gave her face a clownish unreality. Her glance darted between Roque and Happy, her gifted if irksome nephew, her
Roque said, “I meant no offense, Tia.”
She rolled her eyes. Happy downed the last of his coffee.
Roque said, “Does Godo know you’re here?”
Happy turned in his seat to get out. “We had our chat.” He rose and offered a grateful nod to Tia Lucha. To Roque, he said, “Walk with me.”
“I need to check the dressing on Godo’s leg.”
Happy glanced back down the hall toward Godo’s room. “It can wait.”
OUTSIDE, THE FOG LINGERED. HAPPY HIKED UP THE COLLAR OF HIS shirt. “You forget how cold it gets here,” he said, walking briskly toward the gate, hunched forward. He cast an impatient glance over his shoulder, urging Roque to keep pace.
Once they were out on the river road he turned north, one wash of headlights after the other spraying his back as the morning’s first traffic made its way toward Napa. He ignored the cars or trucks as they rushed by but Roque could tell from the dock of his head as each one passed that he was noting who was inside.
Several hundred yards on he turned off the gravel roadbed into the parking lot for a small weatherworn strip mall-a cash-only car repair, a discount mattress outlet, a combination
As Roque closed the door behind him, Happy lit up a cigarette, the rubbery match flame hollowing his features. After shaking out the match and exhaling a long plume of smoke, he turned to stare across the pickup’s cab with a strangely menacing sadness.
“Been spending your nights boning some broad twice your age. How’d that happen?”
Roque felt the blood drain from his face. “Who told you that?”
“Who says I needed to be told?” Happy tapped his ash through the window vent. “Tell me, Roque, your
“Fuck you.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“You been spying on me?”
“I know things,” Happy said. “Get used to it.”
“Yeah? What else do you know?”
“That’s my business. What’s with Godo?”
“Tia Lucha didn’t tell you?”
“Never mind what she told me, I wanna hear it from you.”
“Hear what?”
“He’s fucked up.”
“Ya think?”
Happy reached across and swatted the back of Roque’s head. “Don’t be such a punk.”
“Don’t touch me.”
Happy, in whiny nasal mimicry:
Roque had to process that. “There’s some things we don’t share.”
“I mean has he gotten it wet since he got back? Given how he looks, I was thinking maybe…” Happy rubbed his thumb and index finger together, suggesting cash.
“Who am I, his pimp?”
Happy chuckled at that, then took another long drag, blowing the smoke out, watching it billow against the windshield. “Face the way it is? He looks like a fucking dartboard.”
“Tell him that. I dare you.”
Happy let that go, except to say, “You got a point. Nothing wrong with his temper. Spent maybe two minutes with him, he wants to mix it up.”
“You want Godo mellow, you’ll have to kill him.”
“There’s a thought.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Fuck’s sake, Roque, chill out. By the way, not everybody who was over there came back fucked up. You get that, right?”
“How would you know?”
Happy picked a fleck of tobacco off his tongue. “That’s another long story.” He turned to gaze out at his window at the mold-freckled storefronts. A crow perched on the rain gutter, framed by fog. “How come you’re not pitching in with money?”
“Who says I’m not?”
“You’re really starting to piss me off with this.”
“I’ve got a line on a band gig. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Roque shrugged. “Hard to say.”
“Really? Hard to say what, your family needs the bread? Hard to say they’re fucked, my old man deported?”
An eighteen-wheeler thundered past, rattling the pickup’s windows. The crow on the gutter fluttered its wings. “Maybe we can get a lawyer.”
“Fucking hell-you stupid? What’s a lawyer gonna do except take our money? You think-” Happy stopped short, glancing in his rearview mirror. A patrol car pulled into the strip-mall lot. Murmuring, “What’s this asshole want,” he stubbed out his cigarette, dropped the butt between his feet. “Keep talking,” he told Roque.
“About what?”
“About anything. So we don’t look like we’re casing this dump.”
Roque let his glance dart once out the cab’s back window, then started babbling, launching into the first thing that came to mind. Happy, eyes glued to the mirror, spoke to the reflection: “Come on, fuckwad. You run the plates, we’re gonna do this.” With painful slowness, the patrol car eased along the storefronts, shining a flashlight through the window glass.
“Open the glove box,” Happy said.
Roque obeyed. The butt of a pistol lay exposed within a folded newspaper. “Jesus-”
Happy turned toward him, their eyes met. The menacing sorrow was gone, replaced by emptiness. “Tell me another story.”
“You’re not gonna shoot a cop.”
“I’ll shoot you, you don’t calm down. Tell me another story.”
The black-and-white, having finished its check of the stores, eased toward the end of the parking lot, only to circle back and come abreast of the pickup, so the driver sides matched up. The cruiser’s tires were muddy, the windshield caked with rainy grime. The cop lowered his window and gestured for Happy to do the same. The glove box remained open.
The officer said, “Mind telling me your business here?”
Happy turned so his body blocked whatever view the cop might have through the window. “I’m just sitting here talking with my cousin, officer. He’s getting married next month and he’s worried about money.”
The cop studied Happy at length, an occasional attempt to glance past him toward Roque. The man had a thick putty-colored face with baggy eyes, more bored clerk than cop. “Kinda early, don’t you think?”
“Only time we had. We both gotta head off for work soon.”
“What say you do that now.”
“Yes, sir. You wanna see my license and registration?”
