle tone isn’t helping out with the searing burn in my lungs. Over thirty years without even trying a cigarette and I had to start. It was quitting the booze that did it. Drop one addiction and pick up another. Fucking idiot.

I trip over a tree root. Which is what I get for not paying attention to where I’m going.

I can’t put my arms out to brace my fall without losing Bud, so I twist my body around and drop hard, the pack absorbing most of the impact. I start to get to my feet and hear Morales and Candito calling out to each other. They’re a ways back there and they’ve stopped running. They’re asking each other where I am. I get to my knees and peek out from behind my tree. But this being a jungle, I can’t see more than a few feet.

What I need to do here is stay cool. Cut out all the crashing around and sneak my way to Pedro’s. Bud twists out of my grasp and streaks off back toward the bungalow. Toward the cops.

There has to be, there simply has to be a statute of limitations on cat-sitting. I run after him. Almost immediately the sergeants hear me and they’re yelling again and coming in my direction. I trip over another root.

And it catches me.

I start to shout, but Leo wraps a hand over my mouth. We make eye contact. I nod. He uncovers my mouth and hands Bud to me. I hear rustling as Morales and Candito creep by on either side of us, trying to zero in on me. The sound dies and Leo puts his mouth right against my ear.

– This way.

He’s holding his arm straight out, pointing in the same direction the cops just went.

– Straight as possible, you’ll come out by Pedro’s.

– Cops.

– Shut up. Rolf will be there.

– What about.

– And hang on to the fucking cat.

He gets up and starts running loudly, and I hear the cops yell and take off after him. I head for Pedro’s.

I POP out of the trees about twenty yards from Pedro’s house, just off the highway. I can see the dune buggy parked out back and Rolf standing in the yard. I sprint over and Rolf catches me as I stumble the last few feet.

– Leo. Gasp. He. He. He. Gasp.

– He find you?

– Yeah. Gasp. He.

– Inside, dude.

We go through the screen door, he leads me to the kitchen.

– We saw them go past on the highway and head for the beach. Leo took off to warn you or whatever.

– He drew them off.

– Cool.

– No, we got to.

– Dude, we got to get you out of here is all we got to do. Leo’s cool. Those guys will never find him in there.

In the kitchen the table is covered with food. Pedro is sipping coffee, listening to ranchera music. He clicks off the radio. His wife, who is usually on her way to town with the kids by now, is at the stove. She turns and gives me a tight-lipped smile.

– Buenos dias.

– Buenos dias, Ofelia.

She gestures to the table.

– Comer.

She’s made a huge breakfast, a farewell. We’re all supposed to sit at the table and have breakfast together, and I’m late. Rolf grabs a tortilla off the table, slaps some beans into it and takes a huge bite.

– 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.

– Voila!

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, as the day waxes and Rolf smokes more and more of the cheap Mexican brick-weed he’s carrying, lead seems to drain from his foot. At Ticul we stop, gas up, and he drives the buggy into the middle of town, announcing that it’s time for lunch and an early siesta.