David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

“Along with the interpreter, the Iraqi, Palestinian, whatever. Samir Khalid Sadiq.”

Pitcavage winced. “Fuck me.”

“They were in Guatemala last time we knew for certain. The cell phone we had a bead on went dead about a week ago.”

“A week?”

“Jon-”

“And your CI had what to say about that?”

“Said his cousin turned the phone off, save the battery. It’s not like they’re staying in Sheratons down there, 220 wall sockets everywhere they stop.”

“And you believed him?”

Lattimore felt a sagging weight, pulling him down, losing the crucial inch. “At that point, I had no reason not to.”

“A week. Jesus.”

“Not a whole week. Four days. Maybe five.”

Pitcavage pinched the bridge of his nose. Posturing. “Give me your sense of the locals.”

Toeing a clump of dead grass rooted in a crack in the driveway, Lattimore said, “I haven’t caught wind of any axes to grind, if that’s what you mean.”

“They’re not going to ass-fuck us in the press?”

There’s a picture, Lattimore thought. “Not yet.”

“Until they can’t close the thing. Then they’ll start pointing fingers, say one of the two still at large was a federal informant. Oh how lovely that will be.”

“Like I said, I’m not sensing any agendas.”

“Make sure it stays that way. Let them know, as far as cooperation’s concerned, anything and everything’s on the table. It’s not going to be the usual one-way street. They want you to sharpen pencils, you do it. They want you to blow every drunk in the holding tank-”

Another picture. “There any chance we can get a wiretap on the aunt’s phone? She may be the only point of contact between our CI and the three guys heading north for the border. That’s likely our best bet for getting a bead on everybody.”

“Under Title III? Not a chance.” Pitcavage went to spit out his gum, caught himself; it was a crime scene, after all. He glanced down at the foil wrapper but didn’t pick it up. “Prove to me her phone’s being used to advance criminal activity, show me there’s no other way to advance the investigation, maybe. But not if we’re fishing. Locals might have better luck under state law, which returns us to the subject of making nice. Keep them happy. For your own sake if no one else’s.”

He clapped Lattimore on the back with staged camaraderie, then turned and strode back toward the street, signaling the ample blonde in the prim gray suit to come along. Lattimore wondered how long they’d been lovers.

He went back in, saw Dunn wrapping up with Lourdes, gestured him into the living room. He worked up a good-buddy smile. “I know somebody you’re going to want to talk to.”

TWO NIGHTS NOW, GODO STILL HADN’T COME HOME, NO CALL, NO MESSAGE on the machine. Lucha decided to remake his bed as though that might conjure him back. The sheet felt papery crisp beneath her hands as she spread it flat, tucked it tight, that bracing smell. For a moment at least she felt something like hope, even happiness, opening a window to let in some air. What a stench that boy could have, so much worse since he came back from the war. Not just the wounds. He didn’t take care of himself. She grabbed the trash basket and went around the room, collecting balled-up tissues, shredded bits of newspaper-he did this as he watched TV, like a hamster lining its cage-candy wrappers, beer cans. Next she gathered his dirty clothes into a pile, shrinking from the smell. Finding one particularly rank tennis shoe, she hunted for its mate, got down on her knees, checked beneath the bed. The shotgun and pistol were gone. She checked the nightstand, rifling open the drawer. That gun wasn’t there, either, nor the pills.

Don’t get worked up over nothing, she told herself, sitting on the bed. He’d talked the past few weeks about going out with a group of friends, target practice, the shooting range, showing them a proper respect for their weapons. He said it helped him get over his nerves, so noises didn’t make him jump quite so much. And he had, she thought, seemed more relaxed, more focused, stronger. Then, like that-poof, gone, no word. It was like him in some sense, so thoughtless, so unpredictable. And yet she couldn’t shake a bad feeling. Her dreams had been strange and violent but that had been true since they’d sent Faustino away and it had only grown worse after Roque went down to bring him back. She spent all day trying not to think of what might happen to them, only to have it float up without warning in her sleep.

Then there was Happy. He came and went, sometimes the crack of dawn, sometimes the dead of night, careful to the point of paranoia. Still, his visits were a comfort. He’d changed, grown more respectful. More like his father. He too had vanished, not a glimpse of him for days.

Her loneliness seemed heavier, harder to bear. She felt afraid.

A moment later-was it longer?-the phone rang and she tripped over her own feet, banging into the doorway, running to answer it. Gripping the receiver with both hands, she shouted into the mouthpiece, “Sí. ¿Aló?”

“Tía Lucha?”

It was Roque. He sounded odd. Different.

– Where are you?

– Tía…

– Tell me-where are you?

– Somewhere in Mexico. Tía -

– Are you all right?

– Is Happy there?

Why would he want to speak to Pablito?- I haven’t seen him for days. The same for your brother. Roque -

– Godo’s not there?

– No one is here. I am here. What’s wrong? Talk to me . For the sake of God and his angels, she thought, get a grip on yourself. The line went still for a moment, just the hiss of static.- Roque?

– Tío Faustino…

His voice trailed away. Lucha felt her stomach turn to stone. The taste of copper rose from her throat, her ulcer. As though she were suddenly standing somewhere else in the room, she heard herself say:- No .

– Tío Faustino is dead, Tía. I’m sorry .

She braced herself against the table. No…

– There were bandits on the road, hired killers, somebody. I don’t know who it was. I don’t know why they attacked us. We buried Tío in a cemetery here, behind a church, the priest has been very kind. I’m so sorry, Tía. I wanted to bring him home for you. I wanted…

The hand holding the receiver drifted downward as Lucha stared at the Día de los Muertos figurines on her display shelf, the skeletal mariachis, the unicyclist, the doctor and nurse with their patient in his bed. The truck driver. The bride and groom. Come November, she would have to choose which grave to decorate for the holiday, her sister’s close to home here or Faustino’s far away in Mexico.

Setting the phone down gently, she glided back to her room, unaware of her own footfalls, and pulled open the closet doors. Faustino’s clothes hung there tidily, waiting for his return. One shirt in particular caught her eye, her favorite. It was long-sleeved and white with pearl buttons, gold piping across the shoulders and at the cuffs, a cowboy shirt, but the collar had a subtle touch of embroidery along the edge, very delicate and yet manly. Faustino, with all his simplicity, his rustic manners, his ample belly, had always looked so elegant in it, so handsome. He wore it sometimes when they went out to dinner and the waitresses always smiled at him. And I would get jealous, she reminded herself, and then we would argue. She lifted the sleeve to her cheek, closed her eyes, waited. What kind of monster are you, she thought, unable to muster a single tear for your marido?

A knock came hard at the trailer door and it felt like a hand plunging into her chest. The shirtsleeve dropped, she was stumbling toward the sound, saw the phone hanging by its cord where she’d dropped it. A voice called out, “Police! Open up!”