Do They Know I'm Running? (53 page)

EVEN THE BUS DRIVER SEEMED CONFUSED, NOTHING BUT A CLUSTER
of half-finished houses, the middle of nowhere. Twilight only enhanced the desolation. Spidery ocotillos and crook-armed saguaros manned the surrounding plain, at the edge of which dust devils swirled in the cool winds funneling down from the mountains. Overhead, a lone hawk caught an updraft and soared in its flux, a small black afterthought in a blackening sky.

The driver rechecked his odometer, confirmed they’d traveled the distance from Cananea that Roque had mentioned, then opened the door, wishing them luck as they gathered their things and shuttled out onto the roadbed. None of the other passengers looked at them. To make eye contact was, ironically, to become visible, and everyone bore a secret, even the children. Their bodies were freight, their lives for sale. The bus pulled away in a plume of black exhaust, its headlights plowing the dusk, and Roque couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been tricked.

Shortly, he realized they weren’t alone. On the stoop outside one of the unfinished houses a scrawny
huelepega
with matted black hair stuffed his face inside a brown paper bag, sucking up the glue fumes inside. A pack of dogs sulked nearby, trembling, sniffing the air. Then came a pistol shot—the dogs scattered, the gluehead crushed his bag to his chest, jerked to his feet and shambled off into the scrub.

Where in God’s name is he running, Roque thought, wondering if they should follow.

The gunman revealed himself, easing around the corner of one of the nearer houses. Pistol at his side, he approached with trancelike slowness, offering no greeting.

Samir put his hand to his heart. “It has been so long, my friend. My God, you terrified us.”

Happy stopped short, no reply, only a drifting smile, cut loose from the eyes. Turning toward Roque, he said simply, “Hey,” his voice raspy and soft.

Roque said, “You okay?”

“The girl,” Happy said. “She speak English?”

“Not much.” Roque reached for her hand. “Not well.”

Happy looked at their clasped hands, then her face, regarding her as though she were a problem he couldn’t hope to solve. “Remind me, her name?”

A sudden wind kicked up whips of dust. Everyone shielded their eyes.

“Lupe,” Roque said.

Realizing they were talking about her, she offered a shy smile. Happy turned away, gesturing with the pistol for everyone to follow as he led them back to the last house, the only one with a roof as far as Roque could tell. Inside, the walls were bare—no cabinets, no trim, no fixtures—the floors naked sheets of plywood that gave a little underfoot, a spooky sensation in the gathering dark. Cinder blocks sat propped on end like stools, nails lay scattered here and there amid trails of sawdust and cigarette butts and empty pint bottles. Even with the openings where windows should have been letting in air from outside, the room stank like an ashtray.

“How you like the place?” Happy glanced around like he was thinking of buying. “You wouldn’t believe what they want for it.”

Roque wondered where Godo was, the thought of seeing him again cropping up in his mind like a stone in his shoe these past few days. Missing him, wanting no part of him. First their mother, then Tío, who to blame? Who else?

Happy went on, “Came here to watch the place for the guy who owns it. Can’t figure out if we were too early or too late.”

Roque heard it. We. “So Godo’s here somewhere.”

From behind, a thundering: “Call the law!” He filled the doorway, shouldering a duffel. A ragged slide down his arm to the floor—whatever was inside clattered dully. Noticing the look on everyone’s face, he grinned. “Hold the applause.”

Roque felt a sudden coil of inner heat, so much held in check over the last few weeks, all of it now boiling up. “You sorry motherfucker!”

“Stop sniveling.” Godo spread his arms. “Time for
abrazos.”

Roque didn’t move. He couldn’t. “Stop fucking around.” His glance darted toward Lupe, who seemed baffled. Me too, he wanted to tell her.

Godo approached. “Who says I’m fucking around?”

“You’re being a dick.”

“Because I want a hug from my
hermanito?”

Before Roque could answer Godo swallowed him up in his arms, a warm musty funk rising from his body as he rocked a little back and forth. In a whisper, so no one else could hear: “I know you’re fucked up about losing Tío. Don’t carry it with you. Let that shit go.”

For a moment, Roque couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Who was this person, what had he done with Godo? He swallowed a surge of weepiness and managed to say, “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Godo pressed his head against Roque’s. “Whole lotta sorry to go around. Not just you. It was all of us. We all lost Tío. Don’t carry that alone.” He gave two fierce slaps to Roque’s back and let him go. Loudly, for the others: “There. That so fucking unbearable?”

Dazedly, Roque embraced Happy as well, for the sake of symmetry if nothing else. Introductions went around. Samir, as always impatient, asked if they were crossing that night.

“I need to talk to you about something,” Happy said. The way
it came out, everyone sank. “The people we arranged things through to begin with—I know, we don’t owe them nothing at this point but hear me out—they know something about you. An American showed up, talked to the
patrón
who runs things along this stretch of the border. You’re supposed to get handed over to him, this American. He represents some company out of Dallas.”

Samir’s deep-set eyes drew back even further. He clutched his bag. “No.”

“There’s all variety of shit going on here behind the scenes, Samir, I can’t control none of that. But Godo and me, we can’t go home no more. You don’t go with these people, this honcho from Dallas, we’re up for grabs.”

Samir looked like a touch might knock him down. “I saved your life.”

Happy looked away. “I’ve been wanting to ask you about that, actually.”

“Ask me—”

“Roque tells me you’re damn handy with a gun. Funny how I never saw that side of you. Not even when we were in the middle of a firefight.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I figured you’d say that.”

Lupe, sensing a wrong turn somewhere, looked to Roque for reassurance but he had none to give. Godo blocked the door.

“This American, this man from Dallas.” Samir pointed, as though the city were only a short walk away. “He is CIA. You give me to him”—a finger snap—“I disappear.”

“I don’t know that.”

“They will hood me, torture me. I’ll end up in some secret prison. Worse, get handed over to someone else, the Egyptians, the Thais. Let them do the dirty work.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Because
they can.”

Happy reached into his back pocket, withdrew a mangled pack of Marlboros, shook one free, lipped it. “Maybe all they want to do is talk.” The cigarette bobbing. “That be so terrible?”

“And tell them what?”

“Whatever.” Using a Zippo, Happy lit up, shrugged. “Everything.”

“And if I have nothing to tell them, nothing they want to hear, what do you think happens? Think they believe me?”

“Could be they want you to infiltrate a mosque, maybe a sleeper cell, maybe just a bunch of deadbeats hanging around some café, talking tough about jihad. You want asylum? Looks like you’ll have to earn it.”

Samir turned one way, another, looking for a way out. “You don’t understand.”

Happy exhaled a long plume of smoke. “You keep saying that.”

A nervous laugh, disbelief. “What else can I say?”

“No one understands. Not as far as you’re concerned.”

“Why are you angry with me?”

“I’m not—”

“What have I done? Why betray me like this?”

Happy took another long drag. “Who are you, really? Let’s start there.”

Again, the hand across the heart. “I have never once lied—”

“I have no idea who you are.”

Roque glanced toward the door, wondering what if anything Godo felt about all this, but except for a vague impatience there was nothing in his expression to read. Sure the Arab was a pain in the ass but this was over the top. “Happy, what are you getting at?”

“Butt out, Roque.”

“No. You don’t tell me that, not after everything—”

“This don’t concern—”

“This isn’t
necessary
, okay? I told you, this guy in Naco—”

“For fuck’s sake, you stupid? He’s a cop! I don’t care whose uncle he is. You gotta trust me on this, you go to this guy to get you across, you’ll never be heard from again. Okay? Especially with our friend here in tow.” He gestured toward Samir, then Lupe. “Same with her.”

“Happy—”

“T
he patrón
wants a songbird, Roque. They all do down here. One of the perks of being
el mero mero
. He’ll make her a star. Life could be fucking worse.”

“Now you’re the one who sounds stupid.”

“Not like they’re gonna pimp her out, okay? Everybody’s being so fucking dramatic.”

Again, Lupe looked to Roque for some reassurance. There was none to find. She turned to Happy, incensed, scared.—
Tell me what is happening. Not him. Me
.

Before Happy could answer, a caravan of four SUVs turned off the road into the development, headlights raking the forward houses as the engines throttled down for the switch from pavement to gravel.

Roque turned back to Happy, took a step toward him. “What have you done?”

Happy didn’t move. A twinge of his eye, a blink. “I have no clue who that is.”

Samir lunged toward one of the windows, hiking his leg over the sill, ducking down. He was halfway out when Godo sailed across the room, caught him, grabbing him by the shirttail first, then a crippling punch to the small of the back, like some instinct from the war had taken hold. Lupe, seeing the door unguarded, bolted, she was gone before Roque could stop her. He grabbed his knapsack, followed, glancing back from the doorway as Godo headlocked Samir, twisting him to the floor. Happy just stood there, tip of his cigarette a curl of ash as he stared in the general direction of the oncoming vehicles, looking as though to
move would be an admission of something he still felt a need to keep private.

THE DARKNESS ACROSS THE DESERT FLOOR FELT IMPENETRABLE, WORSE
than inside the house, but once his eyes adjusted Roque caught Lupe’s silhouette vanishing past a snarl of cacti. He hurried after her just as the SUVs braked and men poured out. Over his shoulder, he recognized the
huelepega
from earlier, passing through the headlight glare, looking not quite so feeble now. They’d known, he thought. They had a lookout.

He caught up with Lupe, snagged her arm. She fought back, throwing an elbow, a wild kick.—
Let go!

—
Quiet! Get down
.

He dragged her behind a thicket of underbrush circling the base of a massive saguaro, its barbed arms snaking up and out in all directions. They both panted from exertion, trying to stifle the sound. The dogs from earlier had reappeared around the house and now skittered away as perhaps a dozen men surrounded it, all of them armed. Headlights lit up the house from two sides. From somewhere in the foothills a coyote howled, then one of the men called out, addressing Happy by his given name.

—
PABLO, STOP BEING SUCH A HOPELESS ASSHOLE. COME ON OUT
.

Happy, recognizing the voice, figured the Spanish was a play to the others, the men setting up the kill zone. Doesn’t matter what I say or don’t say, he thought, it’s all an act. This is what I get for mocking a snake.

Godo gestured everyone down, out of the light streaming in through the windows, then belly-crawled to his duffel, shook it open and began pulling out the weapons, the shotgun, the Kalashnikov, the pistols. He flexed his gauze-wrapped hand, then slammed a magazine into the AK, the others already
loaded. To Happy, he said, “I’m assuming you know who’s out there.”

A burst of machine-gun fire ripped along the outer walls of the house, a few rounds pitching in through the window, tearing pieces of cinder block away like shrapnel and leaving clouds of chalky dust behind.

Happy said, “The ones I told you about.”

—
Come on, Pablo. What, you think I wouldn’t figure this shit out, all that crap about wanting to do me a favor? You got the Arab and the girl in there. I understand, I do. Nothing terrible is going to happen to them. Nothing terrible will happen to you. Play it smart
.

“Where’s Roque?” Godo asked.

“The girl ran out. He went after her.”

“They think she’s in here.” Using his teeth, Godo began tearing the gauze away from his hand, peeling it off in shreds. Shortly, he broke into a smile. “They got away, her and Roque.”

The lucky one, Happy thought. The magical one.

“I won’t go with those men,” Samir said. He lay across the room, staring at the glassless, light-filled window. “A man cannot choose when he will die, only how.”

Godo flexed his naked hand, still black and red from its burns. “That’s deep.” He wiped a smear of ointment onto his pant leg. “Kinda premature, though.”

“Don’t hand me over to them. Kill me. Say it was self-defense.”

“They’re going to kill us,” Happy said, talking to neither of them in particular. “He thinks I went behind his back. That can’t be forgiven. There’s nothing to say. I can’t make it right, not with them. And I’ve seen how they kill people.”

Godo picked up the shotgun, chuckling miserably as he racked a load of nine-shot into the chamber.
“Vamos rumbo a la chingada.”
We’re on our way to join the fucked. He turned to Samir and hefted the Kalashnikov. “I hear you know how to use one of these.”

The Arab began to crawl across the room, inching on hands
and knees, butt high, head low, made it halfway across when another spray of machine-gun fire, this one longer, rocked the small house. He dove down, covering his head as bullets rang against the tin roof and tore away more of the wall. Once the firing stopped he scurried the rest of the way, joining Godo near the door as the dust swirled and drifted overhead.

—
I’m not fucking around no more, Pablo. Hands on your head, you and everybody else, one by one through the door, or we gonna smoke you out
.