Happy reached for the glove box. Roque’s throat closed up, he couldn’t get his breath.
The cop glanced away, dipping his head toward his radio, deciphering a sudden shock of words ensnarled in static. “Just get to where you need to be.”
“Okay, sure.” Happy toggled his keys, cranking the engine. “Thank you, officer.”
He pulled out and the cop stayed put, the two of them watching each other in their rearviews. Happy turned south, heading back toward the trailer park. He dug another smoke from the pack in his shirt pocket, set it between his lips, then rummaged in his pants pocket for his matches. “I’m gonna drive a ways,” he said, “not pull in, understand?”
Roque nodded. He could finally breathe. “You’re the one driving.”
Happy lit a match one-handed, held it to the tip of his cigarette, tilted his head back as he waved out the flame, then tossed the matchbook onto the dash. “Let’s get back to what we were talking about.”
Unable to stop himself, Roque glanced over his shoulder out the back window. Like a nagging itch, the cop was there, trailing several car lengths behind.
Happy said, “I see him. Relax, will you?” He glanced toward the glove box, which Roque had yet to close. “With Godo fucked up the way he is, it’s gonna be up to you. No excuses.”
Roque went cold. He glanced at the weapon, then back at the cop, then Happy. “What do you mean? Up for what?”
“I said relax. I’m talking about my old man.”
Roque wiped his palms on his jeans, trying to picture Tio Faustino in a crowded cell, unable to sleep, scared. “What about him?”
For the first time that morning, Happy smiled-an acid grin, vanishing almost instantly-as he glanced in his mirror. Behind them, the patrol car slowed, then turned off into another strip mall. A clerk not a cop, Roque thought.
Happy said, “Shut up and I’ll tell you.”
Seven
GODO WASN’T SURE AT FIRST IF WHAT HE HEARD WAS REALLY A knock at the door-the sound seemed timid, maybe just a tree branch brushing the roof. He muted the TV. It came again.
He swung his legs to the floor and leaned down, reaching under the bed, not for the shotgun this time but the Smithy.357. Be cool, he told himself, no reruns of yesterday. Could just be one of the neighbors, wanting to beg some favor off Tia Lucha. That happened a lot-patron saint of mooches, that woman. But then he glanced at the clock and thought, My God, has it really been an hour since she left for work? Can’t be. He blinked, shook off the watery drift of things, checked again. Sure enough, not just an hour, a little more.
His leg felt leaden and balance was iffy but he made his way down the hallway and into the kitchen just as a third knock sounded. Pausing beside the door, he stared at the square of cardboard taped up where the window used to be.
He called out, “Yeah?”
No answer at first. Then: “Hello?” It was a man’s voice, unfamiliar.
Godo tensed. “Who’s there?”
A preliminary bout of throat-clearing. “I’m a friend of Faustino’s. Drove his rig up from the port. Parked it out front. Got his keys here.”
Godo stepped past the door toward the window, edged back the curtain. He was a knobby squint of a man with large hands, a reddish mustache too big for his face, ears poking out from under a graying mop of windblown hair. He wore a mechanic’s one-piece coverall, stained at the knees from oil, other smeary markings here and there.
Godo reached around to the small of his back, tucked the.357 into his pants, covered it with his shirt and opened the door. The man seemed taken aback by the sight of his face.
Extending one of his outsize hands. “Name’s McBee. You Faustino’s son?”
The question reminded Godo that Happy of all people had appeared out of the blue that morning. Or was he making that up? A drugged-up dream, a figment of his bleak mind-no, he thought, it happened, we fought. But Christ, we always fought. Suddenly he remembered his hand and glancing down he saw it, same pitted red scars as on his face, locked in the fierce pumping grip of this stranger. McBee. Chafing calluses coarsened the man’s palm.
Godo said, “Not son. Nephew, sort of.”
McBee seemed content with this information, delayed though it was. He took his hand back, dug around in what appeared to be a bottomless pocket, then produced Tio Faustino’s key chain. “I can leave these with you?”
“Sure.” Godo shook his head to clear away the Percocet muck. McBee dropped the keys into his hand. From somewhere in the trailer park, a woman’s voice could be heard:
McBee broke the spell. “Any way I could bum a ride to the bus station? Gotta get back to Oakland. Can’t waste the whole day, losing money as it is.”
Godo caught a hint of dutiful poor-me in his tone, the only snag in the man’s act so far. “I don’t have a car, sorry. My aunt took it to work.”
The news seemed to baffle McBee. He dog-scratched his ear. “Point me the right direction at least?”
Godo snapped out of his stupor. “Sorry. I’ll walk you, how’s that?” He thumbed the door lock plunger, searched for Tio Faustino’s keys, found them in his hand, reminded himself not to forget about the pistol nudging his ass crack, then stepped out onto the doorstep. “Follow me.”
McBee blanched, stepping back to make way. “You sure?”
“I’m positive. Get the blood moving. You coming?”
He shortly regretted not donning a jacket but then shook off the cold, faulting himself for wanting snivel gear. During the invasion he’d slept shivering in shallow ranger graves, wet from rain or choking from windblown dust, hoping not to get run over by a tank in the night, clutching his weapon, happy as a drunk come payday. Jesus, he thought, how soft you get and so fast. He fought against the hobbling pain breaking through the Percocet, willing himself forward. McBee kept pace behind, patient despite the crippled speed and mercifully short on conversation.
Near the trailer-park gate Godo spotted Tio Faustino’s Freightliner cab and felt a misty want, picturing his uncle, wondering when he might see him again. Strange, how girlish the moods sometimes. The truck’s engine was ticking from its cool-down and he caught a whiff of diesel, the scent sending him back instantly to the cramped confines of his Humvee, packed into the backseat with the rations and water cans, the ammo and thermite grenades, C-4, claymore mines, the bale of concertina wire and cammie nets, bolt cutters, map books, chemlites, a pickax and sledgehammer-Chavous in the opposite seat; Mobley in the turret manning the Mark 19, his ass a fart’s breadth away from Godo’s face; Gunny Benedict in front with his maps; Pimentel at the wheel, bitch-slapping the radio, screaming at the static. They were pealing toward Al Gharraf, preparing to take fire.
“You all right?”
Godo snapped his head toward the sound.
“You stopped walking,” the man said. McBee. He sounded concerned. Maybe frightened.
Godo said, “Sorry.”
“Listen, if this is too much, I’m serious, just point me in the right-”
“I’m fine. Come on.”
At the gate Godo swung south and they marched along the gravel roadbed toward the center of town where the transit center was located. The wind was sharper here, keening off the mudflats and the grass-lined river, but now Godo embraced it, letting the cold meld with the throbbing ache in his leg. His gooseflesh cheered him and his pitted skin blushed from the stinging air. Beyond the wetlands the Mayacamas range lurked in the drizzle. Stunning, he thought, miraculous, resisting an urge to cry out: Get some!
With the engaging monotony of one step begging the next, time fell into its crazy hole again. He lost all track.
