The Hangover

I woke up with my face pressed against a bag of recycled cardstock.

My back felt like it had been realigned by a sledgehammer. My mouth tasted like stale champagne and regret.

I opened one eye.

I wasn't in the 800-thread-count sheets of the Casas del XVI. I wasn't in the penthouse in Jersey. I was on the floor of a print shop in the Zona Colonial, wearing a guayabera that smelled like an arson investigation.

"Rise and shine, Revolutionary."

I groaned and rolled over.

Tony was sitting on a stool, spinning back and forth. He was eating a bag of Cheetos—breakfast of champions—and typing on a laptop that looked like he had salvaged it from a dump.

"What time is it?" I croaked.

"11:00 AM," Tony crunched a Cheeto. "Or, as I like to call it: Hour One of our new lives as fugitives."

I sat up, cracking my neck. The events of the Gala rushed back. The hammer. The smoke. The police lights.

"Where is she?" I asked.

"Sofía is in the back," Tony said. "Argued with a paper supplier on the phone. She’s fierce. I think she threatened to send you over to burn his warehouse down if he didn't lower the price."

"I meant Catalina."

Tony stopped spinning. He wiped his orange fingers on his jeans.

"Ah. The Dragon Lady." He turned the laptop screen toward me.

It was a news site: Diario Libre.

"She’s out?" I asked, staring at the photo of Catalina walking out of the precinct, wearing sunglasses and looking annoyed rather than defeated.

"Money talks, bro," Tony shrugged. "Or in her case, it screams. She paid the bail in cash. She’s back at the hotel. But here’s the kicker..."

He tapped a key. A banking window popped up.

"She locked us out, Max. The joint accounts, the savings, the Cayman shell companies—everything. Even my Spotify Premium is cancelled. That’s just petty."

I leaned back against the counter.

"So we have nothing."

"We have negative nothing," Tony corrected. "I have forty dollars in cash and a bag of Cheetos. You have... nice hair."

My stomach growled. Loudly.

"I need coffee," I said, standing up. My knees popped. "I'm going to the colmado."

"Good luck," Tony called after me. "Don't try to use the Amex!"