“Una mas cerveza?”
“Why not.” I took the bottle from Adolpho and drank deep. Waves broke on the beach and out beyond the breakers, a school of dolphins danced under the clear blue sky. Jaquene, Adolpho’s son, danced along the wet sand playing tug-of-war with Angel. She had recovered much quicker than me, I had to be careful not to give her any spicy foods, but other than that she had returned to her normal, sloppy self.
It had been six months since I had seen LA’s broken skyline, I didn’t miss the bitch, not much. The combination of beer and painkillers kept the ghosts at bay and allowed me some moments of peace.
I was in the hospital when Peter’s story broke; the bastard used my name. I was famous for about fifteen minutes longer than I would have liked. On the upside, the notoriety kept the cops from digging too hard for evidence. And I got two hundred grand from some Hollywood slime ball for the movie rights. I used the cash to buy a small place down on the beach below Ensenada. With Mikayla’s death, the local pimp’s beef with me had ended. Business was business, I guess. Adolpho wept when he admitted it was he who told the hunter he had taken me to Tecate. His wife and kids had been on the line. I told him I would have done the same. It was a lie and he knew it. He and his son spend weekend days at my house, fishing, drinking beer and struggling through broken conversations. It feels right to be in a country without words. Few questions asked. No answers demanded.
Mikayla was the lucky one. Her painful run finally hit its end. I still see her in the corner of my vision, moving through the shadows. Two Percodans chased by cold Mexican beer send her back into a dull fog of memory.
Gregor lost his arm, but the tough son of a bitch pulled through. Last I heard, he and Anya had taken her little sister and moved to Bakersfield. I hoped their house had a pool.
Piper called me in the hospital. She read the papers and said she understood why I had acted the way I did. But she didn’t want to see me. She said I brought too much bad shit with me.
A British company bought Club Xtasy, I heard they made Doc the manager. And so it goes on. Little girls taking off their clothes for drunk men; all hoping for a transaction that won’t leave them with less than they came in with. Not one of them clear-eyed enough to see that the price paid is never worth it.