David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

From the kitchen doorway, Osvaldo made his tetchy little sound again. The mother was mewling hysterically behind her gag. Hilario backhanded her but she wouldn’t settle down.

“Back to business,” El Recio said, stuffing the bag of saladitos back in his pocket. “We’ll talk more over breakfast.”

THOUGH THE WATER WAS TEPID THE SHOWERS FELT LIKE LUXURY-first Lupe, then Roque, finally Samir, each of them scrubbing off the grit and stickiness and toweling dry in the small spare room, nothing but a twin bed for furniture. What else was needed, given its usual hourly occupants? Bergen took a room for himself, Pingo would sleep in the van. The tally of money owed was inching upward-three hundred dollars per person for the ride, which Bergen said would barely cover gas, even at Pemex prices, then the room, food. They’d already pooled their money and handed over what they’d had, the rest being due on credit, for which Roque gave his address, the names of both Tía Lucha and Lalo as guarantors of his debt. Bergen had never promised charity but it all added up so fast. Still, Roque supposed, better that than paying out to some salvatrucho or pandillero who’d just keep the shakedown going forever back home. He got it now, it wasn’t just that nothing was free. The moment you agreed to pay, you opened the door to hell. Bergen was simply a friendlier breed of devil.

Lupe joined him outside and they sat together beneath a roadside mango tree, gazing through the darkness and the day’s last traffic at the fishing fleet moored to its lantern-lit docks. The breeze carried the scents of sea salt and beach rot and the echoes of beery laughter.

– We should have gone for a swim before the shower , he said.

Using both hands, Lupe spread her damp hair to let the wind help dry it, lifting her face toward the starlight. The bruising from Lonely’s beating had all but healed.- It’s stupid to swim at night. You can’t get your bearings .

– There’s plenty of light from the bar, the docks .

– The waves can be dangerous . Her voice was adamant, almost shrill.- I heard of a woman whose neck was broken just a few months ago and she was a very strong swimmer. The undertow kills several people every year .

For a second, he felt ridiculous. Then he figured it out.- You don’t know how to swim .

She shrugged, shook her hair.- Let me guess. You want to teach me .

– I wasn’t trying to insult you .

– I’m sorry. It’s just… She glanced up into the dark tree.-

We both know what’s coming. I’m tired of thinking about it. Get me a mango, would you?

Climbing up a ways to one of the middling branches-the lower ones were picked clean-he tugged a plump mango from its rubbery stem and tossed it to her, then scrambled back down. Using her nails, she peeled away the skin so they could trade bites. Soon their faces were tacky with juice and pulp.

Between swallows, he said:- I’m going to need another shower .

She slipped her sticky hand in his, their fingers interlocking. He tilted his head to venture a kiss, only to see Samir approaching, chafing his burred black hair with a towel.

– I am sorry to interrupt , he announced, sounding more flustered than contrite.- I have been thinking today, very much, very long, about our situation. I have thought of what Fatima would want of me. I have prayed. And I am here to tell you I am ashamed of how I have behaved. Yes, I need very much to reach America-not for my sake. My family’s. But I have been thoughtless, even cruel, in how I have spoken. It needn’t be so. I had a chance earlier to talk with Pingo. He knows a man at the border, his uncle, he lives in a town called Naco, who could help us get across. There would be no need to deal with this El Recio character in Agua Prieta. For all they know we burned up in the car, right? Who can say differently, how soon? Months it will take, longer most likely, for them to determine for certain who it was in that car. Again, yes, there is the issue of money and Happy has told you there is none, fine, but things change. You, Roque, can pass over as you please, perhaps you could head home, ask among friends or family. I could wait with Lupe in Naco . He stood with his shoulders folded forward, as though preparing to bow. His deep-set eyes lacked their usual indignation.- I am agreeable, is what I am saying. I no longer want us to fight among ourselves. It is wrong .

No more was said about it. But later, when the three of them settled in for the night inside the tiny stifling room, Samir took the floor in a sign of goodwill. Roque and Lupe negotiated the narrow bed, spooning though fully clothed, his stomach pressed into the hollow of her back as she pillowed her head on his arm. In time their breathing synchronized, drowsiness settled in. Samir fell asleep first, though, snoring with a chesty rasp. Perhaps we don’t know what’s coming after all, Roque thought, and shortly Lupe took his hand, nudged it inside her jeans, pressing it against the downy warm curls, holding it there in a gesture of possession, him of her, her of him.

FROM HIS TABLE NEAR THE BACK, LATTIMORE SPOTTED HIM IN THE doorway, the distinctively scruffy beard and hair, the rumpled suit, the cockeyed glasses, the clownishly fat and battered briefcase-McIlvaine, the security man from Dallas, what was his company’s name-Bayonet? The man made eye contact, offering his tea-colored smile, then began picking his way through the tables and Lattimore felt his stomach plunge with an almost punitive sense of dread. His sandwich turned into a soggy wad of nausea in his hands. Banneret, he thought, that was it. “Jim!” McIlvaine thrust out his hand. “Mind if I sit?” Lattimore nodded to the open chair, setting his oozy sandwich down and reaching for a napkin. “Let me admire your investigative skills-you found me how?”

“Inspired guesswork.” McIlvaine reached across to a nearby table where a menu sat unused and plucked it for his own use. “The receptionist said you were out, the hour suggested lunch, I decided to wander around the area, take my chances.” He pushed up his glasses, reading a nearby chalkboard listing specials.

“That’s all you wanted, company for lunch?”

“No need to sound so put-upon. I’m not expecting a fanfare but I do have news I think you’ll find useful, if you haven’t already received it.”

Lattimore, resisting a smile, took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. Since the screwup with Happy the information chain had gone into lockdown. The case was infamous, no one wanted his name near it. Memos and e-mails gathered dust somewhere out in the bureaucratic nowhere. Not one single agent outside the country would return his calls. “I’m all ears,” he said.

Folding his hands across his midriff, McIlvaine settled into his chair. “I heard the news, the bad business on your end. Quite a cock-up, as our British friends would say.”

“Yes.” Lattimore tasted the grit of his coffee dregs. “British friends, one can’t have too many of those.”

“Oddly enough, you’re near half right.” The waitress bustled past and he caught her eye, tipping his menu back and forth as a signal. “Turns out my friend in the Green Zone knew a Brit journalist doing a story on the Al Tanf refugee camp. He got in touch, I scratched out a list of questions, ones I thought you’d want answered given our previous discussion. Well, unhappily but not too surprisingly, he came up empty. There is no record of a woman named Fatima Sadiq in the Al Tanf refugee camp, nor any woman named Fatima with a daughter named Shatha, or more generally a woman married to an interpreter working for the coalition, the Salvadorans in Najaf specifically. Nothing, nada. Sorry. Now who knows how doggedly this Brit asked his questions-it wasn’t really his focus, after all, just one of those quid pro quos one accepts in a war zone.”