David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

Goading, Chato said, “So you gonna show us how to dice the pie or what?”

“Slice,” Godo corrected. He felt a migraine clawing at the backs of his eyes. “The phrase is ‘slice the pie.’”

They collected the rest of the weapons from the trunk and trooped inside the empty farmhouse. Godo took possession of the AK. Glancing around until he remembered the lay of the place, he marched them down a back hall, chose a bedroom, squared himself in front of the door.

“This spot right here? It’s called the fatal funnel. Most dangerous place in the house.” He snapped his fingers, rousting Chato from a daydream. “Stand clear till you have at least some idea what you’re up against. Use the wall as a shield.”

He demonstrated as he spoke, flattening his back against the plaster. The migraine flared white and red behind his eyes.

“First thing? Check does the door open in or out. That dictates how you sweep the room. This one opens in. Stand on the side closest to the knob-why?”

Puchi and Chato just stared, breathing through their mouths. Efraim said softly, “Fatal funnel.” Godo loved the guy.

“Specially if the room’s dark and the hallway’s lit? Do not and I mean do not lean across the doorway to reach the knob. Okay. Tuck your weapon in tight against the body. Soft-check the knob.” He lowered his voice to a hush. “Gentle. Don’t give yourself away. If it’s not locked, turn, push-don’t slam it open, that’ll just make it snap back.”

He let the door glide back in a slow easy arc.

Chato screwed up his face. “Why not just kick it in? Show the motherfuckers who rules.”

Godo wanted to butt-stroke him with the AK. He turned to Efraim. “You tell him why.”

“Fatal funnel.” It came out sounding almost philosophical.

“And if the door’s not locked,” Godo added, “why risk getting your ass shot?”

“Fuck you both,” Chato said. “I seen it: Check out YouTube you don’t believe me. Motherfuckers are kicking in the fucking doors.”

Godo decided to wrap the rest up quick: Step back from the doorway to prevent getting your weapon snatched, give yourself room to fight; shoulder your piece, crab-walk in a half circle across the fatal funnel, sweeping the room in twenty-to thirty-degree angles. “Do not cross your legs as you move. You trip, you’re dead. Shuffle, fast-hey knucklehead, Chato, heads-up, this is slice the fucking pie-the longer you’re exposed in that doorway, the more likely you end up dead. Be aggressive. You see something? Shoot. Check foreground, background, ceiling, floor-fast, fast, you linger, you’re dead-then move to the next slice.”

He had their full attention now. Repetition of the word “dead” tended to do that.

“Okay, you’ve still got the two areas at extreme angles on either side of the door, deep back near the far corners, right? Maybe nobody’s there. Maybe there’s one guy, you don’t know which side. Maybe there’s two, one on each side. You commit -choose one side, step into the doorway, strong-side foot forward, aim toward the space, but check back over your shoulder, boom , just a glance, tenth of a second tops. Be decisive, keep moving, that’s your advantage. You see something, pivot, drop to a knee, fire up at the guy, chest shots, head shots. If there’s two, hit the guy behind you first, then pivot back for the one in front. If you’re still alive, clear the rest of the room.”

He guided them through stairwells next, same fundamentals, different geometry, emphasizing decisiveness, mobility, aggression. Efraim, as always, proved the model student, careful with his footwork, mindful, precise. Next to him, even Puchi looked sorry. At times the vato showed real promise, the makings of a stone killer, but at some point his concentration always broke, he played down to his audience, Chato. It became just another round of what-the-fuck to them, sharp one minute, sloppy the next, no clue how easy it was to die. Christ, you didn’t even need to be stupid. He’d seen it, men he knew, buddies, crashing through a doorway, responding to the shadow in the corner a snap too late. And yet only a sniveler could be so weak, he thought, as to convince himself there’s a smart way to die.

ROQUE WATCHED THE THREE FIGURES EMERGE FROM THE SHADOWS of the southerly ravine. Humilde led, with Tío Faustino trudging behind with a bit of a limp. He looked thinner from a distance too, something Roque dismissed as a trick of the eye. Samir brought up the rear with an ungainly lope, clutching the soft leather bag at his hip. No zopilotes lazed overhead, waiting for someone to falter. A good sign, Roque supposed.

Lupe was curled up in the backseat, sleeping, pretending to sleep. He remembered what she’d said, How dare you? Get used too often, he supposed, kindness begins to look like nothing more than step one in getting screwed. He wanted to feel for her. He wanted to feel clean. He wasn’t sure either was possible. Or wise.

He glanced back at the three men laboring up the ravine. A cooling wind caught their backs, though he suspected the day would heat up soon. By early evening they’d be in Tecún Umán, the opposite end of the country, assuming the roads were clear, no problems at the checkpoints. They were to go to the Posada Rico and ask for a man named Beto. He would take care of the border crossing into Mexico and through Chiapas.

As the three of them came within earshot, Roque considered calling out but merely waved, a gesture Tío Faustino, slogging waist-deep through swaying grass, listlessly returned, breaking into a smile. The smile of a man with a nice-guy death wish, Roque thought. Was that really such an unforgivable thing?

Humilde gestured for water as the three men staggered up and Chita, the owner of the chalete , plucked three bottles from a cooler and handed one to each. They drank in parched gulps, scratching at the tick bites on their legs. Tío Faustino had a particularly nasty spider bite on his ankle as well. Probing the tender flesh with his thumb, he glanced up at Roque.- Maybe Lupe would spare some of her magic cream?

Roque went off to ask. Rapping lightly on the glass where Lupe’s head rested, he waited for her to stir, sit up, crank down the window. A funky wave of heat greeted his face.

– My uncle was wondering if you had any of the heparin cream left .

She mumbled something, rubbed her good eye, rummaged around in the plastic bag that held her clothes and medicine-everything she owned now. Finding the half-depleted tube, she handed it to Roque.- What happened?

He turned away, not answering. What do you care, he thought, biting his tongue.

Tío Faustino was holding a small jagged chunk of ice dredged from Chita’s cooler against the spider bite as Roque returned. Dabbing the welt dry, he applied a smidge of cream, gingerly rubbed it in. Without glancing up, he asked,- So how is she doing?

Samir snorted.- She’s not your problem. Stop worrying about her .

– She’s okay . Roque didn’t know how much he should say in front of Humilde, didn’t know how much had already been said.- She sleeps a lot .

The coyote shook his wrist, rattling his watch around so he could check the time.- You should get going. You’ll want to reach Tecún Umán before dark. It’s a bad place to get lost .

TÍO FAUSTINO, WHO NEVER FELT MORE AT HOME THAN BEHIND THE wheel, gave in to his exhaustion and the stiff swollen ankle, telling Roque he should drive. There was a far more difficult crossing ahead that night and he wouldn’t be alone in needing rest.

Lupe kept her perch in front, Samir and Tío piled in back. As the car pulled away from the chalete there were no farewell waves, no shouts of “bueno suerte.” Roque wondered what had happened overnight to create such a chill, though on reflection he could understand not wanting to get too close to people you knew you’d never see again except for bad luck.