Archive of Our Own

He woke up with a hard tap to his temple. He scrunched up his eyes, and he doesn’t have to open them to tell its bright and blazing, courtesy of the midday Albuquerque sun. His back was raw and scorching—he’d been dragged across the sand while he’d been knocked out.

He groaned, his head was shot with pain, hangover probably.

A finger brushed his eyelid and gently peeled his eye open. Howard instinctively turned his face away, but the finger–-the man—grabbed his jaw and held it center.

He opened his eyes. The man was holding a metal canteen. Water. Howard lets him pry his jaw open, tilt it back, and the water trickles down his throat. It was old and gritty and disgustingly warm, but he was only too happy to let it wash away the aching of his throat. Some of it dribbles out of his mouth, and Howard feels his last shreds of dignity slip away.

Normally, a catastrophe of this degree in front of his associates would’ve cost him his peace of mind for the rest of the week, but he hardly cared anymore at this point. He hadn’t had anything--besides alcohol to drink since the little coffee—the cortado, Howard remembered, that he had yesterday morning, which was beginning to feel like a world away.

The man let Howard drink, tutting him for swallowing too fast. Howard choked out a hoarse thank you, but it came out more or less as an incoherent gasp.

The man looked at him, confused.

Howard thinks he might not have heard him too clearly. He tried again in the man's native language, flipping through his meager vocabulary. He pointed at himself. “Gracias. Por el agua,” he said, pathetically. He hoped his inflection was okay.

Apparently, it was enough. The man snorted, amused.

“No problem, man. Gotta keep you alive. Can’t have the buzzards eat your eyeballs, huh?”
He chuckled, probably encouraging Howard to laugh, though this only gave Howard the opposite impression.

“Whatever. Forget it. Hey, smile! Nothing’s gonna happen to you,” he said, seeing Howard’s terrified expression. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card.

Howard felt a flash of indignation. That was his!

Looking up from the card, the man studied Howard’s face.
“You’re worth a lot, you know…”

“...Charles McGill”, he drawled. His eyes darted across the logo. His brow furrowed in confusion.

“Or wait, hold on, is it Hamlin? Which one of you is it?”

Howard opened his mouth to speak, but the man interupted him.
“Wait, no, let me guess.” He stroked his chin. Howard couldn’t tell if this was a deliberate mock at him.

“Can’t be McGill, too young. And too blond.” The man leaned in closer. “You’re Hamlin.”

Standing back, the man smiled, pleased with himself.
“‘Dedicated to restoring justice to you and your loved ones’. That true, Hamlin?”

Howard was taken aback.

“You’ve seen the billboards, then?” Howard croaked.

The man laughed.
“Everywhere, man. ‘When life turns to rubble, call HM, we’ll handle the trouble’. He recited the slogan with mock sleaziness. “Wow, I mean, so…insistent.”

Howard felt a twinge of humiliation. Did people really think it was “insistent”?.

The man’s eyes fell back on Howard. “Whatever. I need HM for something.” He pulled out a frayed rope from under his belt and began wrapping it around Howard’s hands.

Howard sat up, mind racing.
“I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong guy. I-I’m not George Hamlin–I’m his son. I don’t even work at HM.” Not yet, anyway. This was all a misunderstanding.

“You’re Hamlin’s boy, definitely. I know that.” He poked him in between the eyes. Howard frowned, confused.

“Then why do you need me?”

He dropped down to a squat, eyes now level with Howard’s.

“Because your father won’t work with me. Or, any firm for that matter.”

Howard glanced at the man’s hands tying and weaving around his own. He noticed that they were calloused and rough, and worked very efficiently, like he was well-accustomed to tying up helpless captives.

“You see, my uncle killed this guy a while back, and we’re hoping that if we appeal to the right judge with the right lawyer, we’ll be able to get him off. But Hamlin-McGill, and all the big lawyers I’ve talked to, they won’t take the case–it’s unwinnable, they’re saying.”

The man had looped the rope into an intricate knot, bounding Howard’s wrists together.

“But I’ve got the head honcho’s son. So they’ll do whatever I want.”
He smiled as he tightened the rope around his wrists, just as genially as the barista that had served him his cortado the morning before.

To be fair, he was going to go all out with a three piece suit, cufflinks and all, but he decided against it. It would like showing up to a knife fight with a military tank.

14 hours ago. The night before.
Not wanting a chance encounter with one of his father’s associates, Howard had taken to the shabby little dive bar, still in his work clothes. Howard was prone to overdressing and always had a problem with conspicuous consumption, even among his associates, and this was only magnified by a hundred times around the bar patrons. He was laughably overdressed, but it seemed stupid to walk out now. He removed his collar pins and loosened his tie, hoping that would make him seem less out of place.

The whole place smelled like cheap whisky and cigarette smoke, and it was so dimly lit that it took Howard a good minute to find his way to the actual counter.
There was a pole in the center of the room—for strippers, Howard guessed, but evidently the place did not seem to be able to afford one.

Howard had only sat down for two minutes before the stranger had approached him and offered to buy him a drink. Howard had been taken aback by this gesture—it wasn’t like he needed that drink. But he reasoned that the man had somehow sensed his tumultuous feelings and wanted to provide him some company.

“You really didn’t need to,” Howard said as the man handed him the drink, but the man just shrugged it off.
“Just helping a brother out.” He had a jovial, accented voice, yet perfectly American.

He took a sip of the drink the man bought him. It was acrid and strong. Howard wasn’t really an alcohol person, but he felt it rude not to drink it.

“Don’t look like you belong here, huh, cenicienta?” He remarked, pointing at Howard’s blue poplin Armani waistcoat. "Got lost on your way to the ball?"

Howard laughed. "Just here for a little drink."

"A little drink? Man, you look like you need the whole brewery. And in here with that big, fancy suit, dios mio...what are you, president-in-waiting?"

“Legal recruiter, just graduated from law school, actually. You?”

The man smiled, drawing Howard’s attention to his mustache.
“I work in the shipping industry. Mostly across the border.” He waved a hand dismissively.
“Watch this.” He took out a toothpick, and flicked it upward. Howard scanned the air above him---the toothpick had seemingly disappeared. Moments passed. Then, miraculously, he caught the toothpick between his thumb and index finger.

Howard was perplexed.

“Let’s wager. If you can do that, I’ll buy you another drink. If you can’t, you buy me two drinks, one to pay me back, and one for punishment,” the man said.

He took another toothpick out of his pocket, handing it to Howard.
“You try.”

Howard couldn’t flick the toothpick into the air as gracefully as the man had, so he settled with just tossing it. The man watched as Howard tried in vain to catch the toothpick with his two fingers. Finally, Howard gave up.
“How did you….oh.”
The man flipped his hand, revealing the taped-on toothpick on the back of his index finger.

“The lawyers back in my hometown were not the brightest, but they at least had the sense to see a trick.” The man grinned. “Now, the drinks.”

“That was—you tricked me!” Howard sputtered in mock indignation, thoroughly amused, already pulling out his wallet.

The two continued to converse well in past the hour that Howard had initially set for himself. The man was fascinating—he was a great storyteller, and Howard found himself laughing to his many anecdotes, interrupting at parts to inquire more about some figment of the man’s past. For once, Howard didn’t feel the need to impress the man sitting across from him. He enjoyed this new feeling, being the one eased into conversation, instead of having to do it for others.

He realized that he felt lighter than he had been in months, talking to this strange man.

Suddenly, he directed his attention towards Howard.
“I’ve told you everything about my life that I’m willing to tell. What about you?”

By now, Howard was quite lightheaded.
“I’m afraid I have nothing noteworthy to say. Unless you want to hear about rich boy, country club, pompous nonsense.”

The man yawned. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t. Tell me what was bothering you earlier.”

Howard was surprised by the man’s rather straight answer.
“I-I’m sure you don’t want to hear that either,” he replied. “It’s very boring, family-lawyer-workplace stuff, you know.” He let out a nervous chuckle.

“No, I think I do want to hear it.” The man leaned forward, elbows propped against the bar counter, arms crossed and chin resting on his wrists.

“I’m afraid I shouldn’t get into it.” Howard was unnerved by the man’s sudden straightfowardness. “Hey, why don’t you tell me more about that dancing mule-boy?” Howard said, wanting to end the sudden awkwardness.

The man started to get up. “I don’t think so. It’s getting late. Thanks for the drinks,” he said without glancing at his watch.

Howard watched him pick up his coat and begin to walk away.

“W-wait, hold on, at least tell me your name!” Howard pleaded, unable to keep the desperate tone from leaking into his voice as the man began to walk away. This couldn't be happening. Finally, an interesting stranger---who was now slipping out of his grasp. He cursed himself.

The man turned.

“I’ll tell you my name.” He sat down next to Howard again. “But first, tell me what’s worrying you.” His tone was softer this time.

Howard sighed. He was going to regret this, but he really didn’t want the man to leave…

He started with his how he only just managed to get a 167 on the LSAT—even with Chuck’s tutoring, how he wasn't sure if he wanted to take the bar, how he wasn’t entirely sure if he even wanted to continue with this whole lawyer stuff, how everyone at the firm treated him like some kind of prince…

The words came pouring out his mouth, and Howard couldn’t stop it; the argument with his father, the fact that he wanted to start something of his own, that he wasn’t going to become the second ‘H’ of HM, things that Howard would have never dared let slip out his mouth under normal circumstances.

But the whole despair of his situation, the cloak of noise of the bar, and the quiet buzz of the alcohol—it just seemed appropriate.

The man nodded understandingly with every word. At least it seemed that way. Howard couldn’t help but notice that the empathy didn’t quite reach his eyes. In fact, his eyes seemed completely unreadable—though in Howard’s drunken state, he could hardly read anything.

“It seems to me that you’re at a crossroad. You know what I think?” The man said.

Howard nodded.

“I think, fuck all of them. Do what you want to do. You’ll never regret it if you follow your heart, but you will if you don’t. If you let everyone push you around like that, you’ll never be happy,” he said emphatically.

Howard let out a little puff of laughter; he was amused--and warmed by the man's passion. “Powerful words.”

“Thanks, I watch a lot of telenovels," The man replied matter-of-factly.

Chuck’s words came back to Howard.

“Do you think laws are sacred?” Howard asked suddenly.
It was a ridiculous question, but he couldn’t help himself.

The man thought for a moment.
“I guess sometimes they express sacred ideas... but nothing is more sacred then freedom.”

Howard found himself reluctantly charmed at this answer.

“You worry too much. What’s the point of worrying?" The man gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "If there’s something to be done about it, why worry? And if there’s nothing you can do about it, well, I guess it’s no use worrying.” The man raised his glass. “To freedom, huh?”

This was broadly oversimplifying things—Howard knew—of course!….but Howard couldn’t help but agree that the man was right. The matter was settled—that was that and there was nothing he could do to amend the past.

Howard raised his own glass, clinking it against the man’s. The man smiled.
“To freedom.”

And just like that, the matter was promptly thrust it to the back of his mind as the glass was tipped tail-end towards the sky.

They had walked for hours across the desert, taking them further and further away from civilization. The sun had set, and the man started a little campfire with the desert brush and wood from a scraggly tree.

Once it became clear that the man intended to keep Howard alive, his fears had lessened, though he still flinched whenever the man turned around to offer him more water or order him to walk faster.

As Howard’s eyes began adjusting to the brightness of the fire, for the first time, he saw the man’s face in full. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin and a well-grown mustache that Howard remembered from their first encounter. His face was lightly lined and though he looked young—in fact, he looked Howard’s age—he could just barely make out a few gray streaks along his hairline.

If he wasn’t being kidnapped right now, Howard might’ve even thought he looked handsome.

Howard sat across the man from the campfire, hands still bound. The man poked at the two cans of beans sitting at the base of the fire with a stick.

“Hey, tell me your name.” Howard realized he never got his name from the bar.

“Why do you want to know, Hamlin?” He asked, amused, not looking up.

“I told you everything about myself, like you asked. Honor the agreement,” Howard responded.

The man continued to poke at the cans, like a kid digging for worms. He was silent for a moment, clearly thinking about how to respond.
“Eduardo. But you can call me Lalo,” he answered finally.

The man-–Lalo—handed him a fork and one of the cans of beans, smiling when Howard winced at the hot metal.

“Eat. We’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

“I’m not hungry,” Howard said. (Not true. He was starving.)

“Eat.”

“No.”

“Eat.”

“No.”

Irate, Lalo started to stand up. Howard quickly pulled the tab on the can, opening it.
Lalo sat down, seething. Howard felt a small flicker of satisfaction, having annoyed him as if he were a small child. It felt good to indulge his ‘kid’ side, once in a while. Having to always act like the bigger man was exhausting sometimes.

“You know I was like you, in school, had a smart mouth. Caused trouble.” Lalo picked up his own can of beans and took a sip. Howard cringed—who drinks beans??

“What kind of trouble?” Howard asked.

Lalo smiled beguilingly.

“Mostly just playing dumb. Kept asking the teacher about letters, like A, B, C, D. Drove her nuts. And you know, she couldn’t say anything about my English, because I was that Mexican immigrant kid. Which is bullshit, by the way, I was born in Laredo.”

“You went to school in the states?”

“My dad made me go to boarding school. It sucked though, I didn’t want to leave my cousins in Chihuahua.”

Howard was incredulous. So Lalo came from money. Just like him. Lalo’s childhood stories from the bar had made it seem like he was just another ragged, dusty, Mexican street kid on the lookout for pesos.

Lalo’s eyes lit up. “Oh, funny story. Me and my guys, we stole the teacher’s shit and she went crazy, gave everyone detention until someone returned her stuff. So we pinned it all on this one kid, and everyone hated him for giving them all detention, and he returned the shit for us. He got a year in detention, Hamlin, can you believe that?”

“So you were a bully. I mean, no surprises there,” Howard scoffed.

Lalo looked affronted. “Well, my tio didn’t care, he said we’re natural rulers—it’s Salamanca nature to dominate others.”

“Your tio, the one that ‘killed a guy’ and you want my father’s firm to represent?” Howard asked warily.

“Yeah, that one. Anyways, one day, the teacher got tired of my jokes and called my parents.
And then my dad, he was all, ‘I sent you to an expensive boarding school, and this is how you repay me’–he was really mad. And they had him come over and discipline me.”

“Discipline you?”

“My uncle whipped me with his belt until I was raw.” He threw back his head and laughed, a choking, wheezing sound, as if it were the most hilarious thing he had ever heard.

Howard was aghast. For a moment, the man had seemed perfectly normal, only to completely destroy this image of sanity the next.

Smiling at the fond memory, Lalo set his can down and retrieved a few pikes and a hammer from his backpack, tossing one at Howard, now re-terrified.

“Help me set up the tent.”

Howard obeyed.

Lalo had made Howard sleep in the tent while he tended to the fire outside. By now it was only a dim smolder against the night sky. He was relieved, not having to interact with that–that—-maniac for the rest of the night.

Howard’s mind was still turning. He couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes and fall asleep, leaving him vulnerable to whatever sinister plan that Lalo had in store for him. He had to find a way to escape.

He looked outside through the flap of the tent. He contemplated. Even if he were to somehow make it out the tent, away from Lalo, where would he go? He had no idea where Lalo had dragged him off to, plus the fact that they had walked for almost a day now. Howard remembered seeing some mountains to the east—the Sandia mountains, probably. Given that, and 16 hours of walking west….

Best case scenario, he estimated at least 40 miles of desert from the nearest town. There was no way Howard could make the journey with no food and water. Besides, there were all kinds of unsavory characters that roamed the desert. Biker gangs. Smugglers. At least Lalo wanted to let him live. He could very well be captured by someone who did not express the same sentiments.

He felt despair once again. Lalo was his best chance making it out of the desert alive.

It was blueish outside, not quite yet dawn, like the sun was still hiding behind the hills. Right now, Howard would’ve already been up and dressed already, about to be on his way to the firm.

He shivered. Desert nights were no joke.

“Early riser, huh?” Lalo remarked, as Howard emerged from the tent.

“Good morning, Lalo.” Howard said, with the least contempt he could humanly muster.

His back was to Howard, still facing the fire, like he had sat there the entire night. He was eating some beef jerky.

“Hold on, you are going to love this.”

He had emptied one of the bean cans and filled it with water. It was suspended by some sort of stick and wire contraption he had built, roasting the can over the flames. Lalo carefully wrapped the hot can with his vest, taking care not to burn Howard’s fingers again.
He dropped a tiny white pill into the water.

“Coffee. For you.”

Howard stared at the “coffee”, dumbfounded that Lalo would try to drug him right in front of his eyes.

Lalo rolled his eyes. “Malditos gringos, nunca aprecien nada. It’s a caffeine pill mixed with water. Didn’t you say you were a ‘coffee freak’, Hamlin?”

Howard inwardly groaned. He couldn’t believe that he told Lalo his whole life story, blurting it out like a big blubbering baby. Lalo was right though; he couldn’t function without coffee. His mother often liked to say, ‘you never know what you’ve got until its gone’, whenever he or his father complained about something.

Right now, Howard would literally do anything for a cold macchiato with foam.

Howard cursed himself for his caffeine addiction. With his bound hands, he brought the can to his lips, blowing on the surface to cool it down, before downing the mixture. It tasted like bitter water with bean residue.

Satisfied, Lalo leaned back and continued to chew on his jerky.

Howard wondered why Lalo was being so nice to him all of a sudden. It seemed very odd, terrifying him one moment and then being pleasant the next. It was clear that Lalo wanted him to do something, but what exactly, Howard did not know. Still, it puzzled him. It seemed much more convenient to just scare him shitless and cut off his toes than to play this weird cat-and-mouse game with him. Was this some sort of psychological torture that Mexicans used?

And why was he so…..happy?—it was the best way Howard could describe his Lalo-ness.

Howard had always prided himself on his friendly demeanor and upbeat persona, but Lalo was on an entirely different level; he seemed positively possessed by joie de vivre at all moments of the day.

Yet, Howard didn’t think that his jovial manner was an act. He was sure—it was nature. And Lalo was definitely not so stupid as to attempt to build rapport with a future lawyer, of all people. It was blatantly and amateurishly manipulative.

Even so, people like Lalo were probably used to easy prey, people who trusted blindly, led only by the strings of their hearts and a few well-prepared words.

He’d seen it happen in court tapes more times than he could count.

Howard steeled himself. If he wanted to make it out of the desert, he had to play nice. He’d pretend to fall for all his little tricks. Nothing that he’s never done before, recalling all the times he had to turn on the old Hamlin charm to win over particularly difficult clientele. And Lalo was no different than an unpleasant client.

Two can play at that game.