Do They Know I'm Running? (30 page)

Chepito led them to a room in the basement that reeked of mildew and body odor. As though to parody the Commander’s Spartan sense of decor, it was totally devoid of furniture. Tío Faustino, Samir and a third man sat cross-legged on the bare cement floor with a deck of worn playing cards, engaged in a game of canasta. The stranger was twentyish, gaunt, unshaven, his hair stiff from lack of washing and his uncut fingernails rimmed with grime. His sunken stare resembled an animal’s, though from dread or hunger or just raw tedium it was hard to tell.

Lupe immediately fled to a corner, dropped to her haunches, tucked up her knees and covered her head with her arms. Samir shot her a glance of naked contempt. Tío Faustino, wiping a glaze of sweat from his face, glanced at Roque inquiringly but he responded with a shake of his head, set the guitar down with a ringing thud, then dropped to the floor himself, using the instrument for a pillow as he lay on his back, draping an arm across his eyes. He felt impossibly tired, the adrenalin jag of the past few hours draining away like a toxic dream.

Samir, using Spanish for the sake of the stranger, said to Roque:—
Guess how long our new friend here has been trapped inside this house?

By way of introduction, the stranger interjected:—
My name is Sergio
. His voice was faint, trebly, educated.

Peeking out from under his arm, Roque saw an unwashed hand snaking through the air in his direction. Lifting himself up on an elbow, he squelched his queasiness, shook it.—
Roque
.

—
Oh I know. I’ve heard so much, so much about you. And Lupe
.

The girl’s name arched across the room, a lobbed pitch. She did not swing.

Sergio turned back to the men.—
It’s been wonderful, having someone to talk to, you have no idea. And canasta, not just solitaire. A miracle
.

He beamed like a schoolboy, clutching his fanned cards to his chest. Roque suppressed a mild case of the creeps.

—
Tell him how long you’ve been here
, Samir prompted.

—
Oh, yes. Yes. Nine and a half months. As of last Wednesday
.

Samir shot Roque a baleful glance, saying in English. “Let me tell you something, I’ll kill somebody before I stay here nine and a half months.”

—
His family can’t come up with the ransom
, Tío Faustino offered.

—
It’s far too much money. Far too much
. Sergio chafed a hand beneath his nose, then swept it through his hair.—
They think my family is rich. We’re not. We’re merchants. Appliances: stoves, refrigerators, washers, dryers. We have eight stores, in five towns, here and there across the country. But that’s nothing. We own no land. We have no political connections. We do not belong to society. We work. My family has not forgotten me, don’t think that. No. But the ransom is impossible. Too much, too much
.

Tío Faustino drew a card from the stock, arranged it in his hand, then placed a six of spades faceup in the discard pile. Everyone knew the stories, hostages held for seven to ten years, some killed when it became clear the family would never come up with the money, sometimes even when they did. He shuddered, thinking if mere months could reduce a man to this, what
would years do? To change the subject, he leaned a little closer, lowering his voice so no one stationed at the door might overhear.—
Sergio, what is it with El Chusquero, this colonel in prison? Are these guys soldiers or gangsters?

—
Both! Good God, both, of course. Both
. Though it wasn’t yet his turn, Sergio took a second to review his hand and the melds arranged before him, tapping his cards expectantly with his filthy middle finger.—
You haven’t heard of Los Zetas? Mexican commandos working for the Gulf cartel. Assassins. They were trained by Kaibil officers like El Chusquero. They’re notorious
.

Roque watched Samir draw a card, puzzle over it, grimace, toss it down onto the discard pile.

Sergio was next. He drew a card, screwed up his face, played it on a meld of sevens, smiling absently at this small success.—
The military is the mafia here. The army refused American aid because it came with strings attached. Human rights conditions. They laughed at that. They got their arms from Israel, Argentina. The CIA helped of course. And unlike El Salvador, they won their war. Using butchery, indiscriminate slaughter, with spies and informants everywhere, scaring everyone into silence. Worse, complicity. That kind of power, when no one can touch you, what to do with all of that once the last shot’s fired? Take over the national police, tell the Colombian and Mexican cartels you’re open for business
. He laid down his discard as though applying the final touch to a painting, then folded up his hand and rapped it pensively against his chin.—
They say two-thirds of the cocaine reaching America passes through Guatemala. Maybe more
.

The door opened. Chepito appeared again, accompanied this time by another of their rescuers out on the road. The young man was armed as he had been then, a semiautomatic rifle, bearing himself with a vacant intensity. Chepito gestured for the four newcomers to follow along, nailing Sergio with a hard stare that told him to stay put. Roque dared to believe they were going to be freed, even as the price of that luck seemed clear. Sergio erupted into helpless chatter, the words tumbling out even more
manically than before, almost birdlike in tenor, thanking them all for playing cards, asking that they perhaps maybe if at all possible contact his family—no one else, of course, the police, the press, nothing so bold—just his mother, his father, his sisters, let them know he was alive, inform them he was well, instruct them to do whatever they were told to do if they were contacted. He wanted to come home. He prayed every day and night to see them again.

—
Do whatever El Chusquero says
, he called out as the door clicked shut.—
Do nothing to jeopardize yourselves. Or me
.

Securing the padlock on the door, Chepito chuckled.
“Pobre hueco.”
Poor faggot.

Shortly they stood assembled in the bare white room before the massive Guatemalan flag. The Commander as before sat at his desk, rocking in his chair, neither beaming nor glowering, his thumb to his mouth as he chewed the nail pensively. The array of weapons and the glass cage with its little black riot inside remained exactly where Roque had seen them last, the scorpions earning a helpless shudder from Lupe, a furtive glance from Tío Faustino, a smile of admiring revulsion from Samir. Apparently El Chusquero gave no thought to the chance someone might grab a knife or the bayonet or the nunchuks, put up a fight, make a run for the door, not with Chepito’s sidekick standing behind them, his safety off.

“Well, look like is time for everyone turn over his bowl of soup,” the Commander announced mystifyingly. His eyes tracked each of their faces one by one. “I admit to you that I be in touch with Señor Lonely. We talk, we understand, okay? We agree on this: You want to reach Mexico, you need my protection. This will cost five thousand dollars each person.” His smile was generous. He gave the scorpion cage a meaningful pat. “I understand this is much money, but not too much, yes? Besides, in America, there is always someone with the money.”

THE CALL CAME IN AS HAPPY SAT AT THE WHEEL OF THE VAN
, overcast afternoon, hooded dog walkers braving the wind. He was waiting for Puchi to close the deal with the latest bunch of marks, a Mexican family, hardscrabble parents with three quiet kids, thought they’d found the perfect answer in American Amigos Moving.

Increasingly, the dupes were Latinos. Less likely to make a fuss, Happy supposed, guessing at Vasco’s logic. Even if they were legal, had all their documents in order, they’d be fools to risk it, take the chance that somewhere in the faceless maze of gringo justice they’d cross exactly the wrong guy, the one with an ax to grind, a sadist on a mission. Sure, maybe after a couple years and lawyer fees up the
culo
it would all end well, but you’d never get back to square one. People getting screwed, misidentified, shipped off, ignored when they tried to tell the truth, maybe just blindsided by cruel luck, their lives gutted—the number of stories had upticked crazily the past year, even on the fabled Left Coast, the People’s Republic of California. Only those with nothing to lose, Happy thought, could go ahead and bitch. Better to keep your head down, move along, hide.

Case in point: the father here, a short stocky dark-skinned
obrero
from Hermosillo, gentle cat, soft-spoken, handyman by day, waiter nights and weekends. He stood there beneath the leaden sky in the tree-lined street, outside the new house, shamed before his wife and sons, counting out the extra bills into
Puchi’s hand. Not even a green card can save you from this, Happy thought, and that was when the cell phone in his pants pocket began to throb.

He dug it out, checked the digital display, the number not just unfamiliar, it had one too many digits. Flipping the phone open, he pressed it to his ear, expecting some mistaken stranger or just dead air.

It was Roque. “Pablo. Hey.” He sounded wrong. “We’ve got a situation here.”

Happy spent the next two minutes trying to focus, holding back his rage and dread, as Roque set about trying to explain, as best he could, the “situation.”

It seemed a gratuitous insult—the old man, kidnapped. He’d already been snatched once by the feds, wasn’t that enough? Of course it meant money, quick, except there was none. He glanced in the mirror at the gentle
obrero
waiting for his furniture to appear from the back of the truck. Who was the sucker now?

He tried to take heart from Roque’s voice. The more he talked, the stronger he sounded, holding it together, but how could the kid have let this thing happen? First rule of schemes, Happy thought: They fall apart. They mock you. He bit his fist to keep the nausea down, closing his eyes tight, listening until Roque had nothing to say except, “Don’t call back to this number. It won’t work. I’ll contact you in two hours.”

Disposable phone, Happy thought. It explained why he hadn’t recognized the incoming number. The kidnappers, whoever they were, probably tossed Roque’s cell somewhere, realizing their location could be tracked through the transmission towers. Kid didn’t even need to use it, just have it on. Now that it was history, no one would know where they were, not Lattimore, not the spooks, nobody.

That too was the situation.

“And in two hours, we discuss what?”

“Getting the money together. Where to send it.”

“Yeah. Look. I can see some problems there.”

“Jesus.” Roque’s voice plummeted twenty stories. “Don’t talk like that.”

Suddenly Puchi and Chato were slapping their hands on the door of the truck cab, making faces. It was time to unload. On top of everything else, a faint mist had started to fall. Happy held up a finger: Gimme one minute.

“I mean, who the fuck am I supposed to hit up for twenty grand?”

There was a noise on the other end. Roque said, “Wait a minute,” followed by a sound like windblown sand hitting glass, static on the line. Roque came back: “Like I said, two hours, I’ll call you.” The line went dead.

THE FURNITURE FELT LIKE TONNAGE AS HAPPY HELPED CARRY IT OFF
the truck through the drizzle and into the small house. He ignored the shame-faced
obrero;
everybody’s got problems, he told himself. Once or twice, though, as he dropped a chair into place or nudged a dresser into its spot, he caught the stare of one of the kids, a boy, the oldest, maybe twelve, thin as a birch and nothing but hate in his eyes.

As they drove back to the truck yard, the sun peeked through the gunmetal haze along the horizon. Something like a plan started taking shape in Happy’s mind. The smallness of the amount, he thought, was interesting. It wasn’t a real kidnap, they weren’t trying to bleed the family. They must’ve already known we were tapped out, he thought, the fee paid to Lonely. They just want a little something to make up for their trouble. They killed a few men, from what Roque’d said, and that deserved fair compensation. The ransom was just a way to tax the
salvatruchos
without actually causing ill will. Lonely was no doubt delighted: Stick it to the
pollos
. It made it look like he’d made a deal but it cost him nothing. Every business should catch breaks like that.

He considered phoning Lattimore, hitting up the bureau for the ransom. Not like it isn’t in their interest to keep this thing afloat, he thought. They had flash and drop money, twenty grand was in the realm of possibility, theoretically. Small or large, though, the amount would mean dick to Lattimore. The bureau’s not a bank: Happy had actually heard him say that into the phone to some other snitch. It doesn’t hand out money it doesn’t expect to grab right back. You flash it for a buy, you drop it on the table during a sting, that’s it. Even when a kidnapper’s threatening a child, an agent’s going to make the family bargain for more time, cash out a policy, work a loan on the house, whatever. The bureau always holds out, Happy’d learned, hoping you get itchy and scratch up the money on your own, helpful fuckers that they were.