David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

“Don’t mock.”

“Don’t make such ridiculous suggestions.”

Roque turned back to the tub, glancing down into the scummy water again, his reflection a misshapen blur. Finishing up his wash, he soon heard the soft wheeze of the Arab’s breath whistling through his teeth. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Samir still sitting there, legs tucked up, arms locked around his knees but his head had dropped. He’d fallen fast asleep.

ROQUE PULLED JEANS AND UNDERSHORTS AND A T-SHIRT FROM HIS knapsack, dressing like a backdoor man slipping out before daylight, Samir dozing away. The clothes weren’t clean but they’d serve until Dolor was done with the wash. Standing for a moment in the doorway, he watched across the parched hardpan of the churchyard as the tiny Mixtec woman pinned up the damp wrinkled clothes, shirt sleeves and pant legs bucking in the wind.

He idled through the rectory with its concrete floors, coarse plaster walls, bare plank ceilings. It was the stillness, though, that struck him. Lifting his head he silently prayed not to God or any of the saints or angels but to his uncle and his mother. His prayer was brief: Help me. He felt weak and lost and, in that moment, a little dishonest but there was no harm in trying, he supposed.

Then he caught the muffled keen of Lupe’s sobs beyond a thick wood door.

A smallness inside him wondered what she had to cry about. What secrets had she and Tío shared during their trek from Tecún Umán to Arriaga? He wondered if they’d talked about him. What a needy little shit you are, he thought. Was that your uncle’s job, be your pimp?

He eased toward the door, pressed his ear to the wood. Knocking quietly, “Lupe?”

No answer, just snuffling. The door clicked open. Through the gap he spotted a narrow bed of wood planks, a thin straw tick for a mattress. He didn’t see Lupe till he edged his way in, easing back the door. She closed it quickly behind him, standing there naked.

Her damp hair hung tangled across her shoulders, down her chest and back, her breasts peeking through the uncombed strands. Her face was streaked with old tears, fresh ones welled in her eyes. She stepped into his arms, laying her head upon his chest, hands listless at her sides. He held her, pressed his cheek to her drying hair, thick with the fatty smell of the soap. They stood like that until she laced her fingers in his, guided him to the bed, attended to his zipper, pulled off his T-shirt. Neither of them spoke. This isn’t love, he told himself, this is grief, her eyes told him that. And yet touch had never felt so familiar, so necessary. She made room for him and they lay side by side, straw rustling inside the tick as they settled in. Bits of straw poked through the burlap like a hundred pinpricks but when he reached out her skin was smooth and warm and met his sore hand, raw with blisters, with a welcoming tremble. All those times he’d fantasized about sharing her bed, catching her off guard with his know-how, the deft little tricks Mariko had taught him, that all felt obscene now. Open the fuck up, he told himself. No more moody loner, no more hotshot with the sad guitar. Let her in.

She kissed clumsily and the thrill of that startled him. He could taste on her breath a hint of the lemon slices Dolor had stirred into the pitcher during their afternoon meal, along with the vague tin taste of the pitcher itself. He could smell, beneath the mask of soap, a lingering tang of sweat and her growing wetness. She slid beneath him, lifted her legs and wrapped them around his hips, guided him in. No foreplay, no romance, this wasn’t about that. He opened her slowly, shallow at first, deepening his movements bit by bit, rocking his hips gently until the two of them felt locked together. A sense of having found something, not blindly, foretold. He let the sadness come in waves and he rode them toward her, one by one, and she wept out loud as she came, pulling him tight, locking her legs around him, pushing her body hard against his, a dozen rough little jolts or more, jabbing in time with her sobs, then finally she dropped back on the burlap tick, covered her face with her hands. He wanted to tell her no, please, let me see your face, but before he could, she whispered:- I promise I will keep this baby. If God wills it should grow inside me and live, I will keep it and name it Faustino. Or Faustina. I will remember. I will always remember. I am not a bad person. I am stupid and vain and weak but I am not evil. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry…

A DOZEN SQUAD CARS JAMMED THE STREET ON THE HILL ABOVE the sugar refinery, strobes flashing blue and red in the afternoon fog, plus another half-dozen unmarked sedans, a canine van, the coroner’s wagon. The TV crews were being held back for now but they’d get cut loose soon enough. All we’re missing, Lattimore thought, is the caterer.

He was standing on the porch with the detective from Crockett, one of just two on the local force; they rotated in and out of patrol on a quarterly schedule. This guy’s name was Dunn-chunky, a workhorse, black loafers, blue suit. They were waiting as a uniform marched up the drive, carrying the pictures requested from Rio Mirada PD.

Lattimore took the manila envelope from the officer and unwound the thread, opened it, shaking out the contents, frontal and profile in-custody shots of Pablo “Happy” Orantes and Godofredo Montalvo, taken from their arrest on pot charges two years back. He felt a curious mix of dread and mystification at the sight of Happy’s face, a vaguely guilty sadness at Godo’s. He remembered the young man well, not just from his name cropping up in the undercover tapes but from that day at the trailer park, when he stood there with his pitted face and a Remington pump-loader, holding off two gung-ho morons from ICE. A miracle all three of them hadn’t died right there. Two marines from his own battalion had taken a similar turn after Desert Storm-a standoff with guns, one with a hostage-and they’d seen far less to justify it, though how did one measure such things?

Dunn waved toward the photos like a lazy magician. “Anything you can tell me?”

They were debriefing the surviving victims here at the scene because they only had two interview rooms at the station. The pictures were for six-packs they were showing to the cleaning lady, who had broken down the instant she was alone in a room with a cop, begging him and everyone else to understand, she’d been forced into the scheme, they’d threatened her girls. For now everyone, Lattimore included, was willing to accept that. She was cooperating, hoping to forestall deportation. They’d tell her the bad news on that front once they were done with her.

Lattimore puffed his cheeks. “They’re cousins, more or less. Not the easiest family to unravel.” He pronounced Godo’s full name, tried to explain the connection, him and Happy.

Dunn regarded him stonily. “Let’s stick with ‘cousins,’ shall we?”

“This one, Montalvo, he doesn’t look like this now. Came back from Iraq looking like a woodpecker mistook him for a stump, shrapnel wounds all over his face.”

“But this Orantes mutt, the ringleader, he was your boy?”

Lattimore glanced up. The man was thickly jowled, his stubble and brush cut the same dull gray. His eyes lay burrowed in creased flesh. “My CI.”

“Right,” Dunn said. “No offense meant.”

Lattimore had already endured his first quick interview with OPR; they were trawling through the case files now, seeing what laws or guidelines had gotten short shrift in his handling of things. He felt confident he’d survive the scrutiny-Pete Orpilla, his supe, had his back and for now things felt tense but not hysterical. This mess had come out of the blue, no hint that Happy had been side-balling him but that didn’t mean somebody wouldn’t want his head. All it would take is one call, a congressman, a mayor, somebody with juice paying back a favor. In the time it took to pick up a phone, his career could be history. Maybe that was just. It was possible, without even knowing it, he’d lost interest in the thing, gotten sloppy. Maybe he was just too old-at forty-four, an eye-opener.