Six Bad Things

I lift the box onto the scale and Mercedes makes a little woof sound when it tips in at over sixty kilos. She makes the sound again when I hand her the Airway Bill and she sees the destination. Like most service workers in Cancun, her English is good. She says everything with a little song. I like it.

– Lotta money.

I sing back at her.

– Lotta money. You got that right.

She giggles, smoothes the various shipping labels onto the box, hands me my copies, and rings me up for something more than two thousand pesos. I pay in dollars. No big deal in Cancun. She takes another look at the invoice.

– Your friend likes to read.

– I don’t know, he just bought ’em from me.

– eBay?

– Yeah.

– I love eBay. Bought these on eBay.

She’s pointing at her earrings. I bend down to get a closer look. They’re little Miami Dolphins dolphins, leaping through the air, wearing tiny football helmets.

– Fins. Alright. Hell of a year, huh?

– Oh sure, but now…

– Yeah, I know, late season, but they look good with Taylor.

– Oh!

She jumps up and down a little.

– Miles! I love him! He’s so cute.

She stops jumping.

– But his ankle now.

– What?

– His ankle.

Oh no.

– Please don’t tell me.

– On the TV last night. Sportscenter. Very bad.

The Pakmail is right in the middle of a giant strip mall, so it only takes a minute or two for me to find a news kiosk with a copy of today’s Miami Herald. It’s on the front page: “Taylor’s Ankle Fractured, Docs Say Four Weeks Minimum.”

THE FOOTBALL season is a long season. It’s not as long as the baseball season and they only play a tenth as many games, but the abuse your average starting football player absorbs in one game is at least equivalent to what a baseball player suffers in ten or twenty. Thus, one of the keynotes of prevailing wisdom among NFL coaches: as the season waxes, the practices wane.

– So this moron, this spastic that they actually pay to coach the team, decides the guys weren’t hitting hard enough on Sunday when the Pats were making their run. So what’s he do? He calls contact drills. Contact drills in fucking December! So the starting defense is out there, ru

I pause long enough to light a smoke and inhale half of it.

– Walker bounces right back up and heads for the field, shit-eating grin on his face, ready to huddle up with the D and brag about the massive knock he just put on that pussy scrub. Dumb shit can’t figure out why everyone is standing around on the field, their faces white, staring at something behind him. So he turns to take a look and gets steamrolled by the entire starting offensive line, who have just watched him take out their bread and butter, the guy who has been helping them to earn their bonuses. And all those D boys, the ones who have been ru

I inhale the second half of my cigarette.

– I swear to God, I swear to fucking God, if I ever see that fucking retard coach walking down the street, I’m go

– So is that what you called to talk about?

I breath deep and get my shit back together.

– No, Timmy, it’s not.

– Oh. So what’s up then?

– What’s up is I’m sending you a package.

– You’re sending me what?

– I’m sending you a package.

– What package?

I’m standing at the pay phone in a Pemex near the Cancun airport. From here I can see the billboards for T.G.I. Fridays, Senior Frogs, the Bulldog Cafe, etc., that line the road to downtown. My pulse is still racing from my rant about Miles Taylor’s ankle, so I light another cigarette. ’Cause, hey, that’ll calm me down.

– Timmy, I’m sending you the money.

Silence.

– Timmy?

– Are you fucking nuts?

– Look, I’ve thought about this.

I have thought about it. A lot. And it breaks down like this:

A) Tim is an ex-junkie. He is an alcoholic. He is a deliveryman for a drug dealer. He lives in Las Vegas. He is clearly the last man on earth any sane person would send four million dollars to.

B) Tim knows where I am. He knows about the money. He knows about the several rewards available for information leading to my capture. He knows about the money the Russians would pay for my head. And for the years he has been privy to this information, he has kept his mouth shut.

C) I am going to cross the border into the United States illegally. I ca

D) I. Can. Not. Be. Caught. With. The. Money.

– I DON’T care if you’ve thought about it, I don’t want that shit anywhere near me. This is fucking Vegas. Did you know people out here train themselves to smell money? No fucking joke, I mean, I was happy to get outta Gotham and lie low and all, especially seeing as it’s on your dime, but I am not pla