David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

“And who the fuck are you?” Chato, mocking. “You own this place? Not no more, puto.”

For some reason, that was the thing that pushed Godo over. He reached out, gripped the shoulder of Chato’s hoodie, started dragging him toward the door. Chato dug in, sneakers squealing against the hardwood, arms windmilling, then Godo finally dropped the M16, let it clatter on the floor and landed one solid shoulder-driven fist into the center of the kid’s face, feeling the nose turn to slop. Chato staggered, dropped to one knee. Godo, letting go of the sweatshirt finally, turned to Puchi. “Take care of him.”

As they headed off to the kitchen sink, Chato yelped over his shoulder, “Fuck you up, man.” Godo picked up the rifle, let the fury subside. As he did, he saw the lone donkey wandering the street, braying in distress, while looters rampaged through the nearby buildings, stacking their booty onto trucks, pushcarts, wheelbarrows, all of Baghdad convulsed in a kind of mass kleptomania. And if the looters spotted the marines staring at them, they just waved, smiled. Laughed.

After a moment, Efraim said, “Tato?”

Godo shook himself out of it. “C’mon. We haven’t even practiced trigger pulls yet.”

Half an hour later they were outside, Chato with his busted nose and raccoon eyes posted in the hayloft by majority vote, the other three tacking up targets against the barn wall. Knowing the sound of the M16s blazing away would mess with his head in ways he couldn’t predict, Godo told Puchi and Efraim to let him demonstrate first a proper firing stance for the four standard positions. As he did, he squeezed off a round in each position. A froth of sweat beaded up instantly, his neck, his face, a sudden impulse to hit the deck. He commanded himself to hold it together. Strange memories or just hallucinatory bullshit slashed through his mind and he flinched more than once, jarring his aim. No one seemed to notice, though, or if they did they had the tact to stow it. Gradually the shock of it wore off. He began to feel not just okay but comfortable. With the comfort came a curious kind of acceptance.

He let the other two take a crack at it then, firing off three-shot clusters. He showed them how to compensate for muzzle lift, gauge for wind, zero their sights. When an hour’s worth of shooting brought no squad cars or any other outside interest, they let Chato come down and try a few rounds, hopeless though he was. Godo let him wield the Mossberg and the kid took to the shotgun like pie. No point bothering to show him how to shoulder it, the various assault-and-carry positions, Rhodesian ready, Taylor assault, the kid wouldn’t listen anyway. Shrugging off his sulk, he pranced about like he’d stepped off a movie screen, blasting at the barn wall, crying out “Boo-yah” while Puchi and Efraim tried out the pistols, getting a little Hollywood themselves, the spirit of the thing, and all Godo could think about were those hajis in the rubble-strewn street, thieving their way to freedom, staring back at the helpless marines, shooting them the thumbs-up, here and there a peace sign, cackling. Mocking.

BACK AT THE TRAILER THAT NIGHT, HE FELT SPENT IN A WAY THAT echoed the exhaustion he’d known nowhere but combat. Why he should feel this way now, after a day doing nothing but coaching three hopeless mutts, escaped him.

He dropped his gun-filled duffel onto the floor and his body onto the bed, unable even to muster the will to kick off his shoes or kill the light, suddenly aware he’d not given his gimp leg so much as a moment’s thought the past few hours as he tumbled down into a soft heavy sleep without alcohol, without pills, first time in weeks. Then an earthquake, a furious shaking, and he felt the hand first and knew it was real and stirred himself, leaping back from the touch, terrified, forgetting where he left his weapons.

“Hey, it’s me. Godo, relax. It’s me.”

Godo placed the tone, reassuring and yet a little put out, before he recognized the voice. His eyes felt like someone had dripped syrup into them. Gradually, Happy took form, craning over the bed. He was dressed in a black work jacket, T-shirt, jeans, looking like a second-story man. Tía Lucha stood behind him in the doorway, her face stripped of the moon mask. She looked sad, human, like herself, not the person she became out there, in Gringolandia .

“You were making this sound, man.” Happy sat down on the edge of the bed, gestured to Tía Lucha that everything was okay. “Thought I needed to flip you over or something.”

Godo swept a damp palm across his face. Why was he sweating?

Tía Lucha whispered, “Buenas noches, amorcitos,” then withdrew into the hall, padding back to her room in her socks.

Happy said, “Things okay?”

He smelled of tobacco and pulque . Godo rolled over finally, nudged himself into a sitting position, tucked a pillow into the small of his back. “Why shouldn’t they be?”

Happy checked around the room, saw the duffel, glanced toward the hallway, cocking an ear for the click of Tía Lucha’s door. “The thing with Puchi and Chato, that’s what I meant.”

Godo wondered why Efraim didn’t earn mention. He was the only one worth talking about. “Went okay, I guess.”

“They didn’t say anything was coming up soon?”

Godo studied Happy’s face. It was gaunt, eyes sinking into the skull like a bedouin’s. Did the guy ever eat? “They mentioned nothing coming up no time.”

“That’s important. Put off anything they want you to do.”

Godo recalled the tedious dry fires and other lessons out at the farmhouse, the free-form shoot-out at the barn. “Too late.”

“I’m not talking target practice. I’m talking a job.”

A slash of pain rifled up Godo’s spine, igniting a shimmer inside his skull. He wouldn’t be falling back asleep anytime soon. Damn. He wanted a beer. “You’re talking to the wrong creature. I’m not in the loop there.”

“Money’s in the pipeline. Things are moving.” Happy worried his fingers into a knot. “Pops’ll be back in a week, two tops. We’re good. No rush. Don’t get talked into anything.”

“Those two fools? Couldn’t talk me into lunch.”

“Keep it that way.”

Incredible, Godo thought, the attitude. “And if Vasco says put me to work?”

“Put him off. Buy time.” Happy reached out, took Godo’s arm, a brotherly touch. “Two weeks, that’s all we need.”

THE CAR, A SIX-YEAR-OLD TOYOTA COROLLA, APPEARED IN THE morning, Sisco driving it, part of the arrangement with the salvatruchos for the trip back to the States. The money had finally come through. Roque guessed the car had been stolen up north and was making the return trip with a new VIN number and license plates, all part of Lonely’s little empire. Roque could only imagine what a relief it was to unload this cacharro on just the right bunch of suckers. He wondered what ridiculous price they’d been milked for but that was Happy’s end. He chose to believe Happy knew his business.

Tío Faustino worried over the thing throughout the day, replacing the serpentine belt, inserting new plugs, changing the oil and coolant. Test drives around San Pedro Lempa gradually increased his confidence level. Finally, late afternoon, came Roque’s turn.

He slid behind the wheel and adjusted the seat, Tío sitting beside him, wiping his hands on a rag.- She loses power a little going uphill, probably carbon in the cylinders. That’s most likely causing some of the knocking too. It’s not so bad with the new plugs. I haven’t seen smoke, so we’re not burning oil . He tapped out a merry taradiddle on the console, then reached over to squeeze Roque’s shoulder.- Love her , chamaco. She’s our ticket home .