Echar Agua al Mar

Chapter XI

Liquor had always made it easier to sleep.

Héctor had never drank to get drunk. It was enough to take the edge off, to have a good time while numbing the ache in his ribs, his leg, his heart. The latter hurt worst of all, and he'd discovered early in his death that a temporary cure could be found at the bottom of an empty shot glass. A few drinks to loosen up, a fun night with friends, and a peaceful, dreamless sleep: what better way to spend an evening?

That is... if he was allowed to sleep in the next morning.

"Ugh... I swear I'll get up, Chich, just five...more...."

"Oye." Someone was poking him in the leg, relentlessly prodding at the cracked bone. Héctor barely opened one eye, seeing the faded green plaster of the Casa de Arquímedes. He was in the plaza, leaned against the side of Toño's bar. More importantly, it was way too early to even think about getting up yet. He scrunched his eyes against the garish sun, just visible above the rooftops.

"Oh, no you don't!"

"Nghh...." He kicked at the bothersome fingers, which were now grasping at his femur with an iron grip.

"I know you're awake! Up you get, Héctor." The brisk, no-nonsense tone left no room for debate. He obediently opened his eyes, glaring at his tormentor with all the exhausted petulance of the truly weary.

"Have a heart, Toño," he muttered, slumping against the wall with a jaw-splitting yawn. "Por Dios, can't a man get some rest on the weekend?"

"Not if he's sleeping on the street." Toño picked up the guitar, brushing the worst of the dust off its faded, scratched exterior. "Besides, I want to make sure you're all right before I send you off into the unknown."

"Huh?" Héctor rubbed his eyes, sitting up with a stretch that seemed apt to separate what bones he had left. He let out another powerful yawn, running a hand through his hair before looking around in search of his hat. "What're you talking about? I feel fine."

"You didn't really seem yourself last night, amigo." Toño scratched at the cluster of black dots near his chin. The gold sunbeams fringing his eye sockets glinted in the morning light. Héctor frowned, sorting through the loose slurry of his memories.

He remembered Shantytown, the empty bungalow too big and too quiet. The silent walk to the bar, dodging bodies and glances on the crowded thoroughfare. Arguing with Toño over the price of a bottle of tequila—that was nothing new, with prices these days—and then arguing with Rafael when the man put it on his own tab. After that, everything went a little hazy.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Toño." He shook his head. "If you ask me, two hundred and seventy pesos for a single bottle of anything is near criminal—"

"No, no. I don't care about the tequila; I meant the woman."

"W-Woman?" Héctor repeated, puzzled. "That's a new one...." Toño rolled his eyes, reaching down to help him to his feet. "Did I say who she was?"

"I didn't ask, to be honest. You seemed upset, though. Arguing loud enough to... well, to wake the dead!" he explained. "I was keeping an eye on things, just to make sure I didn't need to intervene, but the next time I checked the two of you were sitting here." He slapped the bench with the flat of his hand, the wooden beams protesting with a rattling groan.

"But were we—?"

"You'd both calmed down by that point, so I decided to let it be," he shrugged. "You're not a bad drunk, Héctor. Even at your lowest, I don't have to worry about you starting fights or getting in over your head. Anyway, when I checked at last call she was gone, and you were out cold. I just wondered who she might have been, and if you were in any trouble."