Do They Know I'm Running?: A Novel Read online

  “In exchange for my old man and me shaving our points on the cocaine deal down from twenty to ten per.”

  Vasco cocked his head. His smile broadened a hair. “You want this bad.”

  It’s imaginary money, Happy thought, knowing he couldn’t let it sound that way. “He’s my old man. Besides, I don’t get him back here, there’s no deal to talk about. He’s the driver at the port. Without him?” He opened his hands. “That’s true of you as well as me, you know.”

  “But you’re the one with the need. You’re the one begging.”

  “That how you want to put it?”

  Vasco stubbed out his smoke, snagged his pack from the desktop, tapped out another, lit up. Nudging the cigarettes across the desk, he said, “Want one?”

  THE FOUR OF THEM STAGGERED OUT TO THE COROLLA IN THE midmorning light, Roque dragging the guitar, Samir clutching his shoulder bag, Lupe her clothes and medicine, Tío Faustino empty-handed, all of them stiff in joint and cranky of mind from a night of miserable sleep. They’d be resuming their journey across Guatemala, trailing a pickup driven by Chepito, who would have as sidekick and secret gunman one of the other henchlings. Together, the two of them would serve as protection and emissaries of goodwill, or so said El Chusquero, who bid his guests a chirpy farewell now that the wire transfer had cleared.

  “Músico,” the Commander called out from the porch, waiting for Roque to turn. He twiddled his fingers daintily.—Use those hands well, my brother. He offered one last lurid smile, then disappeared inside the thick-walled house with a punctuating slap on the doorframe.

  Roque tumbled into the backseat and gave shuddering thanks as the car headed off, Tío Faustino at the wheel. Guitar between his knees like a cello, he let his head fall back and closed his eyes, hoping to snatch back some of the sleep lost because of Sergio. The poor wretch had whimpered like a puppy in the dark all night, the sound inescapable in that dank airless room, keeping everyone awake. Roque loathed himself for resenting that.

  He stole a heavy-lidded glance at Lupe. She too was trying to rest, curled into her corner of the backseat, legs tucked beneath her. He still marveled at her courage, knowing how perverse that would seem to a man like El Chusquero. Only a queer like Sergio, he’d say, would think of a girl as heroic. It brought to mind something Mariko had said, about a certain kind of man—often drawn to uniforms, always fond of weapons—the type of man so instinctively fearful of women he couldn’t even think of intimacy without possession. The kind of man, she’d said, who wants a virgin to fuck and Mom to fight for. Roque had always assumed she was talking about her ex, the airman, Captain Detwiler. Now, however, he had a far more palpable grasp of what she’d meant. And I’m nothing like that, he realized. An orphan knows possession’s a lie. The most crucial thing, by its very nature, is always missing.

  Half an hour into the drive, Tío Faustino turned on the radio. As Roque drifted in and out of sleep, he caught bits and pieces of marimba workouts, old-style cumbias, duranguenses, charangas—even a few dolorous rancheras, so dear to the Commander’s heart.

  The next thing he knew two hours had passed and they were careening down a hillside in scattered rain into the sprawling basin that contained the capital. Despite himself, Roque felt a little awestruck. After San Salvador, he’d lowered his expectations to third-world level, but Guatemala City was a real metropolis: shimmering office towers, broad tree-lined boulevards, quaint commercial neighborhoods, choking traffic.

  They stopped for lunch at a storefront cantina. Roque ordered fortachón, a kind of Mexican hash with pork and jalapeños, and as they sat outside beneath a green umbrella he shoveled it in heedlessly. He would have felt embarrassed if everyone else, even Lupe, weren’t similarly graceless. The only interruption to the chow-down came when a man with shaggy blond hair, wearing a cockeyed ball cap and a filthy tweed jacket, tottered past them down the rain-damp sidewalk, strumming a tuneless guitar. His eyes were glassy but his smile was serene. Lupe and Tío Faustino glanced up, first at the strolling lunatic, then at Roque, and shared the day’s first smile as Chepito tossed the man a quetzal.

  North of the capital, the highway curved through roadcut and cane fields and rubber plantations toward the coastal lowlands. With food in everyone’s bellies the mood grew less tense. Roque played along to the radio and Lupe, prodded by Tío Faustino, sang harmony to Julieta Venegas’s “Canciones de Amor.” When she was finished, the older man lifted his hands from the wheel to gently applaud.—You have such a gift, he told her, but instead of inspiring gratitude his words dropped a veil across her eyes; she turned to stare out the window and couldn’t be coddled or goaded into singing again, no matter how invitingly Roque played.

  The farther they drove, the greater the number of people trekking on foot along the highway. Roque wondered how far they were going—the next town, Mexico, the States. Crews of children scavenged for scraps of sugarcane that fell off trucks, shoving the reddish brown stalks into burlap bags. Breakdowns created sweltering bottlenecks. Things only worsened in the towns, where the local women stood out in the road, hawking oranges and sodas and coconuts, each with the sagging paunch of recent motherhood bulging beneath her blouse.

  Only four roadblocks appeared, each manned by blue-uniformed cops who invariably waved the Corolla through with barely a glance. It was impossible to know whether this was because of El Chusquero’s touted influence, communicated somehow by Chepito in the pickup just ahead, or merely the way of things. As though it matters at this point, Roque thought. Be grateful the car’s moving.

  They reached the border town of Tecún Umán late in the afternoon, realizing only once they were within the town proper that they had arrived on the occasion of an annual feria—the first Friday of Lent. The narrow streets were thronged with people drawn from all the nearby villages who came to visit the tents and arcades, haggle with the vendors, play the games. Chepito led them down a brick lane and they inched their way past merchant stalls displaying blouses, bras, shoes, toys, including eerily realistic AK-47s and Glocks made of plastic. Women working hand presses made fresh lemonade. Ears of corn boiled in deep tin pots.

  Chepito found his way to a parking area, an empty lot shaded by a sprawling ceiba, where he paid an old man and his grandsons to look after the pickup and the Corolla. He then led everyone to a small posada that, from what Roque could tell, served as a way station for thieves and hookers. They gathered on the sidewalk to either side of the doorway, hulking unkempt men smoking cigarettes to the left, flirty young women in festive skirts, sipping Cokes, on the right. A few others loitered in what passed for a lobby, an open room with broad ocher walls, furnished with a card table, mismatched chairs, an electric fan.

  Chepito went to the man at the card table, whispered something, waited out the reply, then collected a key, dangling it between finger and thumb as he gestured for Roque and the others to follow. The henchling, still nameless, his shirttail pulled over the pistol shoved down into his jeans, took up the rear.

  The room was a closet with a cot and a bowl. The canvas of the cot bore a disturbing stain. The bowl had a used bar of soap in it. A tiny window looked out on a passageway between the posada and the next building over.

  Chepito maneuvered everyone inside.—I am going to talk with a man who works here with us. He will arrange for your crossing over to Mexico. There will be a boat, it will take you to a spot a little south of Puerto Escondido and there you’ll be met and taken the rest of the way overland. I’ll be back after dark. If you want something to eat or drink, there’s a place in the back, out on the patio, you can get soft drinks and tortillas, maybe beer. Or they can send one of the kids out, get something from the fair. Don’t go wandering around. Even with all the people out, it’s still not safe, not for you.

  He met each of their glances meaningfully, then closed the door. The four of them stood there, so close each could feel the next person’s breath on his or her skin. Shortly footsteps clattered on the wood stair: two sets desc
ending, not just one. Roque felt relieved. The thought of being stuck in the cramped room, the nameless henchling standing guard, seemed too grim.

  He said:—They’re arranging the crossing to Mexico? Since when?

  Tío Faustino turned to look out the small window, craning to get a glimpse of the street.—Something cold and wet is in order, I’d say. Who will join me?

  Roque reached for the doorknob, figuring everyone was going, but Lupe plopped down on the cot, avoiding the umber stain.—I’ll stay. In case they come back.

  Not missing a beat, Samir dropped his cloth shoulder bag in the corner and settled down next to it, folding his arms, dropping his chin.—I’ll wait too. I hate crowds. If you think of it, bring me back a Pepsi.

  Lupe shot him a black glance.—What, you’re afraid I’ll try to squeeze out through the window? Then what—fly away?

  —Let me tell you something, I wouldn’t put it past you. He traced a finger across the floor, inspecting the ribbon of grime that came up.—The window part, not the flying.

  Tío Faustino nudged Roque into the hall, smiling farewell.—We won’t be long, I promise.

  The patio area was in truth a patch of tamped-down sand with tussocks of pampas grass, shaded by a stately conacaste. Two giant wood spools served as tables with a scattering of plastic chairs. The bar consisted of a door spread across two sawhorses, aluminum tubs filled with ice and drinks underneath, packs of cigarettes on top: Rubio, Pasayo, Marlboro, Pall Mall. Tío Faustino bought two tamarindos—they came in sealed plastic bags with straws—and sat with Roque, leaning in so they could whisper, using English as an extra precaution.

  “It may be a blessing in disguise, this connection with El Chusquero.” A trio of shirtless boys slinked toward the table to beg. Tío Faustino shooed them off. “If we put our lot in with him from here on out, we may not have to hand the girl, Lupe, over to that sniveling little coward’s connection in Agua Prieta, I can’t recall the name.”

  “El Recio.” Roque remembered it well, it meant Tough Guy. “What about Samir?”

  “As long as he gets to America, he’ll have no complaints.”

  “Are you joking? He’ll have nothing but complaints. You saw him. He hates her.”

  “That’s not—”

  “He’s developed this thing for her. He’ll only be happy if he sees her suffer.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. While you were upstairs serenading El Chusquero with the girl, I was down in the cellar with El Turco, okay? He’s not a monster.”

  “You’re only saying that because he saved Happy’s life.”

  “Nonsense. He just knows, the way it stands, his fate is tied to hers.”

  Tío Faustino rubbed his eyes and when his hands came away Roque noticed how much older he seemed than just a few days ago. His stubble was bristly and gray, the sagging flesh beneath his eyes was the color of tea, his hands shook. Only driving seemed to soothe him and it would be days at least before he was back behind the wheel, assuming they were lucky.

  “Besides,” he continued, “it’s not a bad idea to remember where our confidence in that pack of salvatruchos got us.”

  “Tío, who knows what El Chusquero’s really up to here? He’s not doing this out of kindness, it’s going to cost. And Happy made it clear, there’s no more money. This last payment’s the end.”

  “Maybe we could work something out.”

  “No, Tío, listen to me. I know how the guy thinks. He’ll strand us in the middle of nowhere till we pay. And let me repeat: There is no more money.”

  “So you’re okay then with handing that girl over to some padrote.” Pimp.

  “Good God, how can you say such a thing? I just—”

  “We’re not going to have a lot of choices. This one presents itself. I say we consider it. Unless you—”

  Tío Faustino broke off his sentence, stiffening imperceptibly, eyes veiled. He seemed to be saying, Don’t look. Shortly, however, the newcomer who’d caught his eye was grabbing a nearby chair, dragging it over to their table through the gravel. Finally, as the chair came close and the stranger plopped down, Roque glanced his direction.

  HE WAS HANDSOME LIKE AN EXOTIC ANIMAL, LATE TWENTIES, indio features and muscular, his flat bronze face astonishingly smooth-skinned. His arms were tattooed but his hands, his face, his neck were clear. He wore a Giants cap and an immaculate T-shirt.

  “Roque, Faustino—hey.” Their names rolled off his tongue naturally, without affected familiarity. “I’m Beto, your guía. Take you from here to Agua Prieta.”

  Roque remembered the name, he was Lonely’s man in Tecún Umán. His English was solid, the accent soft, that lilting musicality few Latinos lost.

  Beto gestured to the Indian woman working refreshments for a third tamarindo. She dug one from her cooler, tottered over, money changed hands. It gave everyone a second to think.

  Finally, Tío Faustino said, “You’ve lived in the States.”

  Beto laughed. “Yeah. Up around Salinas.” He fussed with the straw for his tamarindo, punctured the plastic bag, took a sip. “Worked construction, I was a carpenter, till I got snagged running a stop sign. Believe that? Bad luck, man. Now I can’t go back for ten years.” He checked out the patio area, then a shoulder roll, a bodybuilder tic. “Getting used to it here. Life’s okay. And who needs the constant paranoia, right? Crazy back there now.”

  Roque said, “Look, we don’t know who we’re supposed to be dealing with.”

  “Nothing’s changed.” Beto’s eyes darted between Roque and Tío. “We’re good to go.”

  Tío Faustino said, “How did you know where to find us?”

  “This shithole?” Beto glanced up at the cracked and moldy stucco wall of the posada. A large black pijuyo perched on the edge of the roof. “This is my town. What goes on here’s my business. Look, you guys paid for us to get you to the States. That’s what I’m here to do, my leg of the trip anyway.”

  A group of Mayan women in traditional traje wandered into the courtyard from the street, clearly lost. With birdlike titters they bowed a group apology, turned around, vanished.

  “This is the one day of the year you can cross over without showing documents,” Beto said, explaining the crowds. “There’s another fair right across the river. Mexicans come here, Guatemaltecos go there, trade goods, just for the day. Try to get farther than Tapachula, they’ll nail you. But you should see the mob down along the river. Hundreds of people, these crappy little rafts, scrap wood lashed to inner tubes. It’s nuts.”

  “It hasn’t been the easiest trip for us, either.” Roque ignored a warning glance from his uncle. “But you probably know that.”

  Beto smiled acidly, then glanced around again, making sure no one was in earshot. “Captain Quintanilla, that what you mean?”

  “We never heard him called anything but El Chusquero.”

  Beto shook his head, whispered, “El Choo-scay-ro,” like the punch line to a raunchy joke. “Toad-faced fuck. You realize that whole ambush on the road was a hoax, right? Those guys at the roadblock, they were his men, I don’t care what he told you.”

  Roque and Tío Faustino sat there, taking that in. Finally, Tío Faustino said, “They got shot. Two of them. Straight to the head.”

  “No, trust me.” Beto tottered his fingers, a puppeteer.

  “That makes no sense,” Roque said, at the same time realizing it was possible. He hadn’t seen the shootings up close, everybody else ducking down inside the car, terrified. “Why go to all that trouble just to kidnap us anyway?”

  “Who knows what goes through that sick fuck’s head? I’m telling you it was bogus. Captain Quintanilla’s way of amusing himself, jerking the chain, adding a tax for moving you through Jutiapa. He makes it look like a gang thing. Something goes wrong, one of you dies, he can walk away, hang it on us.”

  Tío Faustino sat back in his chair. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Now, let me guess, I’ll bet he’s pushing to get you to cross over to Oaxaca
with his people here. Don’t do it, my friends. You’ll die.”

  Beto struggled for a notepad stuck in his back pocket. A pencil stub was fastened to it with a rubber band. He opened it to a page where there was a crude map of the coast.

  “They’ll send you by boat. Pick you up around here,” he pointed with the pencil, “little outside Champerico, take you to a huequito, a little smuggler’s cove, outside Puerto Escondido. That’s what they say. But how you supposed to get the rest of the way through Mexico?”

  “They told us they’d take us overland,” Tío Faustino said, “all the way to the States.”

  Beto tossed the pencil down. “Seriously? They tell you two boats, two whole boats, just vanished the last couple months? They tell you fifteen poor fucks drowned just last week? What was left of the boat washed up in pieces. Shit that floats outta Haiti’s got better rep than that.”

  High in the conacaste branches, a zanate cawed. The pijuyo on the roof’s edge fled. The zanate swooped down, took its place, a leathery curl of something, flesh maybe, in its talons.

  Tío Faustino said, “How are we supposed to trust you?”

  “Look, you paid, everybody got his slice, we’ll get you home, okay? El Chusquero on the other hand.” He sat back, crossed his arms, biceps popping. Not carpenter muscle. “Guy’s a bug eater, know what I’m saying?”

  Roque told himself not to fall for this but it was seductive. It didn’t just sound like the truth, it was the truth, as far as he knew it. But what con wasn’t salted with truth, how else would suckers buy into the bullshit? He was tired of being a sucker. “Why believe you, not these other guys? You were supposed to get us this far. Look what happened.”

  “Wanna go by boat? Fucking be my guest. But say they get you to Puerto Escondido—and that’s a big if, okay? Like I said, you got the whole rest of Mexico to get through. They say they’ll take you overland, sure, and hit you up every step of the way, one leg of the trip after the next. Pay or get left there, stranded, and hold on to your ass so it don’t blow away. That what you want? You’ve already paid. Why pay twice, three times, four?”