Do They Know I'm Running? Part 7

He'd asked Roque's help writing a letter to his father, asking forgiveness for being such a c.r.a.p son, explaining what the last two years had been like since being deported. Roque could hardly believe some of the things Happy told him to write down: the cops with dogs at the airport in Comalapa, who led him to a dank bas.e.m.e.nt room, called him a f.a.ggot, told him to strip, just to check for gang tats; the hunchback priest who played harmonica and let him stay at his shelter for three days in the capital, then kicked him loose; old Tripudo the truck driver, a friend of the humpback priest, who took him on, teaching him how to handle a rig, only to betray him, turn him over to some rogue cops who handcuffed him, hooded him, drove him to the prison in Mariona, the one they call La Esperanza: Hope; the marero marero inmates who rat-packed him, beat him, raped him, almost drowned him in a cistern stewing with unspeakable filth, mocking him as he lay there on the floor, hands bound, gasping for breath, gazing up at the towers of mayonnaise jars in the disgusting cell-that was how they smuggled in cell phones, knives, drugs, inside jars of mayo; the plump balding warden who saw him the next morning, dressed in his pristine uniform, a parrot perched on his chair back, explaining how it would be: Happy was given a cellphone number, he'd be driven into San Salvador, he was to call the number, tell whoever answered he was sent by Falcon, then do as directed; the restaurant in San Salvador with more than a hundred restless men waiting in line outside, ex-soldiers, ex-guerrillas, answering an ad for contractors in Iraq; the call from a nearby phone booth to a raspy voice that told him to come around the back of the restaurant; the beefy inmates who rat-packed him, beat him, raped him, almost drowned him in a cistern stewing with unspeakable filth, mocking him as he lay there on the floor, hands bound, gasping for breath, gazing up at the towers of mayonnaise jars in the disgusting cell-that was how they smuggled in cell phones, knives, drugs, inside jars of mayo; the plump balding warden who saw him the next morning, dressed in his pristine uniform, a parrot perched on his chair back, explaining how it would be: Happy was given a cellphone number, he'd be driven into San Salvador, he was to call the number, tell whoever answered he was sent by Falcon, then do as directed; the restaurant in San Salvador with more than a hundred restless men waiting in line outside, ex-soldiers, ex-guerrillas, answering an ad for contractors in Iraq; the call from a nearby phone booth to a raspy voice that told him to come around the back of the restaurant; the beefy guanaco guanaco at the table in the empty dining room, with his dyed hair and crisp white guayabera, brandis.h.i.+ng an unlit cigar, telling Happy he'd been hired as a driver hauling freight between Abu Ghraib and Najaf-the coalition liked Salvadorans, the man said, they didn't c.r.a.p their pants when a bomb went off-for which he'd be paid $2,500 a week, all but $250 of which he'd kick back to a numbered account. That was the deal, go to Iraq and get shaken down or go back to that cell with the at the table in the empty dining room, with his dyed hair and crisp white guayabera, brandis.h.i.+ng an unlit cigar, telling Happy he'd been hired as a driver hauling freight between Abu Ghraib and Najaf-the coalition liked Salvadorans, the man said, they didn't c.r.a.p their pants when a bomb went off-for which he'd be paid $2,500 a week, all but $250 of which he'd kick back to a numbered account. That was the deal, go to Iraq and get shaken down or go back to that cell with the mareros mareros and get punked to death, which was how Happy wound up in the same h.e.l.l as G.o.do, except fate denied them the privilege of knowing that or ever getting in touch. and get punked to death, which was how Happy wound up in the same h.e.l.l as G.o.do, except fate denied them the privilege of knowing that or ever getting in touch.

Roque didn't know how he'd survived it, not that Happy had come back unscathed. The sullen moods he'd always been known for now seemed not just more severe but even a little sinister-but who could fault him for that? And yet he never complained, not about what happened in El Salvador or Iraq or anything else. Roque sometimes marveled at that, how Happy stared life down, standing there at the edge of every moment, unrushed, unworried, as though, by expecting nothing anymore, not from life, not from people, he'd somehow been set free.

At the same time, within the family, he was kind. He spoke to G.o.do like an equal, not a rival, not that they didn't get into it now and then. Like a pair of dogs in a pit sometimes, those two, but not near as bad as before he went away. And he showed Tia Lucha a level of deference even she found unsettling. The only person he treated the same as before was Roque. He was the one person Happy still expected something from.

Meanwhile, at the back of the truck, Puchi was explaining to the parents-to-be how it would go. The couple could pay an extra three grand to get their stuff unloaded or everything stayed in the truck, the crew would drive away and put everything they owned in storage until they came up with the money. It was their own fault, he'd tell them, not quite those words, their failure to realize that the initial low bid was just an estimate (a lie-the lowball quote was presented as final), and that only once their belongings were loaded could a full and fair price for the move be calculated (another lie-the setup was in play from the start).

Insinuated but left unsaid was a hint of accusation. The couple had been greedy, hoping to score off a bunch of wetbacks, rather than pay the going rate. Well, they deserved what they got and it would only get worse if they didn't play smart. American Amigos Moving wasn't licensed, so the couple had no real recourse. There was no agency to complain to, no cops to call; this was a civil matter, the officers would say, not a criminal one. That was the mind-bending irony at the heart of the scam, your only shot at justice was with a company that was straight to begin with. Basically, the lovely couple could cough up or get screwed. Puchi was explaining all this with Chato sulking nearby in his hairnet and hoodie and work gloves, chewing on a toothpick, smirking at the lady, eye-f.u.c.king the man.

"When I was in Iraq," Happy said, "sometimes the foreman would tell us to drive the route even if there was nothing to carry. Several times a week we did this, one direction or both. This one time, I hauled a single bag of mail, nothing else, on a f.u.c.king flatbed. Know why? Because the company was getting paid by the trip, not the load." He glanced at Roque, smiling as though the things he knew could cripple the mind. "This is a war zone I'm talking about. You never knew what was out there. But hey, shut up, it's money. You die, tough luck. It was insane, the arrogant dumbf.u.c.ks you had to deal with, the I-don't-give-a-s.h.i.+t att.i.tude, the rip-offs, but the geniuses who run things, they're all, Hey, don't ask questions, you're f.u.c.king with the war. So you think this couple here's getting screwed by us? Trust me, they've already been f.u.c.ked so bad by Uncle Sam we're practically the good guys."

Even given all Happy had been through, there were limits to what Roque would swallow. "That's messed-up thinking."

Happy nodded and said, "Maybe so." Lighting another smoke-he'd developed an incredible habit during his years away-he added, "I was just trying to make you feel better."

Roque glanced toward his mirror again, just in time to see the history teacher shove Puchi in the chest. "Ah nuts," he said, reaching for the door handle.

"What?"

"We got a sc.r.a.pper."

Roque hustled to the back of the truck and was shortly joined by Happy. The history teacher, who was lanky but muscular, had Puchi in a headlock now, the two of them thras.h.i.+ng around on the ground. Puchi wasn't fighting back very hard. In fact, unless Roque was mistaken, Puchi was laughing.

Meanwhile Chato hovered nearby, the same nervy smile on his face he wore no matter what was happening. In the driveway, the woman with the basketball belly stood there aghast, hands in the air, watching her husband try to claim back some manhood. She was dressed in a shapeless smock, a stretched-out cardigan, kneesocks with worn heels, scuffed clogs. Roque wondered what they intended to name the baby.

The neighborhood was one of those forgettable developments shooting up everywhere now, the houses all basically the same, neat but slapdash, too close together, bottom rung on the American dream. No one was looking out their windows at the wrestling match. Why bother? The new neighbors would be gone, or you would, before any favor could be returned.

Finally Puchi broke free, stood up, brushed himself off. Sure enough, he was chuckling. The teacher scrambled to his feet, scavenged around for his gla.s.ses. "You're not getting away with this!" Tufts of hair stood out from his head, his face s.h.i.+ny and red.

Puchi signaled to the crew: Back in the truck. "Let's go," he said.

The teacher found his gla.s.ses. "You're not going anywhere."

"I have to call the office," Puchi said. "You attacked me."

"You're cheating us!"

"May be an extra thousand on top of the three you already owe. Have to call, find out."

That was when the woman spoke up. "For G.o.d's sake just pay them, Peter." Her eyes were dull with disappointment but her voice had an odd allure. Throaty, an alto, it reminded Roque of a young Celia Cruz. The man's head snapped toward her. Something between them suggested a bitter history and Roque guessed the baby played a part in that. He sensed as well that the woman had reached a truce with her life in a way the man resented.

"How am I supposed to-"

"Peter, please," she cut him off. "Don't make things worse than they already are."

Listen to her, Roque thought, but the guy just seemed more p.i.s.sed. Turning back, he said, "This is why people want to send you all back where you came from. For Christ's sake, we're on your side."

Of course you are, Roque thought. Who else would be chump enough to hire a company with a name like American Amigos Moving? But that was when the guy did the strangest thing. Spinning toward Chato, he lashed out with a wayward backhand. "What the h.e.l.l are you grinning at-eh, pendejo?"

The guy wants to get pounded, Roque thought, so he can hold it against his wife, but then Happy stepped in. With one arm outstretched to keep Chato at bay, he met the man's eye, not threatening, almost sad. "Let us unload your things," he said quietly. "We'll get you into your new home, then we'll be gone."

"Listen to him, Peter."

"Whose side are you on, Belinda?"

"Let me help you," Happy said. "Let's get this thing done."

Smooth, Roque thought, like he was daring the guy: Raise your game. Trust me. Strange coming from Happy, who expected nothing from people anymore. Stranger still, it worked.

Happy and Puchi and the history teacher drove off to wire an extra three grand through Western Union. Roque and Chato waited on the sidewalk while the pregnant wife locked herself inside the house, nothing but her and the bare rooms and all that fresh paint. Roque chased chord progressions around in his head, visualizing the various fingerings for the inversions, wis.h.i.+ng he were someplace else. Chato patted his hairnet, murmured insults, did a couple dozen push-ups, shadowboxed, cracked his knuckles, the whole time wearing that same wiggy smile.

When Happy and Puchi came back in the truck, the teacher parked across the street, slammed his car door and told the crew to unload everything on the driveway, he didn't want them inside his house. That seemed to work for all concerned. The guy could either lug it all in himself in a pique of sucker's pride or call whatever old friends wouldn't hold his cheap tacano tacano stupidity against him. stupidity against him.

"Don't think this is the end of things," the guy said when Puchi and Chato climbed up into the back of the now empty truck. "I'm calling the Better Business Bureau. I'll post notice on the Web. I'll make it my daily business to see n.o.body gets screwed by you f.u.c.kers again."

Too late, Roque thought as he slammed the door to the cab. They had jobs lined up through next month, same scam as for these two birds, if not through American Amigos Moving then Nuevo California s.h.i.+pping and Transport or Marko's Movers or half a dozen other names, each with its own ad on the Internet, each with its own sham address. It was part and parcel of the American way of life, cheap Latino labor. Who with his head on straight could act surprised if once in a while the tables got turned?

And yet, Roque told himself, that was just another kind of messed-up thinking, like tigueraje tigueraje, the peculiarly Latino answer to conscience. If something was there for the taking, only a fool wouldn't grab it. It explained a lot of things south of the border, like how a subcontinent filled with basically decent, generous, hardworking people, millions upon millions of them, could be enslaved for generations by a handful of smug, prissy, s.a.d.i.s.tic thieves. Sooner or later, you bought in. You learned: Gotta go along to get along, every man has his price, greed is the grease on the wheel. You recognized the tigueraje tigueraje in your own soul. in your own soul.

Happy's cell phone rang. He plucked it from his coat pocket, listened briefly, and said first "Okay," then "Cuidate" before snapping it shut and stuffing it back in his pocket. To Roque, he said, "I'll drop you off at home. Start packing. You're on the redeye to Comalapa."

HAPPY SEEMED UNUSUALLY SOLEMN ON THE DRIVE TO THE AIRPORT, even by his standards, but that didn't keep him from repeating the same instructions over and over. Roque nodded absently, occasionally adding a "Sure" or "I get it" just to convince Happy he was listening. As they pulled up to the curb outside the international terminal, Happy put the truck in park, clicked on his flashers and reached across the seat for Roque's arm.

"One last thing. This is important." Happy licked his lips, an odd show of nerves. "You're not gonna just be bringing my dad back. Okay? There's another guy coming."

Roque felt like a hundred pounds of deadweight just got lashed to his back. "How long you known this?"

"He's Iraqi, I met him over there. His name's Samir."

Something wasn't getting said. "Iraq?"

A woman cop pacing a nearby crosswalk let out an earsplitting whistle shriek, trying to get traffic to move. The crowded terminal glowed and hummed, a temple of chrome and gla.s.s.

"He was our terp, for the company I worked for. He went out on convoys with us."

"How am I supposed to find him?"

"It's taken care of." Then: "He's a good guy. If things get tricky, you can trust him. He's smart, he knows his way around. He can help you."

The roar of an airliner in takeoff drowned out everything else for a moment, the honking horns, the cop and her whistle, the cries of the skycaps, the loudspeaker announcements. But Roque felt it even stronger than before, a charge in the air, something left hanging.

Finally, Happy said, "Samir saved my life."

It came out like a guilty secret. Roque couldn't help feeling he'd just been enlisted in an impossible promise. "This another one of those long stories you're always coming up with?"

"Yeah." Happy seemed to drift back from somewhere far away. "You better go. But ask him about it. Samir. He'll tell you."

Roque murmured, "Whatever," and reached for the door handle, but Happy reached across the cab again, gripping Roque's shoulder and turning him back. Their eyes met. Happy's were hard and grave as he said, "I'm proud of you-know that? We all are."

EVEN THE STUFFED PANDA ON THE SOFA REEKED OF CIGARETTE smoke. Happy nudged it aside to sit, conceding he wasn't really one to judge, given his own habit of late.

The bear belonged to Vasco's daughter, Lucia, who often got stranded here for hours. "Time to myself," the mother called it, which struck a more suitably parental tone, Happy supposed, than "heading out to tweak with the b.i.t.c.h patrol." El otro equipo. Las marimachas El otro equipo. Las marimachas. The other team. Lesbos. That's what Vasco called them, at least when Chula, his wife, wasn't in earshot.

Vasco ran Puchi and Chato's crew, a mishmash of rough-edged and luckless Salvadorans, most of them present or former Brown Town Locos who'd outgrown street dealing. They had big-heist pretensions now, with hopes of being regarded as bona fide salvatruchos: salvatruchos: members of Mara Salvatrucha, MS-13. The gang had become to Salvadorans what La Eme, the Mexican Mafia, was to members of Mara Salvatrucha, MS-13. The gang had become to Salvadorans what La Eme, the Mexican Mafia, was to mejicanos mejicanos, bigger even, because their territory covered all of Central America south to Nicaragua, and cities as distant as Boston, Was.h.i.+ngton, Houston, Chicago, San Francisco and the hub: Los Angeles. But as yet it was a sprawling, hydra-headed mess. No one had established the kind of command and control that could confer on any of its would-be clicas clicas status as bona fide or bogus. There were too many wannabes, even out-and-out phonies. status as bona fide or bogus. There were too many wannabes, even out-and-out phonies.

But that was Happy's in. He had a message from the emperor. He had status to confer.

Vasco's office sat perched atop the garage for the truck yard where they parked and maintained the three long beds used for American Amigos and the other strong-arm movers. Downstairs, Chato and Puchi and a few other vatos vatos were working late, sharing a blunt as they lazily swept out the bays and hosed down the trucks. were working late, sharing a blunt as they lazily swept out the bays and hosed down the trucks.

Lucia wasn't there, for which Happy felt grateful. The child was a homely rag of a girl, both needy and remote. More to the point, she was mean. Not that Happy blamed her. She always seemed to be suffering from pink eye, a phlegmy cough, some kind of rash, and who wouldn't get a b.i.t.c.h on with Vasco and Chula for parents.

Coils of copper wire lay stacked in the corner, stolen from empty houses and office buildings and even the pull boxes for streetlights, from which the wire had been dragged out by force after sawing through the bundled cable, latching it to the hitch on the back of a pickup. Quite an operation, as Happy knew firsthand; he'd been part of the crew that ripped out this particular batch. It was big news in Rio Mirada, the number of public buildings vandalized, the intersections where the streetlights merely flashed because the conduits had been gutted. No sooner would the repairs be complete than Vasco's malandrines malandrines would strike again. would strike again.

"This is a cash-strapped city," the police chief had intoned on TV the other night. "We really could use the public's help on this."

In the opposite corner, handbills for mortgage a.s.sistance lay scattered in haphazard piles: In Foreclosure? Save Your Home! We Buy Houses for Cas.h.!.+ In Foreclosure? Save Your Home! We Buy Houses for Cas.h.!.+ Vasco was the local ghetto hump for the company that worked the scam, tricking people into refinancing plans that stripped out all their equity through cash-back-at-closing schemes, disguising the payouts as costs and fees. Sometimes they s.n.a.t.c.hed t.i.tle outright, leaving the homeowners with nothing. Happy wondered if they were in league with the crooks who'd screwed his father and Lucha. Vasco was the local ghetto hump for the company that worked the scam, tricking people into refinancing plans that stripped out all their equity through cash-back-at-closing schemes, disguising the payouts as costs and fees. Sometimes they s.n.a.t.c.hed t.i.tle outright, leaving the homeowners with nothing. Happy wondered if they were in league with the crooks who'd screwed his father and Lucha.

Vasco was yammering away on the phone, dressed in a black cowboy s.h.i.+rt with white piping, black jeans, white sharkskin boots with a matching belt, rocking in his chair and clutching his cigarette like a dart. He'd wrapped up the conversation minutes ago but was dragging it out, trying to show Happy who was boss, who could be made to wait.

Finally Vasco signed off and tossed the phone onto his desk, after which he rubbed his eyes, scratched his paunch, gazed out the window. His neck bore a patch of s.h.i.+ny flesh, the ghost of a tattoo he'd had removed. "Pinole was a problem?"

Happy didn't answer right away. Two could play this game. "That a surprise?"

Vasco waved the question away while exhaling a final plume of smoke, stubbing out his b.u.t.t. "You said there was something to discuss."

Happy could feel, like a thumb flick, the pulse in his throat. "I've got a proposal. Not just me. Me and some people back in El Salvador." The words sounded odd inside his skull, bats fluttering out of a cave.

Vasco mustered a yawn but his eyes betrayed his interest. "What people?"

"The guys who helped me get across."

"I never heard this."

"Heard what?"

"That you were involved with any, you know, people. Crossing over."

"How the h.e.l.l else was I gonna do it?"

"Beats me." Vasco was already lighting up another smoke. "You still in contact?"

"Would I be pitching this if I wasn't?"

"I dunno, you tell me."

Happy resisted an urge to get up, cross the room, tip Vasco out of his chair like a pumpkin from a wheelbarrow. "You don't want the offer, I'll take it to Sancho."

Emilio "Sancho" Perata was the shot caller for the 23rd Street Locos Salvatruchos, out of Richmond, as yet the only quasi-legitimate northern MS-13 clica clica outside San Francisco. outside San Francisco.

Vasco said, "Sancho would laugh in your face. Then he'd string you up by the b.a.l.l.s."

"Not for three million a year."

For a moment, it felt as though gravity had loosened its hold on things. The whole room seemed to float.

Vasco said, "Get outta town."

"Things've been loose up till now, right? No el mero mero No el mero mero calling the shots for everybody. That's gonna change. And the calling the shots for everybody. That's gonna change. And the clicas clicas that get in first, make the connection to the chiefs below the border-" that get in first, make the connection to the chiefs below the border-"

"You mean L.A."

"L.A. answers to El Salvador now. That's something you should know. f.u.c.k, El Salvador is is Los Angeles now. All the deportees." Los Angeles now. All the deportees."

"How the f.u.c.k you know these people?"

"Prison. After I got sent down myself."

Vasco tipped back and pondered that, rocking. His face was pockmarked and sagging from all the abuse, the crank and the liquor, the pills and the smoke, plus the stress of his petty empire. The purplish fluorescence of the overhead light didn't help. "Why should I trust some mensos mensos in lockup? Especially when they're thousands of miles away?" in lockup? Especially when they're thousands of miles away?"

"Because if you don't, somebody else will. Sancho, for one. You wanna end up answering to him?"

"Won't happen. Not me."

"Oh yeah. You."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. What is this, some kind of threat? You come in here, try to shake me down?"

"I'm offering you a shot at one and a half mil a year."

"I thought you said three."

"Three tops, one and a half guaranteed. That sound like a shakedown to you?"

In the window behind Vasco the moon peeked beneath a vast ledge of cloud. Downstairs, one of the vatos vatos cackled, cackled, "Te lo dije, el es un malapaga "Te lo dije, el es un malapaga." I told you, he's a deadbeat.

Vasco met Happy's eyes and let the stare linger. "Smuggling what, exactly?"

"First thing, you help me get my uncle and another guy across the border."

"That's not my problem."

"You wanna get to phase two it is. My people are in with the Valle Norte cartel. They're gonna move the product by boat, it'll sail out of Turbo, Colombia, hidden on pallets under loads of tropical fruit-bananas, plantains, mangoes. After a layover in Acajutla it'll come into the Oakland port, my dad and I will know which s.h.i.+pments, he'll work it so he gets the load. He'll truck it to a warehouse in Richmond owned by an importer who's already on board. You'll divide up the s.h.i.+pment, send it to the various wholesalers around the bay. They pay you, you skim your share, the rest goes back south through the channel."

"These people have names?"