Curtsy was in a bit of a state by the time they reached the long dock at Casa O’s, swinging between a wild elation at having free-ranged “her” dolphins, sadness at knowing she’d never see them again, and dread that the ocean might not be totally hospitable for newbies like the Discovery Gang. She was biting her lip and frowning by the time she nudged the rumbling Narcruiser up to the dock. MeiMei suffered from no such equivocation: she was scared stiff they’d get nabbed and was already piling up dire outcomes from chasing after the Nahual.

Aphra scanned the dark restaurant and sniffed the air for unexpected perils, then hopped out onto the dock. Aphra’s second drawback as a spy was a steep susceptibility to seasickness. She’d been a little queasy shooting around the relatively open water off Sac Bajo, and had no doubts how she’d feel a half hour into blasting off for Cozumel and points south. She was screamingly apprehensive about letting the Chink and the Dink set off without her to chaperone, but there was no way for it and she just had to put a game face on it. “Got your communicator handy, there, Ensign?”

Curtsy held up the clear, watertight Pelican case that protected the unbranded, highly modified satellite phone Aphra had given her (along with instructions she made sure were also heard, and therefore comprehended, by MeiMei). “Aye, aye, Uhuru.”

Another thing right there, letting a piece of gear like that out of her hands. A big bleeding trail right back to her and full of incriminating shit right up to its touchscreen crammed with quasi-legal pirate apps. Oh, well.

“Have a fun trip, kids,” she called down from the dock. “See you in a couple of days.” I hope to hell.

MeiMei tried to take an edge off her jitters (or just delay setting out). “That Marine acted like he expected a few privileges coming when we bring the boat back.”

“I’ll straighten him on that when the time come.”

MeiMei had laughed, “Brash, baby. What street were you working up stateside?”

“Easy street, bee yatch.”

Curtsy, figuring that was about as sentimental a goodbye as they were going to get from Ms. Lez Be Friends, nudged the throttle forward. The big launch slid smoothly forward, then put on a little thrum as she aimed it at South Point and dialed on a few more RPM’s.

Aphra stood watching, shaking her dandelion-coiffed head as the Maxum moved off into the darkness, grumbling with the urge to flex its over-tuned muscle. She heard the pitch change at the point, Curtsy putting the throttle in the kitchen and bringing the little thunderboat up on a spanking skim across the higher waves out of Isla’s lee. She caught a fleeting glimpse of it just as it past the point, a streak silhouetted by the glow trail of the rising moon. She stood for a minute, staring, the muttered, “Just bring it back to mama.”

She didn’t yet know, as she walked the planks back to Casa O’s, that her golf cart had been sabotaged by local taxistas as an expression of their opinion that tourists should go to downisland restaurants in public transportation, not rented flivvers. When she did find out, she didn’t even go particularly ballistic, just took it as an omen.

Oddly, the pounding sprint across open water had a soothing effect on MeiMei’s nerves. She even stood up, taking the wind in her face like Curtsy. Which, she quickly realized, was also better on her kidneys and assorted innards that getting butt-kicked by the bucket seat after half-second. The drumming became a soundtrack at that point, a drummed mantra that calmed her as she stared into the silvery trail the rising moon was drawing across the black Caribbean as if for their particular benefit. She looked at Curtsy, smiling into the blast of warm, wet air as her moongold mane whipped behind her. She pulled off her black watchcap and shook out her own hair, joining the rhythmic scalp massage to the bucketing beat of the hull, found herself smiling as well. Where did Aphra get a black watch cap in Mexico?

For that matter–she snagged the sealed cell phone and gave it a closer look–where did anybody get stuff like this. She was pretty sure you couldn’t get satellite positioning of individual private vessels from the iPhone app store.

“What the hell is this thing?” she yelled at Curtsy.

The blonde girl turned and shrugged, probably her response to a lot of questions, was MeiMei’s guess. Then she proved her wrong by yelling back, “I think she’s some sort of spy.”

MeiMei must have showed her astonishment because she yelled again, “Some things I saw in her room.” Just never mind what she had been doing there at the time. Or not doing. Or whatever it was. Turns out chicks aren’t even as interesting as men.

MeiMei digested that one for a shocked few minutes and shouted. “We didn’t find her did we? She found us.”

Another shrug. MeiMei opened the case and held the phone behind the little windshield to examine it. The whole GPS was just wrong, somehow. Like a military graphic on TV. Some of the search apps were also just a bit too knowing. And the rest she couldn’t even figure out at all. Hmmm. She looked back at Curtsy, who nodded, then turned her face back into the slipstream.

Around five thirty Curtsy spotted the fins.

She pointed back behind them (where she’d been keeping an occasional eye out the whole trip) and MeiMei stared blankly, then saw a black back cut the water, the dorsal fin knifing up and back in the waxy moonglow in their wake. She felt a thrill she couldn’t identify and smiled with pleasure.

“Think it’s your pals?” she bellowed at Curtsy.

Curtsy shook her head and leaned toward her. “No chance. Dolphins swim like fifteen knots, cruise at seven or eight maybe. Top speed maybe twenty.”

Well that settles that questions, MeiMei thought. And actually, she’d been wondering, “How fast are we going?” Fast as a motherfucker isn’t really quantity.

“Fifty, fifty-five,” Curtsy called, pointing to a speedometer that hovered around sixty MPH.

“Fun idea, though,” MeiMei shouted. “Your buddies tagging along.”

She wasn’t prepared for the sad look on the blonde’s normally cheerful face. “I mean, they obviously really like you. And you seem to…”

She broke off then went ahead. “I’ve heard a few things. You love those animals.”

Curtsy turned a searching look on her, then grabbed the throttle. All three hypertrophied Evinrudes toned down a few notches and the boat settled down. Suddenly they weren’t jamming from wave to wave. They were still moving damned fast, but going up and down with the shape of the sea, not hopscotching across the peaks. She gave MeiMei another look.

“I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Well, I dunno,” Curtsy said guardedly, sizing her up. “Des anybody like talking about their sexual perversions?”

“I’ve met people that’s all they want to talk about. And I mean some creepy ones.”
“You consider being queer for dolphins creepy?”

“I think it’s kind of cool, actually.” She’d been surprised to first realize that, but there it was.

“It has it’s drawbacks.”

“I feel like I’m talking to a Lesbian or something here, but… were you always this way? Did something happen to make you…?”

“I don’t know. It’s not just mammals, it’s animals that move sleek in the water. Sharks, and manta rays. Killer whales? Whoa! Wet panty time.” She stared straight ahead, but MeiMei could sense something welling in her. She probably didn’t talk about this much.

“I worked at SeaWorld when I was in like high school, the one in California. That’s when I started diving.”

“Sounds like your dream job. Why didn’t you just stay there?”

“You can’t guess? Fired for illicit conduct with Shamu.” She pouted a moment, upset at the sheer injustice of love that can’t speak its name. “Who by the way isn’t even the real Shamu. Kind of a Scamu.”

“Killer whales? God, how macho can you get?”

“Big. Black. Slick. Free willies.”

She drove on in silence for awhile, laid her hand on the throttle grip, then changed her mind. “I was like a little girl–maybe the first time I ever felt anything sexual–I don’t know. We went to the Children’s Pool in La Jolla. There were all these seals and sea lions there. Baby seals are sooooo cute, I had little mask and fins even then, when I was maybe eight. Paddling around seeing these animals flashing around me all excited. You know, like flushed and my tummy flipping…”

“She shot MeiMei another look and started backing out. “I don’t know if you’ve got a morbid curiosity or just want to find out why a cute California blonde with great tits doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“Maybe I’ll get to that after I figure out how a cute little China doll making three figures a year doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

“So what are you queer for? Stone gods with curses on them?”

“Actually only goddesses get The Curse. But I don’t know… I just don’t meet any guys that trip my trigger. In high school I went through a phase with big football studs. I was like four foot nine, maybe ninety pounds and I dug the idea of a guy who could pick me up and toss me around. In fact, I liked the actual act of being picked up and tossed around.”

Curtsy seemed to be listening, so she went on. “But I grew out of that. I just like a guy I can talk to at all levels, you know. I always wanted to meet a guy smarter than me who wasn’t a founding member of geekville. I met enough academic dorks in college, but I end up comparing them to…”

“Indiana Jones?”

“Something like that, maybe. A guy who knows things, can blow my mind. But can also move, you know. Around universities, you meet some pretty cool guys, nobody with the creative flexibility.”

“Creative flexibility? That’s your idea of where men are at?”

“What, that’s kinkier than waterproof skin and breathing out the top of your head?”

“Got me there.”

“Ironically, I met a guy recently who seemed to fit the bill. Had me all intrigued. Then he sort of morphed into a jerk and blew me off.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, he somehow got the idea that I was planning some sort of pirate raid to steal a relic from a rich. powerful Mexican yachtsman.”

“Dudes! Where do they come up with this shit?”

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“Is there some sort of name for this crap?” Curtsy asked with a trace of disgust. She’d smeared the black paste (the composition of which Aphra hadn’t shared with them) on all her exposed skin, but didn’t much like putting it on her face. For one thing, it smelled like an evil science lab.

“Blackface makeup,” MeiMei said offhandedly as she put finishing touches around her diving mask.

“Pigment envy,” was Aphra’s reply.

MeiMei smiled, but was getting a whole different slant on Aphra. Hard person to pin down, she was thinking. First she’s the aloof model, then the wealthy patron, then wants to get into your pants, now she looks very much at ease getting ready to go commit a felony in Mexico. On the other hand, since this was just a prelim to her own felony theft caper, she couldn’t really object.

And she was really glad they had the boat. The big, insanely fast modified Cigarette that rumbled powerfully under her bare feet as like a tiger purring while waiting to leap. This was one piece of engineering with “getaway” and “eat my wake” writ large in every detail of its design and execution. And had scared the crap out of her when she’d taken its wheel for about a minute during their test run around Sac Bajo. Fortunately Curtsy had a relaxed, natural calm about rocketing across the slight chop, running with not lights at speeds ranging up towards “bat out of hell”.

And you know, there was a little extra frisson in knowing they were driving an hinky-snagged aquatic hotrod with a criminal record before they even got around to perpetrating anything illegal themselves.

“I was a water skier,” she’d explained. “Pretty competitive in high school.”

Aphra had said, “Know what, Gidget? You got one great ass and a face that don’t stop, but I do believe you’re crazy.”

A thought that MeiMei echoed now, rocking in the dark, menacing boat, staring at the lights of Dolphin Discovery. But, she reflected, is this crazier than what I want to do?

They all had their fins on now, Curtsy had the nylon bag slung over her shoulder… there wasn’t anything else to fool around with, no more excuse not to jump it off.

Aphra had the same thought. She had been watching the horizon for anything backlit against the distant lights of the Cancun hotels, but now sat beside Curtsy on the gunwales and motioned MeiMei to join them. “Let’s get this done before the moon comes up, shall we ladies?”

She put her hand over her mask like Curtsy had taught them, then toppled over backwards into the dark sea. MeiMei heard the second splash as Curtsy keeled over, then rolled back into the water herself. She touched muck: the boat was anchored in about four feet of water with a grassy bottom. She stood on the tips of her fins and eyed Discovery in the distance.

“Got a bit of security, I see,” Aphra said as she moved her snorkle slightly forward.

“Guess that’s my fault,” Curtsy said. They didn’t used to have watchmen outside like that.

Aphra turned and you didn’t have to see inside the black mask to know she was rolling her eyes upward. “You take lead,” she said, and again MeiMei got the impression it wasn’t the first “job” this woman had been on. Curtsy adjusted the gym bag over her shoulder and moved smoothly and silently towards the pier, nothing but a shadow in the night sea.

MeiMei hung on the chainlink, breathing through her snorkle with only half of her mask above water. She was finning lightly to maintain her position, but a harder kick would alert the girls just below her feet that there was something to be aware of on the surface. The “watchmen” seemed mostly to be watching their cellphones. Thank Christ for texting, MeiMei thought. She could hear each little snick each time Curtsy squeezed the bolt cutters on the fence links below, but know that was just because her ears were under water. Aphra rose and breathed, then went back down. Curtsy didn’t seem to need air. She must be spending five minutes underwater with each descent.

She could feel a slight vibration in the fence with each snip, but there was no change in its general rigidity. Then heard a sharp snort and almost levitated right out of the water. She calmed when she saw the sleek surge in the water inside the inner fence. Or course. The dolphins had been aware of them since they showed up and were in there checking them out.

Probably some alpha males up close here, vigilant. The rest back in the center of the pool. Two more slick backs moved in the water like waves, then there was an entire head above water, staring at her with eyes she just had to admit looked intelligent. And kind of sexy. She got a glimmer of where Curtsy was coming from. These things were super-touchable and definitely should be set free.

Then Curtsy was beside her, her head right behind her ear. “That’s Bongo,” she said. “My favorite. Take a slow, deep breath and come on down here, we’re going through.”

MeiMei took a few breaths of increasing volume, then bent at the waist and stroked down with arms. She grabbed the fence like Curtsy had told her and tugged her way down into darkness. She felt a hand on her shoulders, nudging her forward and to the right. And there was no fence there. She didn’t know that Aphra had wired the cut fence back, leaving a triangular opening like parted curtains, but she knew she could move through… and then get back up the world and score some more air.

She remembered to tip her head back and exhale as she rose, then tip forward to bring the purged snorkle out of the water without having to blow it out. She sipped in air, then took deeper draughts as she breast-stroked under the catwalk to the inner fence. Where she could just reach out and touch the four dolphins that waited on the other side of it. Wow!

She stroked Bongo’s head, marveling at the smoothness. Like a wet watermelon, she decided. She saw the sharp little teeth, as if he was smiling at her. This was worth the whole caper, right here, she thought.

This time MeiMei felt the fence give as Curtsy cut. And realized that Aphra was bundling the sides away, binding them in position with the baling wire from the gym bag. And she felt the fence shudder as the first dolphin nudged through it. And slid along her calf as it came out. They were out here! Right around her! She could hear and feel more movement as the herd or whatever they call them moved out through the gap in the fence, exploring his new breach in their captivity. She shook over all over, a visceral spasm to realize she was surrounded by them. Then she heard footsteps on the catwalk above.

She froze, wiped out by adrenal rush of panic mixing with whatever endorphin spasm the dolphins had triggered in her. Caught! Shit!

She looked up, saw three smooth heads break the water to stare upwards with her. Then Curtsy hit the surface and MeiMei saw that she was holding some sort of ab workout device, all metal tubes and surgical rubber. Which seemed surrealistic enough that she looked closer even as her throat pinched with fear.

Not helped when she realized that it was really a stubby spear gun in Curtsy’s hands, pointing up at the measured footsteps on the planks above their heads. With a black shaft tipped with a sharp device that had “alien ninja death device” stamped all over it. She gave up on processing information, just lay in the water shivering while the feet passed overhead, then moved on.

At some point she felt Aphra’s hand on her gooseflesh shoulder. “It’s okay now, honey. Alls we gotta do is go out the other fence and swim off.”

She looked at Curtsy again, still pointing the speargun with a grim, killer look and pose. Which relaxed as she turned back to the other two, grinning. “Pablo. Still texting that Canadian chick, I’ll bet.”

She saw MeiMei staring at the speargun, smiled and moved the spearpoint closer to her. “Trank head. Put a man so sleep even faster than a dolphin. The sort of thing I like to keep around.”

“Well, don’t forget we gotta get that gun back to SeaHawk, “Aphra muttered. “No can we, oh, I don’t know…get the fuck out of here? Less you want a goodbye fuck with your buddies?”

Curtsy’s head disappeared and re-appeared outside the fence in a remarkably quick time. MeiMei stared as the water around the blonde churned with fins and whorls, the big mammals frolicking around her. MeiMei repeated her dive under the outer fence and came to the surface sliding through glossy bodies. She surfaced a few feet from Curtsy, who had pushed her mask up on her head and was joyously slithering around the escapees. She grabbed the side fins of a big male and pushed her lips to his glistening back.

As the others watched, she surged off into the night, lying on the beast’s back with the side of her face pressed right behind his dorsal fin.

“Getting a tow job,” Aphra said from behind her. “And people call me queer.”

MeiMei watched as the dolphin pulled Curtsy south towards the boat. “She’s so happy. She’s really, like, in love with them, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, they say once you go seafood, you never go back, ” Aphra said as she nudged her into motion. “Now all we gotta do is go get what makes you happy, Chinatown.”

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Seagull, though as about as establishment-unaware as they come, still found is art, such as it was, driven by economic realities. One of which was that songs mocking out tourists are not favored in places that pay one to sing. So he rather relished serving up his latest opus for the select.

They come to the Island in the winter time
Drink tequila on the beach with salt and lime
They swing in their hammocks and laugh ’cause they know
Everybody back home is covered with snow

They’re only here for six months or so
While the weather back home is twenty below
They’re out in the sun with a smile every day
They’re the snowbirds down from the US of A.

They put on a sweater at the first sign of fall
And give their travel agent a telephone call
They wait ’til December, see what Santa Claus brings
Then they pack up their bags, and they spread out their wings.

They’re only here for six months or so
Until the hurricanes are starting to blow
They’re out in the sun with a smile every day
They’re the snowbirds down from Ontario way.

There’s Canadian sunsets and Indian summer
But Northern winters can be quite a bummer
They wait until the Superbowl and Grey Cup are lost
Then they head for the airport, whatever it costs.

They’re only here for six months or so
While Old Man Winter puts on his show
They’re out in the sun with a smile every day
They’re the snowbirds down from New York and LA.

They wear oil and bikinis, every woman and man
So they can fly back up north with their Yuca-Tan
It’s tropical heaven they all can time share
And nicer than freezing their butts off up there

They’re only here for six months or so
When hell freezes over they’re ready to go
They’re out in the sun with a smile every day
They’re the snowbirds down out of Canada, eh?

It went over better in Summer, when there were fewer gringo snowbirds in the Café Cueva, though you never knew how the sunburned, silvertipped resident set might take it, either.

But the place was pretty full for low season, and incredibly hottie-loaded. That one table over by the bookcase was one hundred percent over-the-moontang and he’d add on a few points every time the big black chick made a move. Not that he’d kick Miss Saigon there out of bed, either. Hell, he wouldn’t even toss Curtsy back to the dolphins. Amazing bunch and he was playing to their table, hard.

But not to ignore those new faces on the sofas around the coffee table in the back corner, by any means. A slender drink of water slipping around in a cotton shift that made it pretty clear it was just there like the veil on a sculpture: temporary cover up some amazing shape. Sitting right by the cutest Mayan chick he’d seen yet. I’d buy a bracelet with my name on it from her for a dollar, Seagull thought as he strummed an instrumental break. Even sing one just for her, like “You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful and you’re Mayan”? And a familiar face amongst them. Not to mention familiar tight tits, tough ass and red head. The fire-dancer he’d almost hooked up with in Uxmal two years go, but she was traveling with that sexy lezzy with the rattletop djembe. Damn! Maybe I should set my axe on fire and play with my teeth.

Copper was unaware she was being scanned by a potential musical collaborator, traveling agent, and bed-partner: she was just relaxing in the mellow, sweet, innocent Isla Vibe. She’d always doted, on the Island: the perfect combination of her kind of laid-back and unspoiled with a decent number of gringo dorks with enough money to make spinning her fireballs here an exercise in profit, not just exercise.

Beyond that, she had a certain affinity to a place where she had her own church right on the main square. Well, not really her church, though to hear some people tell it…

The combination of her name and hair color brought a spark of recognition everywhere in the area, but nowhere more than on Isla, where the main church on the plaza principál is dedicated not to the Lady of Guadalupe, but to the Virgin de la Caridad de Cobre. Unusual in Mexico, where you gradually find out that it’s barely even a Catholic country at all, in the normal sense, but manifestly a goddess cult in which Christ is revered mostly because he’s the favorite son of the original Latin Lupe Lu. But the Charity of Copper virgin cuts her action on Isla, where Lupe’s church is much smaller and located out in a colonia. Well, also located on a clifftop with Caribbean view, but prestige-wise, Copper Charity is the go-to deity on Isla and Copper got a kick out of it.

A deeper kick, that still hadn’t completely settled in the lamina of her subcon was that in Cuba, where the Virgin originally hailed from the town of Cobre, she carried a second ID, a persona she found fascinating. To a practitioner of Santeria–the Latin Caribe’s answer to voodoo–many Saints are merely hosts for powerful Id gods, AfroCarib spirits that ride people like horses but reside inside Catholic canoneers like parasite eggs injected into host grubs. The Virgin might have her sparkling white chapel and muted bells in the main square, but over the flickering lanterns and fresh-spilt blood of sacrifice she was the Goddess Oshun, and far, far from a blushing virgin bride.

Xchab had absolutely no idea what sort of place her weird new companions had dragged her to this time. It was obviously a gringo/Euro kind of place but showed none of the flash she associated with that in Cancun. In fact, it was downright shabby: old sofas, used books piled all over one wall, rough floors, burlap ceilings, counters and shelves made of what looked like driftwood or at least heavily distressed lumber. They didn’t even make your coffee for you! They brought these little glass cups of grounds in hot water and you had to push the plunger down to pour the coffee out. And how about the entertainer? He looked like a clown with his big puffball of sandy hair and his tramp clothes and taped-together glasses. And his guitar looked like it was not only used, but abused and grafittied by some minature music gang. And if wasn’t a clown, just a singer, then his singing really, truly sucked.

Loris was pretty totally happy, not that she was a hard person to make happy. She was running with maybe the best man she’d ever met, was on the trail of oXo, and absolutely loved Isla Mujeres. Their cabana at the Villa Ki’in was like a dream to her; funky living room with posters of Kahlo and Zapata opening out on a patio with cane loungers that gave onto a powdery beach sloping down to a little lagoon of calm water flushed by waves breaking over a reef. The water was clear as the air, and shallow enough that she could walk over to the reef and peek down at tiny wrasse darting in Technicolor. She’d lazed on the beach all afternoon, drinking in the sun and Bannock’s presence, but with few words spoken. Just watching Copper and Winston frolic in the water while Xchab strode solemnly around at waist depth, her long man’s shirt floating around her as she peered into the crystal water like a stalking heron. Just resting a hand on Bannock’s hairy arm and feeling him relaxing, too. And, okay, yeah, drinking a few Coronas.

And now this little place with the cool Brit couple and the knucklehead slacker singer and the Yucatan coffee and rich brownies and the feel of a sort of hideout from reality, some forgotten niche in development where you could be unwary and human. The people who came in for coffee seemed to share that feel: uncoiled, yet aware, happy to be here. The other table there, those three model-looking girls, look at them. Just young, beautiful and not a care in the world.

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The Hidalgo stretch used to be good for buskers, but now it’s a victim of its own excess. You’ve got your fake Mayans in blackface and peacock feathers blowing conch shells, your fake Peruvians with bells and whistles and “Que pasa, Condorito?”, your phony mariachis doing “Tears In Heaven” on trumpet and violin…it ain’t over ’til the fat man with the guitarrón sings. If you’re not wearing a costume or setting shit on fire, nobody even notices you.
Seagull: The Blasé Sojourner

Seagull rattled his battered blue enamelled “ranchito” cup like a crapshooter and spun his tips out on the counter of the takeout pizza joint next door. Hmm, not too shabby for summer. What that USD bill from the Beyonce babe in the straw hat was actually a fiver! Hot damn! He could have afforded a nice barbacoa sandwich at the Cueva.

But he pocketed the bill and counted out enough for a slice of pizza. He slapped the coins down on the counter and said, “There it is, hotstuff, change you can believe in.”

The beautiful Weejun (with the unfortunately big Weejun SCUBA boyfriend) scooped it up and gave him a heartstopping smile from the midnight sun and said, “Be the change you want to sponge in the world,” before popping his pepperoni and chorizo slice into the oven for a quick remelt.

That was it right there. If he wanted a change of gears, he was going to have to do it. Every stick has to shift for itself in this brut-assed world.

He was alone on stage for his second set, Congón having presumably split to Poc Na with that sanpaku Argentine hippy chick. Always hostel-friendly, our Congón. Leaving him with only what rhythm he could beat with his feet. And the crowd, if that’s what you want to call three tables, had that “heard it before, twice” look about them. The Grace Jones negress had split (and thanks for your support) but the table of hotties was still there to be schemed on. Especially the redhead. He had some ideas in that direction. Meanwhile, when your feet are in the stirrups and your ass is on the ground, best bet for a crowdpleaser is sing about about drugs.

Well I have run a few guns across somebody’s enemy lines
I’ve flown in a few tons of sinsemilla in a B-29
I’ve done Swiss-made watches and leather huaraches
Sometimes I’ve even moved a little Coke…..a Cola
I’m just supply demand without the duty or the excise man

Not bad, not bad, hit em with a hooky chorus and it’s chicken in the pot.

I’ll be makin’ a break from takin’ over contraband
I might trade you this hash for some cash and a Volkswagen van
I’ll be heading for the border with my papers in order
Taking my departure south of Puerto Vallarta
Gonna get myself nice down in Smugglers’ paradise

And now the bridge to Tipville.

There are rusty old freighters sitting down at the dock
Full of Panama red, full of Peruvian rock
Seaplanes loaded with their quota of imported booze
There are shadowy bars with flamenco guitars
Señoritas with their eyes like stars…
I just think I could use some kind of tropical kind of a cruise

It’s just the right site for living high while you’re lying low
If you’re feeling flush or had a brush with the Border Patrol
So mellow out on that beach and reach for that Mescalito
Drink something cold and wet and watch the sun set on Smugglers Cove

And one more for the baby’s new shoes

Just gimme one more shot of that Jose Cuervo
And I’ll be headin’ on down, to the boundry of Mexico
One more bottle of Tequila to go
I’ll find the salt and the lemon and the women
Down in Smugglers Cove

He hit the retirees up front first, and glommed a couple of bucks out of sheer confusion. The Aerofloters chipped in a few kopeks or bukniks or whatever the change house wouldn’t accept, then he was moving on the Babetable. The big guy wasn’t around, which embolded Seagull considerably. That guy looked like he could strike highway flares on the tip of his dick and crunch your ass up like a stale dinner mint.

But present company seemed nice enough. The Andie McDowell-looking brunette gave him a five and TKO smile, the Indita stared but didn’t scalp his ass or anything, and the redhead–what the hell was her name? Cher? Chastity? Cash N. Carrie?–dropped him a few few pesos and that look you get from other people who work for gratuitous gratuities. So he laid it on her. “I remember you.”

She fluffed her pile of coppery coils, pushed her chest forward almost imperceptibly and drawled, “Most people do.”

“Great fire dancer. You were working the tourbus crowds at the ruins with a guy playing a samba rig.”

“He was hot, too. Shame he was a total asshole.”

“Who’s drumming you now?”

Another lingering look. Looking mostly down. “I don’t really take applications. As such.”

“Look I can do the beat. I’m not in the league with Cagón there, but not many are. And I’m only a partial asshole. Forty percent, tops.”

The brunette chuckled at that, a soft song like a creek turning pebbles. Copper–that was it! Copper!–gave a half smile and said, “Gonna beat on your box?”

“I drum too, you know. I’ve got a dumbek and I’m not afraid to use it.”

He could see the blowoff coming, so he blurted out. “Look, I know where we can make some good money before high season. I’m starving here and I’m guessing you’re not doing much better. There’s gonna be a film festival down in Playa…”

“I heard about it.”

“Couple of weeks off. Meanwhile, we could work sunset at the beach, do a wedding or two, after hours at the CasaBlanca. Make some coin, shake down the act, go down and wow the Mexi-moguls.”

Copper gave him a long evaluation this time. He stood still for it. You work with somebody like this, truck the road together, it’s not like a blind date or something. He saw a slight softening in her face, a semblance of a yawn.

The brunette must have seen it, too, because she said, “Would you like some coffee or something?”

Then he felt the bruiser behind him, a sort of dark heaviness he associated with a rough hand on his shoulder and footwear up his butt. But Copper looked past him and smiled at the guy. Said, “Hey Bannock, this is Seagull. We’re going to be working together.”

Hey, she remembered him, too!

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