Do They Know I'm Running? Part 19

Happy folded his hands and leaned forward. The sofa cus.h.i.+on creaked like he'd squeezed a balloon. "I want to make good on what G.o.do did."

Vasco, slit-eyed, took a drag from his smoke. "What do you mean?"

"I want to make it up to you."

"Yeah? Like how?"

"Puchi told me he got the license number off the van this guy drives, the guy selling guns. I know a girl, works at the DMV, she can trace that plate to an address. G.o.do's been training your guys on how to use an M16, how to clear rooms, all that. Puchi and Chato can't shut up about it, they're jacked. So-what say we take this guy's house down?"

Just lay it out for the man to see, Happy told himself. Let the crime sell itself.

Vasco plucked a stray bit of tobacco off his tongue.

"Guy deals in cash," Happy prompted. "Means he'll have a wall safe. We make him hand up the combination. Probably got the guns locked away in there too or someplace else inside the house, maybe the bas.e.m.e.nt, maybe the garage. Same deal. We persuade him to cooperate. What I mean is, we let G.o.do persuade him."

The merest smile flirted with one side of Vasco's mouth. Downstairs someone was sweeping now, Happy couldn't see who: Puchi, Chato, one of the others. The broom bristles whisked against the concrete floor. Vasco said, "What do you mean 'we'?"

"I'll be there to look after G.o.do, make sure he doesn't get strange, have a flashback, that sort of thing."

"You."

"Yeah."

Vasco's hand went up to scratch his neck, stopped midway. "And how does one do that exactly, keep a guy from, you know, getting strange?"

Downstairs the man with the push broom started whistling "Watermelon Man."

"I was over there too, remember. I dealt with some stuff, I told G.o.do all about it. He knows I understand. He'll listen to me."

Vasco stared across the room at Happy as though he was a picture not hanging quite right. "You told him all about it? How about you tell me."

Happy relayed the story of the ambush on the convoy. Vasco nodded along, then said, "Interesting. But you still want me to front you twenty grand, am I right?"

"In exchange for my old man and me shaving our points on the cocaine deal down from twenty to ten per."

Vasco c.o.c.ked his head. His smile broadened a hair. "You want this bad."

It's imaginary money, Happy thought, knowing he couldn't let it sound that way. "He's my old man. Besides, I don't get him back here, there's no deal to talk about. He's the driver at the port. Without him?" He opened his hands. "That's true of you as well as me, you know."

"But you're the one with the need. You're the one begging."

"That how you want to put it?"

Vasco stubbed out his smoke, snagged his pack from the desktop, tapped out another, lit up. Nudging the cigarettes across the desk, he said, "Want one?"

THE FOUR OF THEM STAGGERED OUT TO THE COROLLA IN THE midmorning light, Roque dragging the guitar, Samir clutching his shoulder bag, Lupe her clothes and medicine, Tio Faustino empty-handed, all of them stiff in joint and cranky of mind from a night of miserable sleep. They'd be resuming their journey across Guatemala, trailing a pickup driven by Chepito, who would have as sidekick and secret gunman one of the other henchlings. Together, the two of them would serve as protection and emissaries of goodwill, or so said El Chusquero, who bid his guests a chirpy farewell now that the wire transfer had cleared.

"Musico," the Commander called out from the porch, waiting for Roque to turn. He twiddled his fingers daintily.- the Commander called out from the porch, waiting for Roque to turn. He twiddled his fingers daintily.-Use those hands well, my brother. He offered one last lurid smile, then disappeared inside the thick-walled house with a punctuating slap on the doorframe.

Roque tumbled into the backseat and gave shuddering thanks as the car headed off, Tio Faustino at the wheel. Guitar between his knees like a cello, he let his head fall back and closed his eyes, hoping to s.n.a.t.c.h back some of the sleep lost because of Sergio. The poor wretch had whimpered like a puppy in the dark all night, the sound inescapable in that dank airless room, keeping everyone awake. Roque loathed himself for resenting that.

He stole a heavy-lidded glance at Lupe. She too was trying to rest, curled into her corner of the backseat, legs tucked beneath her. He still marveled at her courage, knowing how perverse that would seem to a man like El Chusquero. Only a queer like Sergio, he'd say, would think of a girl as heroic. It brought to mind something Mariko had said, about a certain kind of man-often drawn to uniforms, always fond of weapons-the type of man so instinctively fearful of women he couldn't even think of intimacy without possession. The kind of man, she'd said, who wants a virgin to f.u.c.k and Mom to fight for. Roque had always a.s.sumed she was talking about her ex, the airman, Captain Detwiler. Now, however, he had a far more palpable grasp of what she'd meant. And I'm nothing like that, he realized. An orphan knows possession's a lie. The most crucial thing, by its very nature, is always missing.

Half an hour into the drive, Tio Faustino turned on the radio. As Roque drifted in and out of sleep, he caught bits and pieces of marimba workouts, old-style c.u.mbias, duranguenses, charangas c.u.mbias, duranguenses, charangas-even a few dolorous rancheras rancheras, so dear to the Commander's heart.

The next thing he knew two hours had pa.s.sed and they were careening down a hillside in scattered rain into the sprawling basin that contained the capital. Despite himself, Roque felt a little awestruck. After San Salvador, he'd lowered his expectations to third-world level, but Guatemala City was a real metropolis: s.h.i.+mmering office towers, broad tree-lined boulevards, quaint commercial neighborhoods, choking traffic.

They stopped for lunch at a storefront cantina. Roque ordered fortachon fortachon, a kind of Mexican hash with pork and jalapenos, and as they sat outside beneath a green umbrella he shoveled it in heedlessly. He would have felt embarra.s.sed if everyone else, even Lupe, weren't similarly graceless. The only interruption to the chow-down came when a man with s.h.a.ggy blond hair, wearing a c.o.c.keyed ball cap and a filthy tweed jacket, tottered past them down the rain-damp sidewalk, strumming a tuneless guitar. His eyes were gla.s.sy but his smile was serene. Lupe and Tio Faustino glanced up, first at the strolling lunatic, then at Roque, and shared the day's first smile as Chepito tossed the man a quetzal.

North of the capital, the highway curved through roadcut and cane fields and rubber plantations toward the coastal lowlands. With food in everyone's bellies the mood grew less tense. Roque played along to the radio and Lupe, prodded by Tio Faustino, sang harmony to Julieta Venegas's "Canciones de Amor." When she was finished, the older man lifted his hands from the wheel to gently applaud.-You have such a gift, he told her, but instead of inspiring grat.i.tude his words dropped a veil across her eyes; she turned to stare out the window and couldn't be coddled or goaded into singing again, no matter how invitingly Roque played.

The farther they drove, the greater the number of people trekking on foot along the highway. Roque wondered how far they were going-the next town, Mexico, the States. Crews of children scavenged for sc.r.a.ps of sugarcane that fell off trucks, shoving the reddish brown stalks into burlap bags. Breakdowns created sweltering bottlenecks. Things only worsened in the towns, where the local women stood out in the road, hawking oranges and sodas and coconuts, each with the sagging paunch of recent motherhood bulging beneath her blouse.

Only four roadblocks appeared, each manned by blue-uniformed cops who invariably waved the Corolla through with barely a glance. It was impossible to know whether this was because of El Chusquero's touted influence, communicated somehow by Chepito in the pickup just ahead, or merely the way of things. As though it matters at this point, Roque thought. Be grateful the car's moving.

They reached the border town of Tecun Uman late in the afternoon, realizing only once they were within the town proper that they had arrived on the occasion of an annual feria annual feria-the first Friday of Lent. The narrow streets were thronged with people drawn from all the nearby villages who came to visit the tents and arcades, haggle with the vendors, play the games. Chepito led them down a brick lane and they inched their way past merchant stalls displaying blouses, bras, shoes, toys, including eerily realistic AK-47s and Glocks made of plastic. Women working hand presses made fresh lemonade. Ears of corn boiled in deep tin pots.

Chepito found his way to a parking area, an empty lot shaded by a sprawling ceiba, where he paid an old man and his grandsons to look after the pickup and the Corolla. He then led everyone to a small posada that, from what Roque could tell, served as a way station for thieves and hookers. They gathered on the sidewalk to either side of the doorway, hulking unkempt men smoking cigarettes to the left, flirty young women in festive skirts, sipping c.o.kes, on the right. A few others loitered in what pa.s.sed for a lobby, an open room with broad ocher walls, furnished with a card table, mismatched chairs, an electric fan.

Chepito went to the man at the card table, whispered something, waited out the reply, then collected a key, dangling it between finger and thumb as he gestured for Roque and the others to follow. The henchling, still nameless, his s.h.i.+rttail pulled over the pistol shoved down into his jeans, took up the rear.

The room was a closet with a cot and a bowl. The canvas of the cot bore a disturbing stain. The bowl had a used bar of soap in it. A tiny window looked out on a pa.s.sageway between the posada and the next building over.

Chepito maneuvered everyone inside.-I am going to talk with a man who works here with us. He will arrange for your crossing over to Mexico. There will be a boat, it will take you to a spot a little south of Puerto Escondido and there you'll be met and taken the rest of the way overland. I'll be back after dark. If you want something to eat or drink, there's a place in the back, out on the patio, you can get soft drinks and tortillas, maybe beer. Or they can send one of the kids out, get something from the fair. Don't go wandering around. Even with all the people out, it's still not safe, not for you.

He met each of their glances meaningfully, then closed the door. The four of them stood there, so close each could feel the next person's breath on his or her skin. Shortly footsteps clattered on the wood stair: two sets descending, not just one. Roque felt relieved. The thought of being stuck in the cramped room, the nameless henchling standing guard, seemed too grim.

He said:-They're arranging the crossing to Mexico? Since when?

Tio Faustino turned to look out the small window, craning to get a glimpse of the street.-Something cold and wet is in order, I'd say. Who will join me?

Roque reached for the doork.n.o.b, figuring everyone was going, but Lupe plopped down on the cot, avoiding the umber stain.-I'll stay. In case they come back.

Not missing a beat, Samir dropped his cloth shoulder bag in the corner and settled down next to it, folding his arms, dropping his chin.-I'll wait too. I hate crowds. If you think of it, bring me back a Pepsi.

Lupe shot him a black glance.-What, you're afraid I'll try to squeeze out through the window? Then what-fly away?

-Let me tell you something, I wouldn't put it past you. He traced a finger across the floor, inspecting the ribbon of grime that came up.-The window part, not the flying.

Tio Faustino nudged Roque into the hall, smiling farewell.-We won't be long, I promise.

The patio area was in truth a patch of tamped-down sand with tussocks of pampas gra.s.s, shaded by a stately conacaste conacaste. Two giant wood spools served as tables with a scattering of plastic chairs. The bar consisted of a door spread across two sawhorses, aluminum tubs filled with ice and drinks underneath, packs of cigarettes on top: Rubio, Pasayo, Marlboro, Pall Mall. Tio Faustino bought two tamarindos tamarindos-they came in sealed plastic bags with straws-and sat with Roque, leaning in so they could whisper, using English as an extra precaution.

"It may be a blessing in disguise, this connection with El Chusquero." A trio of s.h.i.+rtless boys slinked toward the table to beg. Tio Faustino shooed them off. "If we put our lot in with him from here on out, we may not have to hand the girl, Lupe, over to that sniveling little coward's connection in Agua Prieta, I can't recall the name."

"El Recio." Roque remembered it well, it meant Tough Guy. "What about Samir?"

"As long as he gets to America, he'll have no complaints."

"Are you joking? He'll have nothing but complaints. You saw him. He hates her."

"That's not-"

"He's developed this thing for her. He'll only be happy if he sees her suffer."

"Don't exaggerate. While you were upstairs serenading El Chusquero with the girl, I was down in the cellar with El Turco, okay? He's not a monster."

"You're only saying that because he saved Happy's life."

"Nonsense. He just knows, the way it stands, his fate is tied to hers."

Tio Faustino rubbed his eyes and when his hands came away Roque noticed how much older he seemed than just a few days ago. His stubble was bristly and gray, the sagging flesh beneath his eyes was the color of tea, his hands shook. Only driving seemed to soothe him and it would be days at least before he was back behind the wheel, a.s.suming they were lucky.

"Besides," he continued, "it's not a bad idea to remember where our confidence in that pack of salvatruchos salvatruchos got us." got us."

"Tio, who knows what El Chusquero's really up to here? He's not doing this out of kindness, it's going to cost. And Happy made it clear, there's no more money. This last payment's the end."

"Maybe we could work something out."

"No, Tio, listen to me. I know how the guy thinks. He'll strand us in the middle of nowhere till we pay. And let me repeat: There is no more money." There is no more money."

"So you're okay then with handing that girl over to some padrote." padrote." Pimp. Pimp.

"Good G.o.d, how can you say such a thing? I just-"

"We're not going to have a lot of choices. This one presents itself. I say we consider it. Unless you-"

Tio Faustino broke off his sentence, stiffening imperceptibly, eyes veiled. He seemed to be saying, Don't look. Shortly, however, the newcomer who'd caught his eye was grabbing a nearby chair, dragging it over to their table through the gravel. Finally, as the chair came close and the stranger plopped down, Roque glanced his direction.

HE WAS HANDSOME LIKE AN EXOTIC ANIMAL, LATE TWENTIES, indio indio features and muscular, his flat bronze face astonis.h.i.+ngly smooth-skinned. His arms were tattooed but his hands, his face, his neck were clear. He wore a Giants cap and an immaculate T-s.h.i.+rt. features and muscular, his flat bronze face astonis.h.i.+ngly smooth-skinned. His arms were tattooed but his hands, his face, his neck were clear. He wore a Giants cap and an immaculate T-s.h.i.+rt.

"Roque, Faustino-hey." Their names rolled off his tongue naturally, without affected familiarity. "I'm Beto, your guia guia. Take you from here to Agua Prieta."

Roque remembered the name, he was Lonely's man in Tecun Uman. His English was solid, the accent soft, that lilting musicality few Latinos lost.

Beto gestured to the Indian woman working refreshments for a third tamarindo tamarindo. She dug one from her cooler, tottered over, money changed hands. It gave everyone a second to think.

Finally, Tio Faustino said, "You've lived in the States."

Beto laughed. "Yeah. Up around Salinas." He fussed with the straw for his tamarindo tamarindo, punctured the plastic bag, took a sip. "Worked construction, I was a carpenter, till I got snagged running a stop sign. Believe that? Bad luck, man. Now I can't go back for ten years." He checked out the patio area, then a shoulder roll, a bodybuilder tic. "Getting used to it here. Life's okay. And who needs the constant paranoia, right? Crazy back there now."

Roque said, "Look, we don't know who we're supposed to be dealing with."

"Nothing's changed." Beto's eyes darted between Roque and Tio. "We're good to go."

Tio Faustino said, "How did you know where to find us?"

"This s.h.i.+thole?" Beto glanced up at the cracked and moldy stucco wall of the posada. A large black pijuyo pijuyo perched on the edge of the roof. "This is my town. What goes on here's my business. Look, you guys paid for us to get you to the States. That's what I'm here to do, my leg of the trip anyway." perched on the edge of the roof. "This is my town. What goes on here's my business. Look, you guys paid for us to get you to the States. That's what I'm here to do, my leg of the trip anyway."

A group of Mayan women in traditional traje traje wandered into the courtyard from the street, clearly lost. With birdlike t.i.tters they bowed a group apology, turned around, vanished. wandered into the courtyard from the street, clearly lost. With birdlike t.i.tters they bowed a group apology, turned around, vanished.

"This is the one day of the year you can cross over without showing doc.u.ments," Beto said, explaining the crowds. "There's another fair right across the river. Mexicans come here, Guatemaltecos go there, trade goods, just for the day. Try to get farther than Tapachula, they'll nail you. But you should see the mob down along the river. Hundreds of people, these c.r.a.ppy little rafts, sc.r.a.p wood lashed to inner tubes. It's nuts."

"It hasn't been the easiest trip for us, either." Roque ignored a warning glance from his uncle. "But you probably know that."

Beto smiled acidly, then glanced around again, making sure no one was in earshot. "Captain Quintanilla, that what you mean?"

"We never heard him called anything but El Chusquero."

Beto shook his head, whispered, "El Choo-scay-ro," like the punch line to a raunchy joke. "Toad-faced f.u.c.k. You realize that whole ambush on the road was a hoax, right? Those guys at the roadblock, they were his men, I don't care what he told you."

Roque and Tio Faustino sat there, taking that in. Finally, Tio Faustino said, "They got shot. Two of them. Straight to the head."

"No, trust me." Beto tottered his fingers, a puppeteer.

"That makes no sense," Roque said, at the same time realizing it was possible. He hadn't seen the shootings up close, everybody else ducking down inside the car, terrified. "Why go to all that trouble just to kidnap us anyway?"

"Who knows what goes through that sick f.u.c.k's head? I'm telling you it was bogus. Captain Quintanilla's way of amusing himself, jerking the chain, adding a tax for moving you through Jutiapa. He makes it look like a gang thing. Something goes wrong, one of you dies, he can walk away, hang it on us."

Tio Faustino sat back in his chair. "I can't believe this."

"Now, let me guess, I'll bet he's pus.h.i.+ng to get you to cross over to Oaxaca with his people here. Don't do it, my friends. You'll die."

Beto struggled for a notepad stuck in his back pocket. A pencil stub was fastened to it with a rubber band. He opened it to a page where there was a crude map of the coast.

"They'll send you by boat. Pick you up around here," he pointed with the pencil, "little outside Champerico, take you to a huequito huequito, a little smuggler's cove, outside Puerto Escondido. That's what they say. But how you supposed to get the rest of the way through Mexico?"

"They told us they'd take us overland," Tio Faustino said, "all the way to the States."

Beto tossed the pencil down. "Seriously? They tell you two boats, two whole boats, just vanished the last couple months? They tell you fifteen poor f.u.c.ks drowned just last week? What was left of the boat washed up in pieces. s.h.i.+t that floats outta Haiti's got better rep than that."

High in the conacaste conacaste branches, a branches, a zanate zanate cawed. The cawed. The pijuyo pijuyo on the roof's edge fled. The on the roof's edge fled. The zanate zanate swooped down, took its place, a leathery curl of something, flesh maybe, in its talons. swooped down, took its place, a leathery curl of something, flesh maybe, in its talons.

Tio Faustino said, "How are we supposed to trust you?"

"Look, you paid, everybody got his slice, we'll get you home, okay? El Chusquero on the other hand." He sat back, crossed his arms, biceps popping. Not carpenter muscle. "Guy's a bug eater, know what I'm saying?"

Roque told himself not to fall for this but it was seductive. It didn't just sound like the truth, it was the truth, as far as he knew it. But what con wasn't salted with truth, how else would suckers buy into the bulls.h.i.+t? He was tired of being a sucker. "Why believe you, not these other guys? You were supposed to get us this far. Look what happened."

"Wanna go by boat? f.u.c.king be my guest. But say they get you to Puerto Escondido-and that's a big if, okay? Like I said, you got the whole rest of Mexico to get through. They say they'll take you overland, sure, and hit you up every step of the way, one leg of the trip after the next. Pay or get left there, stranded, and hold on to your a.s.s so it don't blow away. That what you want? You've already paid. Why pay twice, three times, four?"