Do They Know I'm Running

running west to Nasiriyah, lit from behind by distant oil fires, some in uniform, others wearing civilian clothes or traditional robes, choking on dust from the shamal winds, rags on their feet, gear discarded behind, littering the desert for miles. “They say if they go back the way they came, they’ll be killed by fedayeen.” Akbar, the terp’s name was. Everybody called him Snackbar. He had to tell the Iraqis they wouldn’t be taken prisoner, the Americans had barely enough water for themselves. The deserters shambled to their feet, a few crying out against the faithless marines, clutching handbills the Americans had dropped from drones promising humane treatment to prisoners. The rest just turned away, staggering east. You’re here to hunt, Godo thought, remembering what Gunny Benedict had told his squad the night before as they’d set out for battle. Think like a killer, not a friend. Be bold, trust no one, fear nothing. Act like you’re already dead-it just might save you.

He glanced again past the curtains at the captured muchachos, hands tied behind their backs with plastic come-alongs, some of them shirtless or shoeless despite the cold morning mist. They didn’t look like they’d wanted to surrender.

The raid had netted two dozen or so, “illegals” they’d get called that night on the news. Godo knew a few by name, knew the roofers and landscapers and body shops they worked for, even the dirt-poor villages to which they’d get sent and from which they’d inevitably return.

Meanwhile the two ICE agents continued going at it with the older one, who turned out to be FBI-Lattimore his card read, Special Agent James Lattimore. The dispute, from what Godo could pick out, concerned the need for a warrant to search the trailer. They’d checked everyone’s papers, confirmed that Tia Lucha’s temporary protected status was valid, Godo and Roque were both citizens by birth, every handgun in the house was registered. But none of that mattered to the ICE men. They were, they said, with all the scorn for Lattimore they could muster, in the course of a legitimate operation targeting known alien felons, meaning they could search wherever they damn well pleased.

“I’m not getting a Bivens claim slammed down my throat because of you two,” Lattimore said. “Call in, have the shift supervisor draft a warrant, walk it over to the magistrate and have somebody hike it over here.”

Sound reasoning, Godo supposed, but the tiff had nothing to do with law or procedure or good sense. It had to do with who could swing the biggest dick. The ICE guys felt humiliated, called on the carpet in front of a family of nacho niggers. No red-blooded American male over the age of nine could be expected to take that. Funny, he wanted to tell them, how sometimes that big dick just gets in the way. Take it from me.

The phone rang. Roque got up from the table and answered, holding the receiver in the crook of his shoulder as he tucked in his shirttail, conducting this mindless bit of business with such hip artlessness Godo felt an instant flash of jealousy, like he was being forced to watch his shit-for-brains hermanito turn into a rock star right there before his very eyes. And maybe he was. God help me, Godo thought, then Roque shot a wary glance out the screen door toward the agents, who were listening in. He turned his back to them, lowering his voice.

The door opened. Lattimore stepped in, the other two humping along behind. Roque cut short the call-“Okay, thank you, I have to go”-then returned the receiver to its cradle and turned back toward the room, tucking his hands in his pockets. It was odd, he still had that same lax grace about him, except the eyes.

“Let me guess, senores. You want to know who that was.”

The Spanish was meant as ridicule. Godo felt impressed. Meanwhile, to his credit, Lattimore said nothing, just waited. The man had the patience of a wall.

Roque added, “But you already know what I just found out, I’ll bet. ?Verdad?”

Lattimore held pat for another beat, then: “Faustino Orantes.”

Tia Lucha stiffened, eyes bugging with fright. Godo, snapping his head toward Roque: “What’s he talking about?”

Using Spanish, to be sure his aunt didn’t misunderstand, Roque said:-They picked up Tio at the port, some kind of raid. Nobody’s sure where they took him.

Tia Lucha lifted her hands from her lap and, folding them as though for prayer, covered her nose and mouth and closed her eyes. She took three shallow breaths, trembling.

Lattimore said, “And yes, I’d like to know who that was on the phone just now.”

Roque ignored him, instead kneeling down in front of his aunt, stroking her arm. Finally: “I don’t have to answer that.”

Weeks later, Godo would look back on this moment as the point in time when Roque found his backbone. Either that or his terrible angel had come, whispering in his ear: Hey cabron, take heart-you’re already dead.

IT WAS AFTER NINE BEFORE ROQUE COULD BREAK AWAY. TIA LUCHA begged off work to spend the day searching for Tio Faustino; Roque sat by the phone in case she called. Come nightfall he put some dinner together from leftovers, made sure Godo got his medicine, watched a little TV with him in his room. Finally, when the first six-pack was history and Godo dropped off, Roque pulled on his sweatshirt, turned off the ringer on the phone, slipped out for Mariko’s. He’ll wake up at some point and find himself alone, Roque thought, and that could go a dozen different ways. But he’s not the only one with needs.

Jogging up Mariko’s block, he noticed a strange car parked out front, lights on in her living room. He waited outside for the man to leave-graying blond hair, yuppie rugged, North Face vest, Timberland boots, a mere peck on the cheek as he said goodbye-waited ten minutes longer, then walked up and rang the bell.

“You had company,” he said when the door opened.

Wineglasses lingered on the living room floor near the futon, one empty, the other half so. The bottle sat uncorked off to the side. Given the sparse furnishings, the bare walls and hardwood floor, the arrangement resembled sculpture.

She stared, those dark almond eyes. “You’re not going to turn jealous, are you?”

There was no smell of sex. And she was dressed in a bedraggled pullover and drawstring pants, everything bulky and shapeless, not the stuff of come-hither.

“Who says I’m jealous?”

“Because it would be dreadful form, given the age difference.”

He warned himself: Steady. Don’t get sucked in. “You know, it’s hard to keep up. One minute, I’m so damn mature. The next, when you want to put me in my place-”

“I have friends, I have clients. Sometimes we meet here. You can’t be part of that world.”

Roque’s chest clenched; the knot felt cold. “I said I wasn’t jealous.”

Mariko studied him-not without a hint of longing, he thought. “In my experience, it’s always the ones who tell you they’re not jealous who are.”

“Maybe that says more about your experience than it does about me.”

He went to kiss her. She turned her head, offering her cheek.

“It’s been a long day.” She crossed her arms over her breasts, smothering them beneath the nubbly sweater. “I have a client consult early tomorrow.”

“They took my uncle away.” It was smarmy and manipulative, he realized that. But he had to get her to drop the put-upon snit she was hiding behind. He deserved better.

The almond eyes turned glassy. “What are you saying?”

“ICE. La migra. They nabbed him at the port and we don’t know where he is. My aunt and some of the other women from the trailer park have gone down to the federal jail in San Bruno, see if they can find anything out.”

“Who’s looking after your brother?”

“Godo’s fine. He won’t really need me till morning.” There, he thought, that puts things plain.

“I can’t let you stay.”

Roque forced a smile. Can’t? “I didn’t ask to.”

“Not in so many words.”

“Not in any words.”

“You’re angry.”

“You’re talking to me like I’m a problem.”

Just outside, a neighborhood cat in heat emitted that distinctive guttural howl.

“Look, I’m sorry about your uncle.”

“Yeah. It’s fucked. But you can’t let me stay.”