– What about Leo?

– We aren’t supposed to meet him for hours, man. The dude you’re flying with, he doesn’t like being airborne during the day. There’s a great taco wagon here by the park. We can grab some snacks and take a nap on the lawn.

– Yeah, except that the cops are looking for me and sunbathing in the middle of town might not be the best thing right now.

– Dude, do you know how long it takes for a Mexican APB to go out? Let alone, man, to places like this. Chill. We’ll grab a couple fish tacos and refrescos and find some shade.

He stops next to a tidy little park, gets out, and turns to face me.

– Besides, dude, if there’s any trouble, I’m armed.

And he lifts the tail of his Spitfire Bighead T-shirt, revealing the butt of the pistol tucked in the waistband of his shorts.

– So no worries, man, let’s eat.

And surprisingly enough, not only are the tacos great, but I do actually manage to drop off and take a nice little nap. Despite the stoned-out-of-his-gourd, gnarly-brained surf jockey sleeping next to me with a gun in his shorts.

THE SUN has crossed well past its zenith when Rolf shakes me awake.

– Dude, we totally overslept.

We’re off the 184 now, heading south on 261. Rolf is laying off the weed and has both hands on the wheel and both eyes on the road. And I got to say: when he’s paying attention, he is a pretty good driver. The road turns west at Hopelchen and the low-hanging sun shoots into our eyes. Rolf slips on a pair of Dragon Trap shades, a flame motif burning down the arms. I put on my own cheap Ray-Ban Aviator knock-offs.

– We gonna make it?

– No problem, man. But there is a need for speed.

So he speeds.

A few miles outside of Campeche we turn south onto a one-lane road. We bump along for a couple more miles, then roll into Bobola. When I say this place looks like the modern equivalent of the town in A Fistful of Dollars, I certainly don’t mean to emphasize the word modern. We pass a handful of houses, then come into the square. It’s a classic: cobbled street circling a tiny park, lots of trees, and a big church the Spanish left behind. There’s a guy selling ices out of the back of his pickup, and a couple kids buying. Nobody else. Rolf drives us around the park, past the ice man and onto one of the dirt streets that branches off of the square. He parks about a hundred yards up the street.

– OK.

– OK?

– That’s the place.

Across the street is a tequilaria.

– What now?

He looks around.

– Looks like Leo’s not here yet, dude.

– So?

– Well, I know you’re not a drinking man, but I could use one. Come on.

We cross the street and walk into the bar. It’s dark inside and it takes a moment for our eyes to adjust from the afternoon sunlight outside. That’s why it takes so long to realize that the two guys over by the bar, the only two guys in the place, are Sergeants Morales and Candito. That’s also why it takes a moment more before we realize the pile of stuff on the floor next to them is actually Leo, who has very clearly had the shit beaten right out of him.

DESPITE WHAT many popular movies would have you think, the simple fact that Morales and Candito are Mexican does not make them stupider than shit. They have me: a somewhat mysterious and wealthy American involved in a somewhat mysterious death. And they have that odd little moment when Bud wandered out from under the bed and Candito gave me that funny look. Given the current level of digital technology, it probably wasn’t too hard to poke around until he got rid of that nagging feeling that he had seen me somewhere before.

OBSERVATIONS: THE bar is empty except for the five of us, at a time of day when one would expect otherwise. Morales and Candito have parked their Bronco somewhere off the street where it cannot be seen. They have no backup; backup would have come crashing in by now. They have thrashed Leo and dragged him in here.

Hypothesis: They have cleared out the bar, chosen not to call in any other cops, and have Leo displayed here to communicate some message. What message? Well, one assumes it concerns funding their early retirement.

How do they know I have four million? They may very well not. But they know I have money, and I’m sure they want all of it.

THE GUN in Rolf’s waistband is a revolver, a .32 or a .38, carrying five or six rounds. I’m guessing the pockets of his shorts aren’t crammed with extra ammo, so if this turns into a shoot-out we’re gonna be pretty well fucked.

Me, I’m all for bargaining. But first Rolf shoves me to the floor, yanks the gun from his shorts, and squeezes off two quick shots before he dives behind a table.

One of the bullets smashes into the bottles behind the bar and the other one smashes the bone in Morales’s right thigh. I know this because I can see shards of it sticking out through his shredded uniform pants.

Rolf is huddled behind a table made out of an old tequila barrel. It looks sturdy and might actually stop or deflect some bullets. I knock over a card table with a thin sheet metal top emblazoned with a Sol advertisement, and hope nobody shoots any spitballs at me. I can hear Morales screaming high and shrill and Candito trying to quiet him.

– Tranquilo. Tranquilo. Tranquilo. Tranquilo.

The screams soften until there is just a constant, strangled keening coming from deep in Morales’s throat. I peek out from behind my useless barricade. Candito, kneeling next to Morales, has taken off his belt and turned it into a tourniquet much like the one the macheted Cuban had. I look over at Rolf and see that he is starting to edge around his barrel, gun first.

– Rolf!

He ignores me, positioning himself to take a shot, but at the sound of my voice Candito stands, pulls his service piece, points it at Leo, and yells something in our direction. Rolf ducks back down.

– Fuck!

Candito yells again, but I still don’t catch all of it. Rolf yells something back.

– What does he want?

– He wants me to throw out my gun, dude, what the fuck do you think he wants? Keep quiet next time, I almost had him.

Candito yells again.

– So throw your gun out.

– No fucking way.

– He’s gonna kill Leo.

– Bullshit. That hick cop has never shot anyone in his life. He’s pissing his pants right now. Besides, dude knows that if he kills Leo I’ll fucking blast him.

– How does he know that?

– Because I told him.

Candito yells again and this time I get the word dinero. Bingo. Rolf looks over at me.

– He says he just wants the money.

– Yeah, that figures.

I open my shirt, lift my tank top up, rip the Velcro seal, and tug the money belt from around my waist. I take five grand and the John Carlyle ID and stuff them in my pockets.

– Tell him I’m gonna stand up.

– Dude, don’t do that.

– Rolf, I’m hiding behind a beer can, I might as well stand up.

– No, dude, I mean don’t give him your fucking money.

– Just tell him I’m standing up and not to shoot.

– OK, but I’m telling you we can get out of this, no problem.

He shouts at Candito and Candito shouts back.

– He says do it slowly. Hands up and all that.

– Right.

I hang the money belt over my shoulder, put my hands on my head, and slowly stand up. Morales is sprawled in a large pool of his own blood, still making that hurt animal noise, his right hand clutching the tourniquet, his left clawing and scratching at the floor. Candito is standing, blood stains on the knees of his pants, pointing his gun at Leo’s head. Leo is still crumpled and motionless, unconscious for all I can tell. I take my right hand from my head and lift the money belt from my shoulder. Candito yells and I freeze.