“You have no intention of hunting quail, Mike,” Jimi Sanchex said one evening as he, Mike Sandford, and Freddie Dawson sat around a small fire.  The air was warm for January, sixty degrees at dusk with a low predicted to flirt with forty-five.  Sandford, who divided his time between LA, New York, and his native Pittsburgh, wore a sleeveless hunting vest over a sweat shirt.  Dawson, who grew up believing sixty-five was an Arctic cold blast, pulled his leather around him and rubbed his arms.

Sandford, whose face looked even craggier in the light of the flames than it normally did, opened the breach on his shotgun and checked the barrel.  “What makes you say that, Jimbo?”

 “Well, for starters...”  Sanchex pointed at Dawson.  “You brought the bastard child of Sammy Hagar and Dee Snider with you.”

 “Hey!” said Dawson.  “Sammy got his look from me.”

 “Sammy was singing 'Rock Candy' for Montrose while you were still jerking off to your Farah Fawcett poster,” said Sanchex.  “Anyway, Mike, that's not a quail gun.  What you got is a thirty-aught-six, more for deer hunting.  Which is out of season around here.”

Sandford closed the breach and brought up the gun, aiming it at nothing in particular, his eye on the site.  “You don't say?  Ever been hunting in Pennsylvania?”

 “Of course, not,” said Sanchex.  “But they don't hunt quail in Pennsylvania.  They hunt deer and rabbit and duck.”

Sandford handed the weapon to Sanchex.  “Very good, drummer boy.  I did my homework, though.  And there's a reason I brought this cannon along on a quail-hunting trip.”

Dawson finally got up and shoved his hands in his pockets.  “I can't hold out anymore.”  He disappeared into his tent.

 “When was his last hit?” asked Sanchex.

“Before we left,” said Sandford.  “Yesterday.”

“And he's just now getting the shakes?”

“I got him drunk in Ensenada.”

“So what's the thirty-aught-six for?”

Sandford smiled.  “You know the old song  that says, 'Whittle you into kindlin'.'  We... You, me, and Coke Boy in there, are here to do some whittlin' into kindlin'.”

Sanchex eyes widened.  “Cal?”

Sandford smiled.  It was an old man's smile.  Never mind that he wasn't much older than Sanchex.

“Mike, I've seen the audits,” said Sanchex.  “All of them.  I met with Todd's manager before we left.  She showed me the receipts.”

Sandford nodded.  “Yeah.  We're all supposed to be very rich men, with Kath one very rich woman.”

“It's bad, Mike, but a shotgun?  Why not just sue his fat ass and take all his assets?”

Sandford tilted his head up, looking toward Dawson's tent.  “Yo, Freddo!  When you're done burning out your sinuses in there, bring Jimi the envelope.  Time Jimi knew what we really came here to hunt.”

“Just a sec,” Dawson yelled back.  Sanchex swore he could hear Dawson sniffing.

“I'd be happy just to sue him, Jimi.”  Sandford leaned forward with his elbows on his arms.  “Todd and I'd both take a hit on the legal fees.  Christ, Todd's practically the fifth fucking Beatle even after twenty years.”

“But...”

“But that's not the issue we have with Cal.”

Dawson sniffed twice and pinched his nose, rubbing it hard between his thumb and forefinger.  “You guys are right.  I should hit Betty Ford before the next tour.  This stuff's wrecking the inside of my nose.”

“You said that before the last tour,” said Sanchex, reaching for the brown envelope in Dawson's other hand.  “And you're still putting half your royalties up your nose.”

“Well, it'd only be a quarter of them if we knew what the fuck Cal did with our money.”  He handed Sanchex the envelope.  “You remember Wendy the intern.  Right?  Worked at the studio for the last eighteen months?”

“Yeah, she quit three months ago without notice.”

“Well,” said Sandford, “there's a reason behind that.  And a reason Todd's daughter doesn't want to hang with daddy’s rock star buddies anymore.”

Sanchex opened the envelope. What he saw almost knocked him over.

“Gloria.”


*****


Sanchex camped with Dawson and Sandford on a mountain inside a national park that night.  The next morning, they left their campsite to trod down the well-marked trails designed for gringo turistas who couldn't find their own asses without a wooden sign pointing them to the nearest parking lot.  At the bottom, Sanchex led them out of the park and onto private property.  The owner didn't mind.  Sanchex's father grew up with him before leaving Baja for California in the fifties.  All one had to say was, “I'm with the Sanchexes” to gain access.

Sanchex, though, had to lead them up this mountain.  It had no clearly marked trails, no signs pointing to the parking lot, no ranger station.  He had to stop several times to get his bearings.

“The way the weeds grow,” he said, watching his bandmates trudge up toward him, “the trails sometimes shift.  And it's been two or three years since I came down here.”

It took an hour, but Sanchex found his family's favorite camping spot.  Sure enough, a tent and the remains of a fire awaited them.

“This it?” asked Dawson, not bothering to wait before disappearing into the tent.

“Has to be,” said Sanchex.  “This is where my dad and my brother used to come.  It's the only place on the mountain I've told anyone about.”

“It's him,” said Dawson, emerging with a passport.  “Who brings these to Mexico, anyway?”

Sanchex put up his hand.  “Guilty.  Well, you try explaining to an American border guard how a guy named Sanchex can be an Uh-Mer-kin.”

“Stock up on Johnny Cash tapes,” said Sandford, sitting down heavily on a log.  “I started bringing those with me, it's like flying first class through Customs.”

Sanchex shot a glance at Dawson, trying to picture the keyboard player actually buying Johnny Cash, much less admitting to anyone he had the tapes.  Dawson had stopped, Sanchex thought, to tie his boot laces.  When he came up, however, he had a burlap sack.  Something moved in the bottom of it.

“Souvenir,” said Dawson.

Sanchex shook his head and wondered when Dawson would finally get bit by one of the rattlers prowling the mountain.

It took another hour, but they came upon a clearing Sanchex remembered from childhood.  The remains of a fire smoldered in the middle of a shabbily erected campsite.  Sanchex and Sandford caught each other's glance.  They recognized the Army surplus tent.  They also recognized the shoddy way it had been erected.

“So where is he?” asked Dawson.

Off in the distance, a shotgun roared.  Sanchex cocked his ear and listened.  He could hear the faint babbling of excited quail off in the distance.

“I'd say our boy is hunting,” he said.  “Mike?”

Sandford dropped the two rifle bags and unpacked the 30.06 from the previous night.  Out of the other came a Winchester .22 with a scope on it.

“Laser,” said Sandford, “not that you'd need one to hit that fat ass.  You know where he is?”

“From the sound of it,” said Sanchex, “I can guess.  He's the typical gringo tourist, likes to stay in easy areas.”

“Is there good cover up there?”

“Good enough for us.”

“Let's go.”

Dawson held up his burlap sack, watching whatever it was he caught squirm inside.  “You guys run on ahead.  I'll wait for you here.”

Sanchex rolled his eyes.  “Should have brought Dave or Todd.”

“Well, they preach forgiveness in rehab,” said Mike, “and this trip is not about forgiveness.”

The fat man knelt in the blind.  Sanchex knelt behind a tree, Sandford standing behind him.  Two quail wandered out into the open.  Sanchex sited the 30.06.  The fat man raised his shotgun.  Sanchex shifted his angle.  Both men fired.

“Holy God!”  The fat man dived left as the quail took off over the valley.  Just above the fat man, several inches of tree bark had disappeared.  “Hey, who the fuck's...  Jimi?  Mike?  What's going on?”

“Even here in Baja,” said Sanchex, “it's still considered smart to wear an orange vest, Calvin.”

Calvin Grant got to his feet, grunting with the effort and winded when he was upright.  “Really?  Where's yours?”

“We're not hunting quail,” said Sandford.  “You've really been down here for two weeks?”

“Not here on the mountain,” said Grant, “but yeah, I've been in the area.  Say, Mike, what's this I hear about your wife doing some production with that new band out of Seattle...  What are they called?”

“Nirvana,” said Sandford.  “And right now, Kath's work is the least of your concerns.”

Grant's gaze moved from Sandford to Sanchex.  “What's he talking about, Jimi?”

“How's the hunting?” said Sanchex, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Er...  Fine.  No, really, guys, what are you doing here?”

“This property belongs to a friend of my father's,” said Sanchex.  “You now that.  I was the one who told you where it was.”

“Is there a problem?  I thought as long as I dropped the name 'Sanchex,' everything was cool.”

“It is, as far as the owner goes.”  He turned and headed back toward Grant's encampment.  “Come on.  I want some coffee.”

“And Freddie might have already OD'd,” said Sandford.

“You brought Freddie along?” said Grant.  “Little new agey peacenik Freddie Dawson?  Why?”

“Boy's gotta grow up some time,” said Sandford.

Grant pushed his way ahead.  “Well, good.  I'm glad you guys showed up anyway.  Jimi, I think your secret's out.  This mountain seems to be overhunted.  How've you guys been doing?  Have you bagged any quail yet?”

Sanchex dropped back and rammed the stock of his shotgun into the back of Grant's skull.  The fat man dropped instantly.

“Oh, I think we have more than we came for.”


*****


Cal Grant's eyes opened, then widened, when Sanchex stuck the double-barrel in his mouth.

“Comfy?” said Sanchex.  He watched as Grant squirmed inside the sleeping bag.  While Grant was under, Sanchex and Dawson stuffed him in the sleeping bag and zipped him up.  Grant stirred a few times, but drifted back under.  Sandford tied Grant up in a bag and backed away to let Sanchex put the gun in his face.

“Jesus, Jimi!” he said.  “What the fuck are you...?  Did you guys tie me up?”

Sanchex pumped the 30.06 once.  “Shut up.”

“What the hell's going on?  Mike?  Freddie?  Why are you...”  The barrels collided with his nose.  Blood started to seep out.

“I said shut up,” said Sanchex.  When Grant fell silent, he continued.  “Do you know Mike's net worth?”

“Of course,” said Grant.  “I'm his manager.”

“You're the band's manager,” said Sandford.  “I have my own manager to handle my business affairs.”

“Yeah,” said Sanchex.  “And he's a bit upset with you.  Wanna know why?”

Grant started to shake.  “It's not my fault Changing Patterns didn't do as well as your other albums.”

“Oh, you know why, then?”  Sanchex squatted next to him.  “Changing Patterns sold well over two million units in the US, half a million in the UK, and another million in Europe.  Mike's take alone, not counting the tour last year should have been...  How much should you have made?”

“Are we counting Kath and I together?” asked Sandford.

“Sure, why not.  Cal's been fucking her harder than you have.”

“Yeah.  I believe that's called rape, but we'll settle for fraud.”

“What are you saying?” said Grant.  “You think I've been skimming from you and Kathy?”

“To the tune,” said Sanchex, “of nine hundred twenty-six thousand five hundred eighty-two dollars and sixty-seven cents.”  He nudged Grant's bloody nose again.  “That’s just their share.  You owe me a million three, Cal.  Most people can retire on that.  Where is it?”

“Dave took it out in producer's fees for Changing Patterns,” said Grant, sounding more and more like he had a cold as his nose swelled.  “I tried to warn you...”

Forget the gun.  Sanchex rammed the heel of his right palm into Grant's face.  The nose snapped and spurted blood all over Sanchex's hunting vest.

“Hey, hey,” said Sandford.  “Beat his ass, and they'll ask questions when they find him.

Sanchex grabbed a rock.  “Fuck him!”

Sandford jumped up and grabbed his arm.  “No questions, Jimi.  That's what we talked about last night.”

“What did you talk about last night?” asked Grant, sounding more like Whuddib you dog aboud das dide?

“For starters,” said Sandford, “David Kramer's producers fees.  We all paid him up front.  Or we thought we did.”

“Money never hit his account,” said Sanchex.  “What do you have to say to that?”

“Someone's lying.”  Summunz lyind.

Sanchex shook his head.  “Three audits turned up nothing.  Mike's manager took a look.  Todd's manager did, and you know what a prick she is when you mess with his money.”

“They're lying.”  Dere lyind.

“But Arthur fucking Anderson isn't.  We authorized double the normal producers fees for Dave in lieu of his performance royalties.  So Dave would get paid first.  Only he never got paid.”

Sandford put up his hand.  “Save it.  The guys from Arthur Anderson traced the money back to a bank in Panama.  Guess who's name was on it.”

“I'm sorry, man.  I'll pay it back.”

“You already have.”

Grant's wide-eyed stare clouded.

“Our new manager got a court order seizing your account.  See, you didn't cover your fat ass very well, Cal.  All we had to do was convince your wife to cough up the account numbers and access codes, and we all can go back to being millionaire dinosaurs again.”

“New manager?” said Grant, surprisingly coherent.

“The band took a vote,” said Sandford.  “And when we go back into Ensenada, we're going to tell Rolling Stone that the only way we could keep Jimi in the band was to make his wife the manager.”

“Rene?  Her?”

“Her,” said Sanchex.  “It was between her and Sharon Osbourne, and frankly, Sharon scares us. That or Ozzy still owes a bar tab to Dave.  I never know with that guy.”

“You tied me up to tell me I'm fired?”  You died be ub do dell be I'd viad?

“Um, no.  I'll get to why you're trussed up like a plump, juicy quail in a minute.”  Sanchex stood.  “Yo!  Freddo!”

Dawson emerged from Grant's tent with the burlap sack in one hand and a baggie of white powder in another.  He looked down at Grant, staring at his bleeding nose, then held up the baggie in front of Grant.  “Hey, Cal,” he said, sniffing.  “Wanna toot?  I have to use this up before I check into Betty Ford.”

“Fuck you, Dawson.”  Fugyu, Dawdon.

“Suit yourself.”  He tossed the last of the coke on the fire, then reached into his pants for an envelope he handed Sanchex.

Sanchex pulled out a couple of pictures and held them up in front of Grant.  “Look familiar?”

Grant started to tremble again.  He began sobbing, a bloody bubble forming at the corner of his nose.

“That's you, Cal,” said Sanchex.  “And my daughter.  And my daughter looks scared.”

“Please...  It's not what you think?”

“You're dick is in my daughter's ass, and she's clearly terrified.  What?  She tripped and fell in your lap?”

“Don't shoot me!”  Don zhud be.

Sanchex smiled.  “We're not going to shoot you.  In fact, Cal, we're through.  You will never see us again.”

Grant's eyes darted wildly back and forth, focusing on Sanchex, then Dawson, then Sandford.  Finally, his gaze settled on the writhing burlap sack in Dawson's hand.

“Snakes,” said Sanchex, “like the warm.  They look for bodies to snuggle up to.  Sometimes, they've been known to bite a camper as he rouses from sleep.”

Dawson shoved the sack into the sleeping bag.  Sanchex caught sight of the diamondback's rattler as Dawson pulled the sack away.  Grant began thrashing about inside the sleeping bag, restrained by the ropes outside of it.

“The sleeping bag should prevent any ligature marks,” said Dawson.  “I read that somewhere.”

“Pretty smart,” said Sanchex as Grant spasmed.  He knelt down again.  “Hey, Cal, did I forget to mention that thrashing only makes them bite more?”  When Grant spasmed again, he added.  “That's what?  Three times?  He should be out of venom by now.”

Grant, his eyes losing focus, mouthed “Why?” at Sanchex.

“You rape my daughter ask why?”  He spit in Grant's face.  “Fuck you.  I oughta take a crap on your face just as you die.”

Dawson snickered.  “Hey, a dirty Sanchex.”

“Shut up,” said Sanchex.  “Too bad you didn't stop at stealing from us.  We'd have just sued you into oblivion.” He leaned in until he was almost nose to broken nose with Grant.  “But you hurt my little girl.  A man once did that to my sister.”  He stood.  “He's buried over by that tree.”

Dawson and Sandford knelt down and cut the ropes around Grant.  Grant's breathing became labored.  His thrashing had become twitching.  Dawson put the ropes in his sack and threw it over his shoulder.  Sandford and Sanchex packed up their guns and quietly walked back down the mountain.

“Think they'll find him?” said Dawson.

“The bears'll get him first,” said Sandford.  “That bloody nose of his will attract them.”

“I just killed a guy.”

“We just killed a guy.”

“We just slayed a dragon,” said Sanchex.  “That's what I'm going to tell my little girl.”

Dawson hung back as he watched the two older men walk down the slope.  “I just killed a guy.”  

He thought he overheard Sandford tell Sanchex they should have whittled him into kindlin'.