Do They Know I'm Running

“You misunderstand.” Samir seemed strangely uncoiled, even relaxed. “The Palestinian community in Baghdad had caused no problems during the war. The Mukhabarat just wanted to make a point. We were not beyond their reach.”

“You’d told them you had ambitions to work in the foreign ministry.”

“I can only assume the captain saw through that. Regardless, I wanted nothing to do with working for the regime. I got my degree and found work with Al-Zawra, the country’s main newspaper, translating wire-service pieces for publication.”

“Al-Zawra was owned by Uday, Saddam’s son.”

“Yes, but I had nothing to do with any of that. Let me tell you something, in Iraq you could not work for the media in any form and not have contact with someone who knew someone-you understand? But I was a very small fish. I kept to myself, bothering no one. And no one bothered me. That is the truth. Choose to believe it or not. But if you are worried I am some kind of jihadi, let me tell you something. I worked for the coalition as an interpreter, it’s how I got to know this one’s cousin.” A bob of his chin toward Roque. “I did what I could to help America. All I want is to get across the border, make my case for asylum and try as best I can to rebuild my life and help my family. If you do not want to help me, I will find some other way. But I will not be denied. On my honor as a husband and father, I will see this through.”

Bergen sat there a moment then pushed up from the table. “Excuse me a sec.” He collected the empty chapulin basket and ambled off toward the kitchen. Samir dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and rubbed. Lupe stirred and stretched, rising from her nap.

Roque said:-You okay?

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled.-What’s everybody been blabbering about?

– True confessions. He shrugged apologetically for Samir’s sake.-I’ll tell you later.

– Okay. The smile lingered.

Samir looked back and forth between them.-What’s this?

– What business is it of yours? She nailed him with a stare.

– You know what business of mine it is.

– He’s lost his uncle. Have some pity.

– I’m neither blind nor stupid. Pity?

– Listen, I’ll do what I please, feel what I please. What are you going to do-kill me?

Bergen returned, bearing Dolor’s tin pitcher and four glasses. “Figured all this time, flapping our jaws, somebody might be thirsty.” He filled each of the four glasses with water and passed them around. “Don’t worry,” he added. “It’s bottled.”

Resuming his seat, he regarded Lupe now.-What’s this about our Arab friend here killing you? His Spanish was clumsily accented, the same Rocky Mountain twang as his English.

Roque explained the situation to him, the expected connection with El Recio in Agua Prieta, Samir’s crossing in exchange for Lupe. Bergen’s gaze traveled the table.

– And that’s acceptable to all concerned?

– Acceptable? Roque acted insulted.-My uncle hated the idea. I’ll do anything to see it doesn’t happen.

Samir drained his glass. “You should hear yourself. Fine. I’m tired of arguing with you. If you think you know some way back home with no money, no connections, just that noble heart of yours, be my guest. Leave me here. I’ll fend for myself. But I wonder what it will be like for you, when you come face-to-face with your cousin Happy again and he learns not only that his father is dead but that you froze like a little boy when it came time to defend him. You needed me to snap you out of it, get you to act like a man, but by then it was too late. And then you left me behind. Will you be noble enough to tell him the truth?”

He reached out for the pitcher, poured himself more water. Lupe turned to Roque.-What is happening?

Before Roque could answer, Bergen stepped in.-Seems to me you folks have a thing or two to work out. There’s no way I’m taking you anywhere with this going on. I don’t need the hassle. You find common cause or I leave now and that’s that. And Father Luis can’t put you up forever. People are going to come looking for you. Then what?

Samir, finally surrendering, switched to Spanish, letting Lupe in.-I said it before, all we have from you so far is promises, same as we’ve had from every thief and deadbeat along the way. Why should we trust you? What’s the special trick you know that will make our problems vanish?

Bergen considered the question, taking a leisurely sip of water, then lowered his glass and offered that jolting smile.-You’re right, I know a trick. Pretty simple trick, actually. When I drive up to a checkpoint, I flash this happy white face. I show them my Utah license, the Beehive State. Plain old vanilla, that’s me. Maybe this trip I’m a teacher on sabbatical indulging my wanderlust. Maybe I’m a Mormon, hoping to save your souls. Regardless, far more likely as not-I know this from long experience, my friend-they’re going to wave me right on through.

Thirty-Seven

RIDING ALONE IN THE BACKSEAT, LUCHA HAD TO FIGHT BACK the nausea bubbling up in her stomach, fearing she might get sick. She told herself to breathe but the car had a sour smell, like food that had spoiled.

They’d ransacked the trailer, telling her nothing, just handing her a piece of paper that made no sense. She knew not to stand in their way. Armed men, you object, you suffer. Then these two stepped forward through the bedlam, told her they wanted her to come with them.

She knew the handsome one from that day la migra raided the trailer park. He was the one who calmed everyone down, talked sense into Godo. Lattimore, his name was. The other one, the driver- Dunn, his card read-was unfamiliar. He was homely and yet full of himself, the kind of man Graciela used to mock with… what was the phrase? Sapo guapo. Handsome toad. Every few minutes he hawked up mucus, cranked down his window, spat onto the road. Que grencho. What a hick.

Lattimore talked into his cell, confirmed something, slapped the small black phone shut. He turned in his seat to face her, wearing a thoughtful smile that his eyes betrayed.

“Sorry for that interruption. Your nephew, Godo, and your son-in-law, Pablo-”

“He is not my son-in-law.”

“All right. Excuse me. Pablo, let’s just call him that. The last time you saw him was?”

She looked out the window. They’d crossed the bridge spanning the Carquinez Strait and were veering down the first off-ramp, the one for Crockett. It was almost dark now, the bridge’s new span lit up like a monument and shrouded with wind-driven mist, the distant house lights glowing against the fogbound hill. Directly below the bridge, the sugar refinery’s massive neon sign anchored the small downtown with its abandoned railhead and lonely dock and ghostly warehouses. “I told you. I am afraid. I have temporary protected status and my green-card application is pending but nothing is certain these days. I do not want to do anything to harm my chances. I wish to have a lawyer with me when I talk to you.”

She kept to herself the fact that her heart was breaking.

“You’re not a suspect, Lucha.”

“Lucha is what my family calls me. My name is Elida.”

The man’s smile weakened. His eyes remained unchanged. “You’re not a suspect, Elida.”

Dunn cranked down his window again, a burst of cold air, smelling of brackish water and eucalyptus, a hint of the oil refinery over the hill in Rodeo. “You’re not a citizen, either.” A punctuating spit. The window shuddered back up. “Your right to a lawyer’s not absolute.”

“I wish,” she repeated, “to have a lawyer when I talk to you.”

“I understand,” Lattimore said, stepping back in. “But this isn’t El Salvador, especially the El Salvador you left