Lucky Numbers

Sandy shook her head. “No, thanks. This will be plenty.” She picked up her fork and began eating, then laid her fork on the plate and gave Ed an intense look. “I’m sorry about what I said last night. You didn’t deserve that. I know you were trying to help me and God knows I probably can use some help.” She picked up her fork again, then laid it back down. “I don’t know how the drinking thing started. I guess I was bored or something and Bart was always willing to accommodate me. Maybe he’s thinking that I’ll be drunk one of these days and he’ll get me in bed and…” She couldn’t look him in the eye.
“Exactly what I’ve been worrying about,” he said. “I’d hate for that to happen. You’re not that kind of girl.” He paused. “And you and I have always been close. We’ve always been able to talk things out, but now it’s different. It’s like suddenly we’ve become strangers—hell, we haven’t had sex in weeks.”
Sandy cast her eyes down.
He went on. “You know I love you and I’d be devastated if…you know…something happened that wrecked our marriage.” He became more animated as he spoke, reaching for her hands and holding them tightly. “I don’t think you’d be very happy with yourself if you let…” He couldn’t bear to say it aloud.
Sandy returned his earnest gaze. “That’s not going to happen. C’mon, you know me better than that. Besides, Bart hasn’t made a move on me. He just wants a tennis partner and someone to talk to.”
“What about his wife? Doesn’t he talk to her?”
“They’re separated. She’s living in a condo in Beverly Hills. I’m sorry. I should have told you that.”

Regardless of her good intentions to stop the drinking and spend more time with Ed, Sandy nonetheless played tennis with Bart—almost every day. And Ed kept on sailing almost every day. Within a month their relationship was back to what it had been before their talk. Sandy spent more time with Bart and started drinking again in the afternoons, coming home more than just a little tipsy. Sometimes, she’d come home and fall into bed and the lovely dinner for two the cook had prepared was enjoyed only by Ed. In another month Ed was eating and sleeping on his boat, then heading out to sea early in the morning. Life on the water was much more serene than spending time with Sandy. He hated what was happening to them and their marriage, and yet he was unwilling to do something about it.
When on the odd occasion they were together for a meal, they very rarely talked to one another other about anything beyond the mundane. They would discuss the children, or household matters, but little else. By the time the meal was over, Sandy would have consumed a bottle of wine and conversation with her would become pointless. They no longer shared a bed.
Sandy was not unaware of what was happening but felt powerless to change the course of events. She knew she was drinking too much, maybe seeing Bart too much as well. Some days she would make up her mind to change the direction of her life, and so she would stay at home or drive to LA and go shopping. She ended up buying things she didn’t need or, for that matter, didn’t want. More often than not, she would leave her purchases in the back of her car where they would remain for weeks. When she did finally remove them, she would throw the parcels in a closet and there they remained.
Sandy made an effort to avoid Bart, but he persisted in coming to her house, knowing that Ed wouldn’t be there and that Sandy would offer coffee and then he would invite her to lunch where the meal would be preceded by a Bloody Mary or two and a bottle of good wine with lunch followed by some port or something stronger. It became habitual—a ritual that was repeated almost every day. By the time Bart brought her back home, she wasn’t just tipsy. She was staggering drunk.
One afternoon in early May, after tennis and lunch followed by some even more serious drinking than usual, Sandy was so intoxicated that Bart had to carry her to the car. Then he carried her into her bedroom, laying her carefully on the bed. He laid a light blanket over her and turned to leave but then looked back at her snoring softly into the pillow. Bart, feeling no pain from his share of the afternoon’s imbibing, decided that he should make her more comfortable. He began to undress her and in the process she awoke.
“Hey, what are you doing?” she asked, grabbing her tennis dress before he could raise it over her hips.

In a small house off the Boulevard Rosedo G. Castro in the city of Los Mochis in the Mexican state of Sinaloa, Flaco Guzman and Lalo Medina sat at the kitchen table drinking tequila. Lime skins were piled high in a bowl and acrid cigarette smoke hung like smog in the dingy room. Their conversation was in Spanish.
Flaco, hearing the front door open, jumped up and pulled the pistol from his waistband. “Chuy?” he called out.
Chuy Aguilar ambled into the kitchen carrying a case of beer. He looked at Flaco. “Put that gun away, you tarado. What’s with you anyway?” Chuy started putting the beer in the refrigerator, the clanking bottles echoing in the nearly empty space. He looked over his shoulder. “Flaco, I said put the fucking gun away before you kill someone.”
Flaco stuck the pistol back in his pants.
Lalo laughed, “Don’t rag on him, Chuy. The poor bastard is already so jumpy— ”
Flaco glared at Lalo. “Shut up, you skinny chimba.”
Chuy brought four beers to the table and sat down. “Where’s Gordo?” Gordo—Ramon Delgado— was the fourth member of Chuy’s gang.
Flaco and Lalo looked at each other nervously.
“He’s in the bedroom with the gringos,” Flaco said. “We told him to leave them alone, but…well, you know Gordo.”
Chuy bellowed at the closed door, “Hey, pinche, get your fat ass out here. We have business to do.”
“In a minute, Chuy,” came the muffled reply.
Chuy slammed his chair back and strode to the door. Flinging it open, he yelled, “God damn you, Gordo, I told you to leave the girl alone.”