right.”
Miguel stood up, and then Luis did the same. Luis held out a dirty, bloodstained hand, and Miguel squeezed it. “You gonna be in touch sometime?” Miguel asked. “At least let me know you made it?”
“Don’t worry about anything.”
“You got money?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. You got it from the 7-Eleven.”
Miguel walked away. He didn’t look back.
Luis opened the backpack and searched inside it. There were two pairs of jeans, two T-shirts, a thick shirt, a wool jacket, boxer shorts, socks, a pair of running shoes. He stripped off his own clothes, the cold making his teeth chatter, and put on Miguel’s. The shoes were a little bit too big, but they would do. He spat several times on the shirt he had taken off, and used it to wipe his hands and face. He bundled his discarded clothes together and hid them under a bush. Then he picked up the backpack and walked to the road.
Miguel’s car was a white Camaro. Luis got in and looked at himself in the rearview. There was still some dried blood on his face and in his hair. He licked his fingers and rubbed it off his face, then ran his fingers through his hair, brushing the red flakes away. Then he put on his sunglasses and started the car.
As he drove down the road into Santa Fe, he saw Miguel walking quickly. He honked the car horn, and Miguel waved a little. Luis watched him in the rearview until he couldn’t see him anymore.
He drove at the speed limit to Albuquerque. The car had a quarter tank of gas left. He wondered whether it would be safer to stop at a busy gas station there in town where he might be recognized but probably wouldn’t be noticed, or in a quiet one outside of town where he was less likely to be recognized but more likely to be noticed and remembered. Somehow it felt as though a gas station in town would be safer, but he just didn’t want to get out of the car, so he pulled onto the I-40 going west and filled up with gas at a place about ten miles out of the city.
He kept thinking about his apartment, about the things it contained, his plates and cups and skillets, Catboy. His life with Vanjii. He wished he had asked Miguel to take care of Catboy.
In the early evening, he crossed the Arizona state line. When he reached Flagstaff, he got on I-17 and headed south, until the pines gave way to cacti.
When Vanjii got home from work, Jaimie told her that her dad had called twice. She called him back, and he told her what he had seen on TV. Vanjii yelled at him, then said she was sorry. She hung up. Then she found Miguel’s number and called it. Miguel didn’t want to talk because he was afraid his phone might be tapped. He didn’t tell Vanjii that, he just said he had to go out somewhere. She was angry with him, but he called her from a public phone about ten minutes later and they talked for a long time.
By the time he got to Phoenix, it was around 8 in the evening. Luis exited on Seventh Street, turned onto Roosevelt, and followed it to Grand. When he saw the Bikini Lounge, he wanted to stop there just because it was someplace he had heard of.
The place wasn’t busy, even though you could get some brands of beer for a dollar a bottle, and a pitcher for three dollars. A guy was deejaying, playing soul standards from the 1970s. Luis ordered a beer and sat at the bar and listened.
At the beginning of a Curtis Mayfield song, a woman and a man got up and started to dance, standing right in front of the deejay’s booth. They danced slowly, holding each other close. The man was balding and the woman had gray in her hair and Luis somehow knew they had been together for years. It felt like a knife in his spine.
Jaimie was in the living room working the phone, talking to men as they jacked off. Carlos, as usual, wasn’t home. Vanjii was in the kitchen drinking coffee and staring at the table. She hadn’t told Jaimie anything, and didn’t think she was going to. She didn’t even know how to tell it to herself.
A fly landed on the table. It sat there, eyes sending images to the brain, lungs receiving oxygen, heart beating with certainty. Vanjii didn’t think, she just slapped with her hand, coming from behind so the fly saw nothing, and then the fly was crushed flat, just a stain on the wood. Vanjii washed her hands and made more coffee. She wondered when she’d be able to cry.
When Luis left the bar, he walked around for a few minutes. At 1 in the morning, it felt hardly less warm than a summer afternoon in Santa Fe. A person slept in every other doorway. Luis wanted to walk farther, but he could find nowhere to head to, so he went to his car.
He was almost out of gas. He stopped at a Circle K on First Avenue and Van Buren. As he was pumping the gas, a guy came up to him. “Hey. Excuse me …”
Luis looked at him and didn’t say anything.
“Listen,” the guy said. “I need a favor. My little girl’s sick, and she’s on East Fillmore, and I need to go there and see her tonight, but I got no car. If you can just give me a ride up there, I’ll give you five bucks for the gas.”
Luis didn’t question the guy’s story, because he could see right through it. The reason the story wasn’t more credible or better explained was because the guy was junk sick, and he wanted to go visit his dealer.
“I been asking lots of people, and they all said no. I really need to see her, man.”
“Okay,” said Luis. “I’ll take you there, but I ain’t got time to wait for you and bring you back.”
“That’s okay, that’s no problem. I just need you to take me there. Thank you.”
The drive took about five minutes. The guy clumsily tried to make conversation, and Luis went along with it. “Okay, right here,” the guy said, pointing to an apartment complex. Luis slowed down and the guy got out. “Thanks a lot, man. Really.”
“Sure,” said Luis. The guy tried to pay him for the gas, but Luis shook his head and drove away.
The neighborhood was nicknamed Gangs R Us, and the cops were going there more and more often, trying to show a presence. Luis passed a police car waiting at a corner. When the cop saw the New Mexico plates, he thought Luis might be either a visitor who’d gotten lost or a drug dealer doing some interstate networking. Either way, he fell in behind him and turned on his lights.
When Luis saw the lights, the panic rose up inside him like vomit, and he fought to control it. He knew Miguel hadn’t reported the car stolen yet, but even if it was just that he had a light out or something, the cop would ask to see a driver’s license.
Luis pulled over and turned off the engine. He watched the officer get out of the car and walk toward him. When the cop was almost to his window, Luis started the car and took off.
He turned a corner, hit the brakes, jumped out of the car, and ran. He heard the cop car approach behind him. Luis ran harder, shrieking air into his lungs, looking for cover, a place to hide. There wasn’t any.
Luis stopped. Raised his hands. Turned around.
The cop had gotten out of his car and was pointing a gun at him. “Lie down and put your hands behind your back.”
The concrete warm against his cheek. The handcuffs closing around his wrists.
Madison Street Jail was only a short distance from the bar where he’d spent the evening. He was booked in and finger-printed and put in a cell.
It was known as the Horseshoe, and it was like no jail Luis had ever heard of. People would be rotated from cell to cell so that they lost track of time. The cells they put him in were completely covered with men. There were men sleeping curled around the toilet that had shit dripping off the sides and piss all around the floor. Men were sleeping on top of other men. Some were using toilet rolls as pillows. They lay on the trash that was scattered everywhere from the sack lunches that were provided. The smell was like a kick in the face by a dirty foot.
No one is sure how long Luis stayed there, but it wasn’t very long.
Jeremy Ruvin should have been a cop. He loved cops, and cops loved him. Like many veteran cops, he was a legend in his own lunchtime. But Ruvin wasn’t a cop. He was a reporter.
He had spent twenty years at the
