David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

Happy wanted to get away from Lattimore’s resentment, but where would he go? They were all trapped now, caged together in the same machine, this lie.

“And of course Vasco sits there, ready for his close-up, and basically says, ‘You’re threatening me. What else can I do but agree to whatever you say?’ Lawyer’s gotta be brain-dead not to make hay with that.”

Happy’s stomach was roiling again. He would’ve popped out for a quick smoke if he hadn’t already ripped through his pack. “But Pitcavage said they always say that.” The weakness in his voice, the wishful thinking, even he could hear it. “And they always lose.”

“Yeah, and I’ve heard a lot of other things he’s said, right around the time things turn real.” Lattimore found his pen, opened a folder, fingered through the 305 reports already filed, searching out some forgotten detail like it was the most thankless chore of his life. “But ol’ Chimo, yeah. Guy could sell eggs to a goddamn chicken, I’ll grant him that.”

THEY GOT OUT OF THE CAR AND SMELLED THE POND FIRST, THE water foamy with scum. Chato made an ignorant crack, something about farmers and pigs, secrets of the barnyard. He’d been holding court the whole drive, a barky crank-fueled mania that only got worse when he fired up a blunt, sailing off into high bake: I’ll put in a good turd for you. Let me give you a turd of advice. Honest, dude, I give you my turd of honor. On and on and on-he must’ve said “turd of honor” a hundred times-to the point Godo had to resist the urge as the trunk popped open to grab the first gun he saw, shoot the little fucker right there, put him out of everyone else’s misery.

Luckily, the other two had grown sick of him too-Puchi, who’d driven, and a third guy Godo hadn’t met before, Efraim. They jumped on the kid and he shut up finally, at least as long as it took to unload the weapons: a Mossberg shotgun, a Glock with the ungainly eighteen-round mag, a more manageable Sig Sauer 9mm and three M16s, bought in pieces over the Internet and at gun shows, assembled by Efraim, who had quickly become Godo’s favorite of the bunch: quiet, capable and just a little haunted. By what, Godo wasn’t sure, but it made him feel a kinship.

Happy had pushed him into this. It’s for the family, he’d said, think of Tío Faustino. Vasco was a dick but they were all dicks. He was paying the freight, end of story. This is how the devil hands back your soul, Godo thought. It’s not a gift.

He’d mustered the foresight to push for an outdoor venue, not an indoor shooting range. Secretly, he’d feared the extra compression, the echo, all those weapons firing at once. He gave himself credit for not losing it on the way over, cringing under every overpass, fearing an IED lay stuffed inside every roadkill pelt.

Beneath streaming clouds, the fetid pond gave way to a meadow of knee-high grass and silvery thistle crowned with seedpods. A windbreak of walnut trees rimmed one end of the property, the other three guarded by a broken fence, all helter-skelter rails and tottering posts. Behind the house sat a buckle-roofed barn that once, he was told, held a cockfighting pen. All deserted now, snatched away from Efraim’s family by the county for back taxes. The nearest neighbors lived a mile away beyond a range of low hills.

Efraim led the way to the front door, tore away the county notice and the sagging yellow ribbon, then shouldered the door open. The wood splintered with a gratifying crack. Kicking aside some debris, he gestured everyone in.

Dusty emptiness, footfalls echoing on scuffed wood. The sun-bleached walls bore the rectangular ghosts of pictures and mirrors now gone. Efraim led them to what had once been the dining room and they sat near a southern window, enjoying the intermittent warmth whenever the sun peeked through the clouds as they lunched on tortas bought from a taco wagon along the way, chasing their mouthfuls with swigs of orange soda.

The food kept Chato from yapping. Godo, his appetite iffy, appreciated the meal for the silence alone. It also gave him a chance to regard Efraim more mindfully. The guy was sleek and dark with soulful eyes but there was a bitter streak running through him. To Godo that spoke of depth. This is the guy who’ll pay attention, he thought, who’ll remember what he learned when the time comes to use it, who won’t freak or improvise crazily if everything goes to hell.

After lunch, Efraim produced the three M16s. They were patchwork, different years’ models hashed together, one with an M4 upper assembly, another an AR-15 stock, a lot of soldering to hold them together, serviceable all the same. Chato picked one up, that imbecile grin, strumming the thing. “This the ax you used over in Iraqistan, right?”

Godo flashed on a story he’d heard, about a jarhead in Al Anbar who was goofing off, playing air guitar with his piece, when he accidentally discharged a round and killed another marine the next tent over.

“Full auto,” Chato vamped, “spray the fuck out of anything you see.”

Godo reached over, lifted the weapon from his hands. “Not these,” he said. “Three-shot burst is the best you’ll get. And that’s a waste of ammo because muzzle lift after the first shot makes the next two sail high. Now clam the fuck up and pay attention.”

He showed them how to release the magazine, jack back the charging handle and eye the chamber for live rounds. Once it was clear none of the rifles was loaded, he demonstrated the proper way to hold the weapon, cheek flush against the comb of the stock, butt plate tucked tight to the shoulder. He made each of them thumb off the safety twenty times, so it was something they’d associate with habit, not fumbling need.

Chato complained about the repetition. Godo pinned him with a look. “One more fucking word, you go up in the hayloft and spy for cops. I’m not telling you again.”

Godo collected one of the rolled-up targets he’d brought, purchased from a gun shop in Rio Mirada. They had man-shaped silhouettes on them, so everyone remembered they were here to learn how to shoot people, not big red dots. He taught them how to blade the V notch, rest the target’s center atop the sighting post. He made them do this over and over, bringing the weapon up to the shoulder, aiming, sighting, letting the weapon drop again-sitting, kneeling, standing, prone. After half an hour of this, the complaints were universal, even Efraim looked bored.

“I’m trying to train your muscle memory,” Godo said. “You think this is rough? They did this to me for a whole damn week at Pendleton, called it ‘snapping in.’”

“Ain’t no ‘snap’ about it.” Chato again.

Godo, turning: “I said one more word.”

“This is bullshit.”

“Fine.” Godo jerked the rifle out of his hands. “You can use the shotgun. Even a girl can hit a target with buckshot.”

“Chucha de tu madre.”

Godo stepped forward, pressed his face close to Chato’s. “My mother’s what?”

A weaselly shrug, glancing away. “You heard me.”

It was galling to realize the guy was Roque’s age. And while Roque was stepping up, this loudmouth lelo , this fool, thought he already knew everything his ignorant ass would never comprehend if you planted it in his brain with a trowel. “Get the fuck outta my sight.”

Puchi, stepping in: “Godo, come on. He was just letting off steam, man.”

“Let me hear him say it. C’mon, runt, apologize.”

“Picoteado.” Pock face.

Godo actually found that funny. “Little ranker bitch.”

“Vete a la chingada.” Go to hell.

“Shut the fuck up!” It was Efraim now, chiming in. Despite the raised voice, he held his rifle down, like the thing was loaded. Right mind, right habits. “You’re wasting my time.”