Garret had put on a lot of weight. Probably over a hundred pounds. And he was wearing a toupee. We found him sitting on the side of the beach that allows topless sun bathing. Garret was sitting on his beach towel and smearing sun block all over his body while gawking at the topless chicks on spring break. “I thought you only liked boys, Garret.”
He swung around and looked up at me while trying to shield his eyes from the sun. “Do I know you?” His eyes said that he suspected he did.
“You know me, shithead. So knock off the dumbass routine.” All he had to say then was “Oh God!”
I sat down next to him in the sand while Artimus sat on his other side. “Ya. Oh God. Where’s your fucking running buddy, Leon?
He was starting to shake. It must have been ninety degrees out. “I’ve been out of the navy for almost three years.”
“Not that I give a shit but I thought you were a career man.”
“I was, but they found out about Lee and they discharged me. Bastards wouldn't even let me say goodbye to Spider.”
“ Fuck that mangy mutt. What about Leon?”
“We used to call back and forth all the time. He was living in an apartment with Pok down off Hotel Street. About a year ago I called and some other guy answered. He was real rude to me but when I asked him about Leon he started to laugh. Leon didn’t live there anymore. He said that Leon had been found dead down in Waipahu. In an alley behind Little Egypt's bar. Someone had slit his throat.” Garret began to sob.
He was looking at me with tears running down his face. “I swear to God I had nothing to do with Zak being killed. That was all Leon. He was tied in with that admiral. That old fucker had a lot of pull. He wasn’t going to let you guys get away with knowing what went on at his house that night. You were smart. You ran.”
“Listen to me you little cock sucker” I said between clenched teeth. “You are going to go back to your room. Pack your shit and catch the first flight out of Cancun. I don’t care if it’s even going to where you live. You just fly out and forget this day ever happened.”
Artimus stood up and brushed himself off and leered down at Garret. “You’ve got one hour to get off this island, fuzznuts. Or I’m gonna feed you to the fucking sharks.”
Exactly forty five minutes later we stood at the ferry pier and watched Garret waddle onboard. “Buy you a beer?” I asked Artimus, full well knowing the answer.
“Fucking A.”
We headed up to the bar. “So Artimus. Now you know all about my horrible history. What about yours? Why don’t you tell me about this drug deal that went sour and brought you down here?”
“Oh hell man, I can’t tell you that.” He paused and started to laugh. “I’d have to kill you if I did.”
And he never did tell me.
There was still too much hanging over my head. I couldn’t trust the idea that Garret would go back to the states and never say a word to anyone. Most likely after he got back home and the fear subsided he would call either NIS or the local cops. Artimus told me that we should have just canceled his ticket, but I just couldn’t do it.
I still didn’t know what sending those pictures to the Honolulu police and to that mysterious post office box in Langley had accomplished. The only scenario that would have worked would have been Artimus’s idea. Killing Garret and feeding him to the sharks. Zak would have had no problem with that. Zak lived by the old “live by the sword, die by the sword” creed. I imagine that Captain Clint had at one time lived by that also. Long before the booze wasted him away.
A week later I left Isla Mujures.
I backpacked through the interior of Mexico for several months before heading back to the states. It was fantastic. I was tired of tourist Mexico. Spring break, wet T-shirt contests, college kids trying to jump into swimming pools from their balconies and getting impaled on fence stakes.
Sleeping out under stars while hiking through Copper Canyon was a high better than any drug could give you. Take it from the master. Even then I did manage to take my first peyote trip with some locals that I met there. Not very pleasant for a while. Lots of stomach cramps and farting. Artimus would have been sickened by my wimpy display.
The buzz had gotten so heavy that I finally excused myself from the group. Not that they noticed. I found my way back to my lean to and laid down on my sleeping bag.
“Weird buzz isn’t it?”
I rolled on to my side and looked at a figure sitting in the sand next to me. I would swear that it was Ronnie Van Zant. Lead singer for Lynyrd Skynyrd. Great singer. But very dead. He was wearing that same hat that he always wore on stage and he looked damn good for someone who had died in a plane crash.
This peyote was some dynamite shit! “Fuck man! I am high!”
“That you are, brother."
“I also know you’re dead.”
“That’s true too. Got anything to drink?”
“This is all I’ve got left.” I handed over my last bottle of Corona. “It’ll have to do. Was always a bit of a Bud man myself.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.”
I closed my eyes for several minutes. When I opened them, he was still sitting there. “Since you’re still here, can I ask you a question?”
“Fire away brother.”
“What was it like when the plane was going down?” He looked at me. His eyes were like red coals.
“Why would you be concerned about that? That’s all anyone ever asks me. That or how many chicks did I fuck. That’s water under the bridge. You know what you should be worried about? I bumped into this Yankee fucking punk named Leon. He said that you fucking ran out on a buddy or yours and that you’re nothing but a coward. You gonna take shit from that pussy?”
“I asked Zak to come with me. I knew that there was going to be trouble. He just wanted to stay and prove some point.”
“Maybe it’s time you stopped running and made a stand. Like your buddy did. Shit, man! You don’t have to shoot it out with anyone. Just stop running and start living your life. Ya know you only got one. Just remember that old saying.”
“Which one is that?”
“Living well is the best revenge.”
When I came to the next morning there was an empty Corona bottle sitting next to an imprint in the sand of a pair of cowboy boots.