Greasing the Piñata by Tim Maleeny

eyes off the fireman and the woman with the silver dollar nipples, he muttered something in Spanish and cocked the gun.
    Cyrano held up his hands and retreated to the door. “OK, OK. Jesus.” Then to Cape, “What’s your problem?”
    Cape shrugged. “I like making people uncomfortable.”
    “It’s unprofessional,” snapped Cyrano, darting a glance toward Mustache. “I’m trying to do a job here.”
    “Complain to the union.”
    “Get fuckin’ dressed.” Cyrano didn’t bother to flash the taser. “Just cause I don’t want to carry you to the car doesn’t mean I won’t.”
    “You got a bad back?”
    “I’m counting to thirty.” Cyrano shifted his eyes to Mustache, who had managed to keep his gun up but angle his chair so he had a better view of the television.
    Cape returned to the closet and traded his shorts for a pair of slacks, slipped on a pair of loafers. He paused and leaned against the door frame for a minute, as casually as he could. He’d been hit much harder before, but a shot you weren’t ready for hurt like hell. He could almost feel the bruise forming as a dull ache radiated from his internal organs across his side.
    He grabbed a light jacket, left his wallet but grabbed some cash. Old habit, he felt naked without cash in his pocket. Maybe he’d survive the night and need a cab home. Maybe they’d pass a fast food joint and ask if he wanted anything. Maybe he’d bribe a helicopter pilot to fly him to Neverland.
    “Ready when you are.”
    On the television, a guy dressed as a plumber was struggling to control a leaky faucet that had caused all the dish soap to form bubbles that overflowed the sink, ran across the floor, and enveloped a startled housewife who conveniently was wearing a white shirt with no bra.
    While Mustache’s eyes were on the screen, Cyrano drew his own gun, but Mustache barely registered it. Either he knew Cyrano would never shoot him or he belonged to an obscure cult that believed the last thing you saw in this life would be the first thing you’d see in the next. They stood there until the bubble scene ended, guns pointed half-heartedly at each other in an obligatory tough guy dance. Even then it took Cyrano a good five minutes to convince his partner they had to leave.
    The three men strolled through the lobby like old friends. Cape knew there was no percentage in causing a scene. If they had wanted to do this the hard way, he’d be wrapped in a rug and thrown into a trunk. No matter how many angles he tried to consider, he couldn’t find an advantage to that one. Might as well see what’s behind the curtain.
    The car was a black Escalade, an SUV only slightly smaller than Texas that handled like an oil tanker. Cape sat in the back next to Cyrano, who had the taser in his right hand, his gun holstered. Mustache drove.
    The route cut through town, past restaurants interspersed with stores selling authentic Mexican souvenirs made in China. Once the yellow lights and faded neon of the restaurants were behind them, Mustache turned right and headed away from downtown Puerto Vallarta into the hills overlooking the bay. The climb was steep, and Cape was surprised at how quickly the trappings of tourism slipped away and the natural vegetation took back the land. The trees grew thick, covered in vines that looked like snakes in the half-light from the moon. As they drove deeper into the hills the road turned back on itself, each curve offering a smaller glimpse of the ocean below.
    “Isn’t this where they filmed
Night Of The Iguana
?”
    Cyrano didn’t bother to look out the window. “You’re asking the wrong guy.”
    “Richard Burton, directed by John Huston,” said Cape. “It’s a classic.”
    “Got any sports in it?”
    “Like soccer?” asked Cape. “None.”
    “I guess soccer’s a sport these days,” said Cyrano grudgingly, “but I was thinkin’ baseball. I only watch baseball movies.”
    Cape frowned. “I didn’t realize there were that