Do They Know I'm Running

“When’s the last time you looked?”

“Oh, blow me.”

Somewhere outside a car door slammed. A dog started to bark. Like that, the thing materialized in the corner of his eye again: starving, child-eyed, razor thin, slinking in the rubble, waiting for a corpse to feed on. Benedict’s corpse, what was left of it.

Roque pointed to the leg. “You want to go back to the ER?”

Godo snapped to. “What?”

“You want to go back to the ER, have them drain off another six ounces of pus?”

“I want six ounces of pus, I’ll drain your dick. Where you sleeping these nights?”

Roque blushed. Godo wagged a knowing finger.

“Roquito’s got himself a mamasota.”

“Shut up.”

“Got himself a scraggle, a gack. A little bicha.”

Outside, another car door slammed. The dog’s barking grew more crazed. Godo felt a prickling of sweat on his neck. Hard to explain to people, this thing he had with dogs now.

“Godo, please, I need-”

“Que vergon, cabroncito.”

“I need to check the dressing on your leg.”

“Come on, humor me-who’s the lucky squirrel?”

For the merest second, a defiant gleam enlivened Roque’s eyes. He was pissed. Here it comes, Godo thought. Gonna tell me how hot his mamita is, maybe even spit out her name. But before that could happen Roque’s expression regained its put-upon blankness.

“I’m not playing, Godo, you always-”

“Hey, hembrito, I’m not playing neither. Gotta make sure you’re taking the proper precautions. Like, you know, you putting one bag or two over her head before you fuck her?”

The kid flinched like recoil from a slap and Godo almost dared him: Come on. Say it. Have some balls and say it. But by degrees the hate drained from Roque’s eyes, replaced by a sad superiority. Go ahead and mock, he seemed to be saying. Then look at yourself, check out your face. From now until the day you die, the best you can hope for is a pity fuck. Even if you pay for it.

Suddenly, from the front of the trailer, the muffled crash of shattered glass. Tia Lucha screamed. Roque froze.

Godo scrambled to the edge of the bed, reached underneath, pulled out the Remington pump-loader, weapon of choice for close quarters, and chambered a round of nine-pellet buckshot. He rose to his feet, swaying.

Outside, the dog fell silent.

Roque reached out his hand, whispered, “Godo, wait, let me check-”

Godo cracked back hard with his elbow, slamming Roque’s jaw. To his credit, the kid didn’t cry out, just a breathy grunt as he spun down and away with the blow. We’ll save our sorrys for later, Godo thought. Gotta know which guilt you can live with. The impact clarified everything. Inside, the mental fog lifted, his thoughts turned solid and simple and whole. Outside, the visible shimmered. His skin pricked with sweat, his breathing slowed and steadied. He was in the moment. Crouching to lower his center of gravity, gunstock nudged tight to his shoulder, he flattened himself against the wall and inched out into the hallway.

Three

ROQUE STAGGERED FROM THE BEDROOM IN A BLUR OF PAIN, JAW seizing up as he tried to peer past Godo. Bit by bit, like working a puzzle, he made out two men in black raid jackets, hovering over Tia Lucha in the low squat living room at the trailer’s far end. They held pistols. Laminated shards from the door window lay scattered across the drab carpet. The acronym ICE in white letters flared across the backs of their jackets. They were immigration agents, la migra. Then why break in?

Planted on the couch, hands flat against the tattered cushion, his aunt gazed up at the two strangers, eyes flaring. In the corner, Roque’s guitars, a white Telecaster and an Ovation Legend acoustic, rested upright in their chrome stands. He felt a sudden, embarrassing urge to rescue them.

Godo inched forward, strangely calm. Where the hall opened onto the kitchen, a joining crease in the trailer’s flooring gave way beneath his weight, emitting a pealing moan. Both agents spun their heads around.

Godo shouted, “Hands in the air!”

The one on the left was bodybuilder thick but short with a buzz cut tapering into a widow’s peak. The other was willowy, red-haired, skin dusted with coppery freckles. They pivoted apart, raising their weapons. “Federal agents!”

“Like hell!”

Godo had the drop on them both, the freckled one exposed, the kitchen counter shielding the one with the widow’s peak, at least from the waist down.

“Put the weapon-”

“You broke in!”

“Your weapon! Drop it! Now!”

Outside, someone charged down the narrow gravel passage between trailers, his body thudding against the aluminum walls as he got chased, caught from behind, wrestled to the ground amid curses in both Spanish and English, then a helpless yowl of pain.

“I’m not saying it again!”

“Put your weapons down!”

“?Godofredo, no, escuchame!” Tia Lucha, pleading: Listen to me.

The one with the widow’s peak edged farther left and a little forward, crouching low behind the counter. Freckles stayed put, barking, “Put the goddamn weapon down!”

“Look at me,” Godo said, that same offbeat calm. “Look at my goddamn face. Go on, shoot, think I give a fuck?”

From behind, Roque, a whisper: “Godo-”

Mistaking the plea for a warning, Godo swung the shotgun toward the counter. “Back the fuck up.”

Widow’s Peak froze. His trigger finger fluttered. Freckles brayed, “Last chance!”

“You’re fucking intruders!”

“Put the mother… fucking… weapon… down!”

“You, not me!”

“?Ellos te mataran!” They’ll kill you. Tia Lucha’s voice, all pity and terror, it froze the men where they stood. For a second-five? ten?-no one moved. Outside, the pursuers rustled their prey to his feet, thudding against the trailer wall once more, then crunching back along the gravel the way they’d come. The ensuing silence felt like a sign. Roque dared to hope that no one would die, common sense would win, everyone would step back from the lunatic edge and-what? Laugh? Shake hands? Exchange abrazos?

Widow’s Peak spoke up for the first time. “I can place a slug through your brain, crater face, before you get off round one. Not to mention, you shoot, the woman gets hit. Who you think you’re fooling?”

Godo, shotgun already trained that direction, tsked mockingly. “Perro bravo.” Mean dog.

“Won’t say it twice.”

“You’ve mistaken me for someone else, puto.” Godo tightened the coil of his finger around the shotgun’s trigger. “I’m a pill-crazed killer. And I don’t know who that woman is.”

The trailer door flew back. All heads turned-except for Godo and Widow’s Peak, their eyes locked in mirrored stares, weapons up.

Another agent peeked in at the doorway, shielding himself. Beyond him, Roque spotted more men, dozens of them, dogs too, flashlights crisscrossing the fog-shrouded maze of trailers. The one at the door had his pistol