Do They Know I'm Running? (48 page)

Happy’s cell phone rang. In unison, the two on the couch
glanced up, the stubbled one growling,
“Afuera, pendejo.”
Take it outside, asshole. Heading for the door, Happy checked the incoming-call display. Tía Lucha was the only person he’d contacted so far on this phone, but this wasn’t a callback. He didn’t know who it was.

Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, he stepped first across the open ditch ripe with filth that ran downhill to the sewer linkage, then past the concrete
pila
topped with potable water, filmed with mosquito larvae. Across the muddy roadbed, unfinished houses loomed in shadow, wands of rebar fingering skyward in the moonlight. Down the road, a few lived-in houses sported satellite dishes, courtesy of El Recio, so his own wouldn’t tip off the police.

He flipped the phone open, put it to his ear, waited.

“Happy—that you?” It was Roque.

A nervous rage crackled up Happy’s spine. “Tell me what happened.”

“Happy—”

“You know what I mean.”

Roque stammered out an explanation—a cow in the road, two trucks of gunmen, it all sounding too fucked up to disbelieve. “Tío got hurt in the accident, he was dazed, it made him an easy target. We all would’ve died if not for Samir. He was like a killing machine.”

Wait, Happy thought, that can’t be right. He recalled the ambush on the road to Karbala, when Samir saved his life. The Arab never grabbed a gun, not off the wounded, not off the dead, he never even tried. He ran and hid, then talked his way out. He lied to me, Happy thought. He’s lied to me all along and so has Lonely and every other glad-handing cocksucker who said he was doing me a favor. There are no favors.

Roque broke back in: “Tía Lucha said Godo’s with you.”

“Not this minute.” He glanced around, looking to see if anyone was listening in. The night was disconcertingly quiet. Come
daylight, the neighborhood would burst with the hiss and rumble of propane wagons and water trucks, the shriek of postman whistles, the jingle of bells on the
helado
wagons, the hawker calls from men and women selling newspapers, corncobs, goat-cheek tacos, broiled tripe. “But yeah, Godo’s here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Agua Prieta.”

“What are you doing—”

“We’re waiting for you.” Across the way, a crow perched atop one of the exposed rods of rebar fluttered its long black wings in the moonlight. “Listen, no more calls to Tía Lucha, understand? The phone might be bugged. Things’ve taken an odd turn the past couple days. I’ll explain when I see you.”

WHEN HE RETURNED TO THE HOTEL HE FOUND GODO SITTING CROSS-LEGGED
on the floor of their tiny room, facing a girl maybe six or seven years old. She was wrapping his hand in fresh gauze with only a candle to see by.

Godo glanced up at the doorway. “Hey,
primo
.” Nodding to the girl, “This is Paca.”

The child spun her head around, pigtails flying. She was rail thin with an incongruously round face, like a human lollipop, except she had fever-dream eyes. Her smile was short a tooth.

Happy nodded hello. Then, to Godo, “She got a mother?”

“You mean around?” Godo took the end of the gauze from the girl, tucked it in, finishing the wrap. “Mom’s out working.” He glanced up meaningfully. There were only a few things a woman could do in this town for quick money. “They’re making their fourth go at the border.”

Happy sat down on his cot, gnawed by weariness but too wired to sleep. Four tries, he thought, Christ.

“Last three times, funny enough, they’ve walked right into the arms of
la migra
. Their
guía
says it’s just bad luck. Fucker.

They’re decoys, he’s running a load of dope some other route once he’s got the border boys chasing his
pollos
around.”

“Stuff happens.” Happy lay flat. In the candlelight the ceiling looked like a rippling pond.

Godo placed his bandaged hand atop the girl’s head and scrubbed affectionately. She pointed toward the cot, beaming. “Hap pee?”

“Yes. Happy.” Godo smiled proudly. “I’ve been teaching her some English.”

“Slaphappy,” the girl chirped.

“Hey!
Recuerdas
. Good.”

“Naphappy! Craphappy!” She bounced with delight, accenting the second syllable, not the first, thinking in Spanish.

Happy lifted himself onto one elbow. “Those aren’t words.”

“They oughta be. You’ve never been naphappy?”

“Laphappy! Sappycrap!”

“Can I talk to you alone?”

Godo broke the news to Paca. Like a little soldier, no pout, no pretending she hadn’t heard, she jumped to her feet, brushed off her skirt and padded out, shooting back an over-the-shoulder smile with its little notch of blackness—her happygap, Happy thought.

“Get the door, okay?”

Godo rose, did as asked, then sat on the opposite cot. “What’s up?”

“El Recio says he never got paid. I’ve gotta scratch up another fifteen hundred to get Samir across.”

Godo looked puzzled. “You sound like you resent it.”

“The money? Fuck yeah. This shit never ends.”

“Not the money. Samir. You sound like you loathe the fucker. Change your mind about getting him across?”

It’s that obvious, Happy thought. Not good. “Roque got in touch, by the way.”

Godo made an odd sound, grunt and snort and chuckle all rolled into one. “How goes the golden child?”

“He told me what happened. With Pops. It doesn’t sound like it was his fault.”

“Since when are you so forgiving?”

Happy let that go. “The way he described it, I don’t see it going down much different if it was you or me who’d been there. You, maybe.”

“Stop beating yourself up. Like I made some big difference back at Fucked Chuck’s house.” He rested his bandaged hand on his thigh, palm up, staring into it. “Unlucky Chuck.”

“What is it with you and this rhyming shit?”

“I’m bored stupid here. Thought I was gonna die from fucking tedium before Paca showed up.”

There are worse ways to go, Happy thought. “Well, knock it off. We got stuff to discuss.” He told him about El Recio’s offer, the job he’d proposed. “He wanted to know if you were interested. I told him your hand was still messed up.”

Godo’s pocked face looked like a mask in the candlelight. “My hand’s fine.”

“Wrapped up like that?”

“I can carry my weight.”

“I wanted you kept out of it.”

Godo chewed on that for a bit. “You ashamed of me?”

“I’m trying to be thoughtful,
pendejo
. Everything you been through?”

“You my mother now?”

Drop it, Happy told himself. “That’s not my point.” He glanced up at the watery shadows again, feeling as though, if he stared long enough, they might speak. “You still get nightmares?”

Godo reached beneath his cot. “You know I do. And not just at night.” He checked the duffel holding his guns. “Thing back in Crockett eating you?”

Happy wanted to close his eyes but felt afraid. He could hear the dying man’s blood, smell the girl’s screams. “Stuff just comes out of nowhere.”

Godo settled back on his own cot, lacing his fingers beneath his head. “Sorry to tell you this,
cabrón
, but that’s gonna be part of the mental furniture from now on.” He nudged off his shoes. “Welcome to the house.”

THEY HIT THEIR FIRST CHECKPOINT WITHIN HALF AN HOUR OF
setting out, between Puente Copalita and the turnoff to the beaches at Huatulco. Contrary to Bergen’s prediction, he wasn’t waved breezily through. He was directed to the berm. He was told to have everyone step out of the van.

Roque was struck by how young the soldiers looked; even the lieutenant interrogating Bergen appeared to be no older than twenty. He reminded himself of Sisco’s advice regarding moments like this—keep smiling—as he watched a German shepherd sniff the undercarriage of the Eurovan, straining his leash. Meanwhile, maybe twenty feet away, a group of especially entrepreneurial local women dressed in festive
pozahuancos
were selling fruit, snakes, even an iguana on a rope, in the event the detainees might want to take the opportunity for some impulse shopping. One woman waved frantically at a cluster of bees swarming her bucket of sweet
panochas
. It was midmorning, still reasonably mild with the breeze off the ocean, but Roque couldn’t help himself, he was sweating like a thief.

The pimpled soldier who took his passport flipped to the border stamps.—
You’ve come up from El Salvador, through Guatemala
.

His voice was reedy with forced authority. Roque acknowledged the observation while the soldier checked his face and arms for tattoos, told him to open his shirt so he could inspect his torso as well. Roque obliged: clean. The young soldier, expressionless, handed back his passport, then moved on to Samir.

Thanks to Beto’s
compas
in Tecún Umán, both the Arab and Lupe had voter registration cards from Veracruz, mocked up with the obligatory lousy picture, one of the few ways the
salvatruchos
had actually come through. Bergen, fearing their accents might nevertheless give away the charade, had enlisted the company of a frog-faced local named Pingo who, as far as Roque could tell, was on board chiefly to blow smoke.

—
We’re headed for Nogales, get work permits from the union, you know?
He almost crackled as he talked, mesmerist eye contact, homely smile.—
Gonna pick cantaloupes in Yuma. Used to be you had to go through recruiters, couple hundred a permit, goddamn shakedown. With the union, the growers pay. For real. Least that’s how it’s supposed to work. Not like the recruiters gonna cave without a fight. Fucking gangsters. Couple union dudes been shot, I heard
.

The pimply soldier paid Pingo little mind, choosing instead to glance back and forth—Samir’s face, his ID picture, looking for something, lingering, then all of a sudden handing the voter reg card back. Moving on to Lupe he repeated the process, mimicking his own actions so unimaginatively Roque caught on finally it was all just mindless rote. The guy barely glanced at Pingo’s ID. Roque felt his shoulders unbind.

Then the lieutenant told Bergen to open the back of the van.

The whole reason the American was traveling north was to deliver a vanload of art to a dealer he knew in California. That was his story, anyway.

—
You know how it is, Captain
, he told the lieutenant,
ever since the troublemakers caused all the problems here in Oaxaca, the tourist trade has dried up. No one comes to the galleries anymore. You have some of the most talented artists in the region on the verge of going broke
. He removed a cardboard tube from the back, popped open one end, shook out the canvas that was rolled up inside.—
Here, let me show you something
.

The lieutenant nosed around the boxes of tin ornaments, copal wood carvings, hand-painted masks and figurines, ceramic
bowls and pitchers, then called for the dog handler to bring the shepherd around. The animal hiked his forepaws onto the bumper, probed the nearest boxes with his snout.

Bergen, undeterred, unrolled the painting.—
Look at that. The colors remind me of Chagall. But the artist is from here, just over the mountain in Zimatlán. Now here’s a question for you, Captain: How much do you think this painting is worth?
He paused, as though to give the lieutenant time to think, playing the thing out, milking it.—
Up north, it will fetch five thousand dollars. Five thousand. Imagine what that means to this artist and his family
.

Roque had to grant the man his bullshit. What he was leaving unsaid was that the artists whose work he was carrying north had exclusive contracts with fiercely competitive local galleries. You could get blacklisted if any of the curators figured out they were getting backdoored. But nothing was moving here and the artists had mouths to feed, supplies to buy. So on the sly Bergen had offered to broker their work to a gallery in Santa Monica, for which he was getting three times the normal commission—calculated on the 500 percent markup on the other end—but what could they do? A smaller slice of something still beat a bigger slice of nothing.

The point, though, was Bergen had an angle. God only knew what else he was up to, Roque thought, half expecting the German shepherd to alert on the boxes piled in back—there’d be pot or scag or crank in there, courtesy of Bergen’s old paymasters, maybe Pingo the joker.

The dog dropped down onto the pavement. No alert. The lieutenant curtly gestured the American and his curious pack of fellow travelers back onto the road, then marched toward the next waiting vehicle, his retinue of baby-faced soldiers traipsing along behind.

Bergen rolled up his painting and suggested with a glance that everyone climb back into the Eurovan with as much oomph as they could muster. As they pulled onto the highway, he studied
his rearview mirror and said, “My guess is that’s the worst we’ll have to handle.”

“That’s not what you said before.” Sitting in back on the passenger side, Roque leaned out his window, tenting his shirt to dry his skin. “You said they’d just wave us through.”