'6:14 a.m.' states the cheap electronic watch. The bus is late again. The western part of the Tihuana slums seems peaceful when the day is young. The tranquil view of empty decadent streets and the dim promise of a better day force a smile on Mat's melancholic face. He keeps touching the envelope Hector gave him in the inner pocket of his coat.
He sees the old bus in the distance on his right hand side, a cloud of dust behind it, out of which a sports car rushes out, its engine roaring. The gorgeous white Nissan GTR with its pricey modifications makes a statement about its owner in this part of the world. He is not to be trifled with.
The Nissan aggressively parks in front of Mat. Its dark window slides down and to reveal Marty's bold head and sly smile.
"What's up!", the gangster shouts!
"Hey, man", Mat replies, trying to hide his fatigue.
"Get in the car, I'll take you to the L.A. today."
"You don't have to, Marty. I'm taking the bus."
"Man, fuck that bus. Get in the fucking car, there's a lot of heat on our ass lately and be need to talk too."
The bus stops behind the sports car and horns. It's in the bus stop space. Is the driver crazy? Doesn't he know better than to horn at gangsters?
Marty almost climbs out of the car window. "Fuck you! I'll kill you and your family and your pet goldfish, you fucking dead man!" The rest is in Spanish, Mat can't figure it out. He should learn the damn language already.
The startled bus driver hastily drives off without even allowing his passengers to step down.
"Now you leave me no choice, man", says Mat, obviously irritated.
Marty laughs hysterically. "Come on dude, you're gonna be late for your doctor's appointment!"
On the way to the border there's absolute silence. The border control is uncommonly tight this time but after a half-hour of checking the car and interrogating the two, they are allowed to move on.
On the way to Los Angeles Marty shows off his extensive collection of Latino hip-hop and his knowledge of the lyrics too. All Mat does is try to refuse offers of cocaine by Marty who sniffs it frequently off the dashboard and howls like a maniac. What a headache!
Just before entering the city, the music stops.
"Mat, I need you to be extra careful today. You're my boy, I trust you and that's why you gotta know that the cartel is in a war right now and sooner or later, you and me, we're getting involved."
"War? Isn't that a constant thing?"
"This time it's different, dude. Wake up, it's a new world out there. It's all high-tech shit out there. Cartels are not about land and plantations anymore. It's about having the technology and the right people for the job. There's this other faction that's moving in on all the cartels. They've been hitting strategic targets and buying or scaring off even the most loyal members of the cartel families. Something big's coming, I can feel it."
"Man, I just work for you guys, I'm not part of you, I'll never be part of your gang or cartel or whatever you want to call it", Mat declares. "I mean no disrespect to you, I thank you for giving me this job and all, but I can't be doing this much longer, you know it's going to kill me soon, right? Whatever comes this way, just try and keep me out of it."
"But you're not out of it, dude", Marty insist. "They're coming for you. You're a special guy for us and they know it. You'll be contacted by someone soon and cause you can't be scared off, they'll try to buy you off."
Mat tries to decide if Marty knows about his contact with Hector and he is just playing with him or if he really doesn't know anything. Was it Hector he was talking about or is there something else out there ready to intrude his bad yet simple lifestyle? Is he in danger? Who to trust now that things are getting a bit more complicated with the promise of getting even more so?
Not a word crosses them until they reach the posh East L.A. clinic. In the elevator, Mat contemplates on Marty's last suggestion: "Go to the doctor now, get your blood processed. I can't take you back later, gotta stay here run some errands. Call me later for a drink." He's never asked him out to socialize before.
The elevator doors slide open to a huge marble sign in a modern-minimal hall saying "Patrick J. Schneider, Creating Beauty". Just another glorified plastic surgeon with a telent for marketing. The huge bright hall leads to a modern lounge area where numerous high class older women make small talk, probably boasting about their new silicone addition, desperately trying to cover their unjustifiably miserable boring life. They completely ignore his presence. He doesn't look their level.
After enduring an hour of annoying blabbering and reading annoying lifestyle magazines, a hot nurse walks in.
"Next appointment, Mr Jacobson?"
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