Sayulita Sucker - Six

A Luke Fischer Novella - Doing la cucaracha.

Sayulita Sucker - Six

The beers came with a small plate of chips, salsa and wedges of lime crowded into a white bowl. I knew I was supposed to be making a plan, talking to some people, figuring shit out, but I was having a lot of motivational issues today, or this week, or month.

“Señor?”

A rotund man with a bushy moustache held a wooden case in front of him. It was full of 4-packs of cigars. I recognized the bands, Montecristo, Romeo y Julieta, Cohiba. If they were the real deal, they’d be worth a few bucks, especially the Monte. I waved him off, but then he did a little dance with his head, in perfect time with the strumming. He was like one of those bobbleheads that sit on dashboards.

“It is a beautiful day, for cold cervezas, beautiful music, and ocean air. What would be better than to enjoy a cigar?”

“No thanks. I’m good just sitting here.”

“Of course you are. What is your name, señor?”

“Fischer.”

He kept doing his dance while he talked—now getting his shoulders into it.

“Very good price, two for one,” he said.

“Cubans?”

“Of course. I only sell the best señor. You come from America where you can’t get such a fine smoke. But you can enjoy them here in the fine Sayulita sun.”

“I live here now,” I said.

“But not always.”

“Canada.”

He broke into a wide smile, bright teeth shining through the thick hedge of a moustache.

“Allow me to join you for a moment, señor Fischer?”

“Why?”

“I have something that may interest you.”

“I’m not interested in the cigars.”

He closed his case, latched it and put it under my table. He slid out one of the heavy chairs wrapped in straw and leather, and plunked down across from me.

“I see why you came in her. This is a place of rest. Too much sun and noise out there.” He pointed out the open air window. Like he had planned it, a passel of children ran across the beach tipping over those expensive chairs that the various Sonnys were selling.

“I thought you said the sun was fine and beautiful?”

He laughed.

“I like you Canadians. You are much more relaxed than the Yankees. And funny, you are very funny.”

“It’s all the snow and hockey,” I said.

My cigar-selling friend gave a quizzical look.

“I sell much more than cigars.”

“I never had any doubt,” I said.

“I have marijuana, or something stronger, the white powder? You know it.” He must have thought he saw something on his face. “Aha, so that is it.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Me? I am Lopez like the great general. You’ve heard of him?”

“I have. Now listen, Lopez. I just want to sit in this nice shady bar, drinking my beer and watch the seagulls. I’m not in the market anything else.”

As I talked, my new table friend started bopping his head to the soft guitar rhythm. It would have pissed me off, but damn if I didn’t start doing it too. Any moment the two of us were gonna get up and do la cucaracha. Then like someone threw a switch the music stopped.

“I can get you a woman.”

He said it quietly, a good thing, because the whole place had gone strangely silent after the musicians quit their set. There was no applause, not even the usual bar murmurs.

“What?”

Lopez cranked his head around and gestured to the guitar player, who was moving from table to table with his bandana hat in hand. The musician nodded, accepted a few more bills in his hat and then came over. Lopez gestured, the guitarist leaned down. He studied me as Lopez spoke in his ear. At one point he glanced over at his lovely percussionist, also making the rounds. She gave a smile and a wink, but I saw something flash across her face.

Before the musician left he extended his hand and I shook it.

“You play really well,” I said.

“Muchas gracias.”

Something tapped at the base of my neck. I’d wandered into something that was more than drugs and prostitutes. Something was buzzing like a guitar string about to break. It could be just the heat of the day, or the bus ride catching up with me, but I’d learn to pay attention to these sensations. It wasn’t spider-senses, or something goofy like that, but it was like I had my own small guitar player plucking strings in my head. The music had shifted into a minor key.

“Sorry Lopez, like I said I’m not interested in--”

“When I explain you may be.” The cigar-seller’s smile was gone and damned if that caterpillar over his top lip didn’t look darker.

A wind blew through the beach bar, it had a cold edge to it, and like it pulled the clouds along with it, the sky darkened. I gave my head a shake, wondering if I was imagining all of this. Sunny as hell Sayulita was suddenly covered in a long sheet of greyness. The universe was either trying to tell me something, or I needed another Pacifico.

My cigar-selling buddy Lopez was droning on about something, the landscape, the beach, some friend who sold fish from a dock. I had no idea what he was going on about. He dropped in Spanish phrases, which didn’t help. Problem was, that chilly wind and the nerve that plucked down my back told me I needed to pay attention, because this is why I came to Sayulita in the first place.

“I have heard things about you Canadians. But I cannot recall the word. You are--”

“Polite?”

“No amigo. This has to do with sex.”

I signalled the women in red for another Pacifico. Changed my mind, and held up two fingers.

“You must have heard wrong,” I said.

“I believe you are a man that would appreciate a young woman.”

“How young?”

Lopez heard the disgust in my voice.

“No. No. Not like that. We are not pigs,” he said.

Part of my wanted Lopez to leave right now, or even twenty minutes ago. But again I remembered Morales and why I’d come here. Damned if I could avoid something that waltzed in and sat across from me with a case of fake cigars. The woman brought me the Pacificos. She looked for a moment at Lopez, obviously recognizing him. He gave a nod, she shrugged and muttered something in Spanish before quickly turning away.

“You’re known here,” I said.

Music drifted in the bar, this time not live, but a tinny radio sound. A mournful singer sung over minor chords and soft percussion.

“I’m known many places,” Lopez said.

He let that hang for a bit as we both listened to the music.

“Okay, you’re not a pig. Who are you?”

The broad smile returned, even broader than before.

“We have young women, pretty women.” Lopez’s tone dropped. “Very wanting to please.”

“Only because you make them.”

Lopez clucked his tongue.

“They choose this life. Perhaps they are too fond of the… nose powder… is that what you call it? You know this slang?”

“Sure.”

I looked past him to the surf. The waves had increased in size. I couldn’t see the woman on the lemon board from here. A muscular teen in crimson shorts flipped and face-planted into the ocean. The wave went over him like he wasn’t even there.

“I am sorry I have forgotten your name, señor.”

“So you have.”

A small laugh and a cough.

“Finish your beers and come with me. I have some excellent Tequila. My cousin owns a small factory and their Respado has no match.”

Valdez scooped up his case from under the table and stood to leave.

“I am sorry if I offended your heritage,” he said.

“At least you didn’t say anything about hockey.”

“Que?”

“Nevermind.”

I downed the last Pacifico in a long chug. I motioned to put money on the table. He waved me off.

“It is taken care of.”

I followed Lopez out of the bar to the strains of a singer whose song had somehow become even sadder.