David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

The front room was bare except for a large-screen TV, a leather sofa, an armchair that didn’t match. El Recio’s two underlings had commandeered the couch, nursing beers and watching some rerun of The Shield , Spanish subtitles. One was named Kiki, freckled and wiry, his long black hair knotted in a bun atop his head like a samurai. The other, Osvaldo, was thirtyish, dumpy suit, roach-killer boots, one of those close-cropped beards so trendy a few years back. A girl sat by herself in the armchair, throwing back Jägerbombers-Ripple with a shot of Jägermeister over ice. She had thin Asian eyes carved into a stony Latina face and wore a party dress, no shoes. It wasn’t clear who she belonged to.

Happy said quietly, “Look, about the fifteen hundred.” He was thinking of Samir. Roque could cross on his own with his passport. “No way I can get my hands-”

El Recio, back still turned, cut him off. “You can work, right?”

Happy’d told him about the home invasion. In the half-assed logic of machismo, it was less important the thing went bad than he and Godo walked out alive. It created expectations. He still suffered flashbacks-the contractor lying on his side, face ripped open, the girl screaming through the duct tape-and yet he could barely recall a single moment of the drive south. “Yeah. I can work.”

“Good.” El Recio gestured to the girl. She obliged with a huffing frown, hoisted her glass, uncrossed her legs and wrestled herself onto her feet, taking no notice of his nakedness. The chair clear, he uncoiled the boa from his shoulders, gentled it down into the deserted warm spot, then continued with Happy. “’Cuz I think I got something maybe could suit you.”

Happy’s cell phone rang. In unison, the two on the couch glanced up, the stubbled one growling, “Afuera, pendejo.” Take it outside, asshole. Heading for the door, Happy checked the incoming-call display. Tía Lucha was the only person he’d contacted so far on this phone, but this wasn’t a callback. He didn’t know who it was.

Letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, he stepped first across the open ditch ripe with filth that ran downhill to the sewer linkage, then past the concrete pila topped with potable water, filmed with mosquito larvae. Across the muddy roadbed, unfinished houses loomed in shadow, wands of rebar fingering skyward in the moonlight. Down the road, a few lived-in houses sported satellite dishes, courtesy of El Recio, so his own wouldn’t tip off the police.

He flipped the phone open, put it to his ear, waited.

“Happy-that you?” It was Roque.

A nervous rage crackled up Happy’s spine. “Tell me what happened.”

“Happy-”

“You know what I mean.”

Roque stammered out an explanation-a cow in the road, two trucks of gunmen, it all sounding too fucked up to disbelieve. “Tío got hurt in the accident, he was dazed, it made him an easy target. We all would’ve died if not for Samir. He was like a killing machine.”

Wait, Happy thought, that can’t be right. He recalled the ambush on the road to Karbala, when Samir saved his life. The Arab never grabbed a gun, not off the wounded, not off the dead, he never even tried. He ran and hid, then talked his way out. He lied to me, Happy thought. He’s lied to me all along and so has Lonely and every other glad-handing cocksucker who said he was doing me a favor. There are no favors.

Roque broke back in: “Tía Lucha said Godo’s with you.”

“Not this minute.” He glanced around, looking to see if anyone was listening in. The night was disconcertingly quiet. Come daylight, the neighborhood would burst with the hiss and rumble of propane wagons and water trucks, the shriek of postman whistles, the jingle of bells on the helado wagons, the hawker calls from men and women selling newspapers, corncobs, goat-cheek tacos, broiled tripe. “But yeah, Godo’s here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Agua Prieta.”

“What are you doing-”

“We’re waiting for you.” Across the way, a crow perched atop one of the exposed rods of rebar fluttered its long black wings in the moonlight. “Listen, no more calls to Tía Lucha, understand? The phone might be bugged. Things’ve taken an odd turn the past couple days. I’ll explain when I see you.”

WHEN HE RETURNED TO THE HOTEL HE FOUND GODO SITTING CROSS-LEGGED on the floor of their tiny room, facing a girl maybe six or seven years old. She was wrapping his hand in fresh gauze with only a candle to see by.

Godo glanced up at the doorway. “Hey, primo .” Nodding to the girl, “This is Paca.”

The child spun her head around, pigtails flying. She was rail thin with an incongruously round face, like a human lollipop, except she had fever-dream eyes. Her smile was short a tooth.

Happy nodded hello. Then, to Godo, “She got a mother?”

“You mean around?” Godo took the end of the gauze from the girl, tucked it in, finishing the wrap. “Mom’s out working.” He glanced up meaningfully. There were only a few things a woman could do in this town for quick money. “They’re making their fourth go at the border.”

Happy sat down on his cot, gnawed by weariness but too wired to sleep. Four tries, he thought, Christ.

“Last three times, funny enough, they’ve walked right into the arms of la migra . Their guía says it’s just bad luck. Fucker.

They’re decoys, he’s running a load of dope some other route once he’s got the border boys chasing his pollos around.”

“Stuff happens.” Happy lay flat. In the candlelight the ceiling looked like a rippling pond.

Godo placed his bandaged hand atop the girl’s head and scrubbed affectionately. She pointed toward the cot, beaming. “Hap pee?”

“Yes. Happy.” Godo smiled proudly. “I’ve been teaching her some English.”

“Slaphappy,” the girl chirped.

“Hey! Recuerdas . Good.”

“Naphappy! Craphappy!” She bounced with delight, accenting the second syllable, not the first, thinking in Spanish.

Happy lifted himself onto one elbow. “Those aren’t words.”

“They oughta be. You’ve never been naphappy?”

“Laphappy! Sappycrap!”

“Can I talk to you alone?”

Godo broke the news to Paca. Like a little soldier, no pout, no pretending she hadn’t heard, she jumped to her feet, brushed off her skirt and padded out, shooting back an over-the-shoulder smile with its little notch of blackness-her happygap, Happy thought.

“Get the door, okay?”

Godo rose, did as asked, then sat on the opposite cot. “What’s up?”

“El Recio says he never got paid. I’ve gotta scratch up another fifteen hundred to get Samir across.”

Godo looked puzzled. “You sound like you resent it.”

“The money? Fuck yeah. This shit never ends.”

“Not the money. Samir. You sound like you loathe the fucker. Change your mind about getting him across?”

It’s that obvious, Happy thought. Not good. “Roque got in touch, by the way.”

Godo made an odd sound, grunt and snort and chuckle all rolled into one. “How goes the golden child?”

“He told me what happened. With Pops. It doesn’t sound like it was his fault.”

“Since when are you so forgiving?”

Happy let that go. “The way he described it, I don’t see it going down much different if it was you or me who’d been there. You, maybe.”

“Stop beating yourself up. Like I made some big difference back at Fucked Chuck’s house.” He rested his bandaged hand on his thigh, palm up, staring into it. “Unlucky Chuck.”

“What is it with you and this rhyming shit?”

“I’m bored stupid here. Thought I was gonna die from fucking tedium before Paca showed up.”