David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

“Happy? It’s me.”

Happy mouthed Roque’s name, letting Godo know who it was. “Where are you?”

“The bus station in Guaymas.”

Southern Sonora, Happy thought, though over on the Sea of Cortez. “Not so far.”

“No. We’ll be there soon. Look, Hap-”

“Samir there?” He thought of what El Recio had said, about the Americans, the deal they’d struck with Don Pato. How to explain that, after the man had come so close.

“Yeah. He’s good. Pain in the ass sometimes but good. Look, there’s something-”

“And let’s not forget the girl-Lupe, am I right?”

The hiss surged, thrumming like a hive. “I was about to tell you about that.”

“Kinda late in the game, wouldn’t you say?” Happy felt a curious absence of anger. Still, the point needed to be made.

Roque said, “How did you hear about her?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s not like you and I had a chance to talk much the past week.”

“That’s not an answer, neither.”

“Tío and I were trying to figure something out. A way to help her. It’s complicated.”

“I know.”

“What do you know?”

“Who she belongs to. They’re waiting for her.”

Another silence, longer this time. “Yeah, well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“It’s not negotiable.”

“With who-them or you?”

Happy felt his chest clench, like someone had tightened a screw. “I don’t deserve that.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just, if you knew what we’d been through-”

“I could say the same. So could Godo.”

A door slammed down the hall, then footsteps. Two men tramped toward the stair, one a murmur, the other a braying laugh. Their shadows flickered in the crack beneath the door.

“What do want from me, Hap? I didn’t tell you about Lupe because I wasn’t sure what to say. I am now. This guy we met in Oaxaca, he has an uncle who’s a cop in Naco. He can help us get across, no El Recio.”

Happy went cold-a cop? “You don’t know,” he said, wrestling the memory back into its hole, “what you’re playing at.”

“As far as anybody knows, we all died in the ambush with Tío. Five bodies burned up inside our car, no way they’ve ID’d who’s who yet. You can say you got a call from Tía Lucha, she heard from Oaxaca about the car. Understand? We’re dead. There’s no one to hand over.”

The tightening in his chest loosened a little, making him feel light-headed. The thing could work, he thought. It was lunacy, it was tempting the devil. But…

“Samir there? Something I’d like to talk to him about.”

“Can it wait? The bus is leaving and I need to know where we can meet up with you.”

He glanced over at Godo, fingers smeared with cheese and grease from the tamalito . The ugly one, he thought, the broken one. And I’m the stupid, worthless one.

Then there was Roque. The magical one.

“There’s a place south of town,” he said. “I’ll give you directions.”

ROQUE HUNG UP THE PHONE, OPENED THE FOLDING GLASS DOOR TO THE phone booth and followed Lupe and Samir to the bus. Bergen had dropped them at the station, handed them some cash for tickets plus a little extra for food. Pingo had gone with him-all that talk of hooking up with the union in Nogales for a work permit, utter bullshit-but he’d given them his uncle’s name and contact information in Naco.- He’s solid , he’d said, he’s tough. He won’t screw you .

Samir glanced over his shoulder as they passed through waves of diesel exhaust from the idling buses.- What did he say? The Arab had reverted to pest since they’d left San Blas, his impatience a kind of itch that everybody was obliged to scratch.

– He’s looking forward to seeing you again .

– No problems?

After all they’d endured, it seemed the most ludicrous question imaginable.

The bus was a throbbing tube of road-worn chrome, twenty years old at least, but luxurious compared to the chicken buses they’d seen farther south. Roque and Lupe climbed on board and sat near the front, plopping down side by side in vinyl seats patched with tape, clasping hands, hers cool inside his, trading the occasional smile. Samir sat alone behind them, so restless Roque felt like reaching around and smacking him one. Not that he wasn’t anxious himself. The driver sprawled in his seat, reading a wrestling magazine as he waited for stragglers, the time of departure apparently far more fluid than they’d feared. All that rush, he thought, now we sit, knowing it wasn’t the delay bothering him. Something he’d heard in Happy’s voice-or rather, something he hadn’t heard-it unnerved him. The words over the phone had seemed adrift, beyond weary, no feeling, no heart. Everyone’s been through a lot, he reminded himself, Happy’s comeback, feeling a twinge of shame. He’d expected to get dumped on, cursed, called a weakling and a failure for letting Tío die, then felt vaguely undone when it didn’t happen. Come on, he thought, resisting an urge to bark at the driver, let’s go, feeling the nearness of home as an urgency, at the same time knowing he was simply afraid.

EVEN THE BUS DRIVER SEEMED CONFUSED, NOTHING BUT A CLUSTER of half-finished houses, the middle of nowhere. Twilight only enhanced the desolation. Spidery ocotillos and crook-armed saguaros manned the surrounding plain, at the edge of which dust devils swirled in the cool winds funneling down from the mountains. Overhead, a lone hawk caught an updraft and soared in its flux, a small black afterthought in a blackening sky.

The driver rechecked his odometer, confirmed they’d traveled the distance from Cananea that Roque had mentioned, then opened the door, wishing them luck as they gathered their things and shuttled out onto the roadbed. None of the other passengers looked at them. To make eye contact was, ironically, to become visible, and everyone bore a secret, even the children. Their bodies were freight, their lives for sale. The bus pulled away in a plume of black exhaust, its headlights plowing the dusk, and Roque couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been tricked.

Shortly, he realized they weren’t alone. On the stoop outside one of the unfinished houses a scrawny huelepega with matted black hair stuffed his face inside a brown paper bag, sucking up the glue fumes inside. A pack of dogs sulked nearby, trembling, sniffing the air. Then came a pistol shot-the dogs scattered, the gluehead crushed his bag to his chest, jerked to his feet and shambled off into the scrub.

Where in God’s name is he running, Roque thought, wondering if they should follow.

The gunman revealed himself, easing around the corner of one of the nearer houses. Pistol at his side, he approached with trancelike slowness, offering no greeting.

Samir put his hand to his heart. “It has been so long, my friend. My God, you terrified us.”

Happy stopped short, no reply, only a drifting smile, cut loose from the eyes. Turning toward Roque, he said simply, “Hey,” his voice raspy and soft.

Roque said, “You okay?”

“The girl,” Happy said. “She speak English?”

“Not much.” Roque reached for her hand. “Not well.”

Happy looked at their clasped hands, then her face, regarding her as though she were a problem he couldn’t hope to solve. “Remind me, her name?”

A sudden wind kicked up whips of dust. Everyone shielded their eyes.

“Lupe,” Roque said.

Realizing they were talking about her, she offered a shy smile. Happy turned away, gesturing with the pistol for everyone to follow as he led them back to the last house, the only one with a roof as far as Roque could tell. Inside, the walls were bare-no cabinets, no trim, no fixtures-the floors naked sheets of plywood that gave a little underfoot, a spooky sensation in the gathering dark. Cinder blocks sat propped on end like stools, nails lay scattered here and there amid trails of sawdust and cigarette butts and empty pint bottles. Even with the openings where windows should have been letting in air from outside, the room stank like an ashtray.