Do They Know I'm Running

razor a perfectly straight section from the canvas inch by inch. When the narrow strip was clear he handed it to one of the others, who coiled it around his neck like a chain of raffle tickets, then Chelo bent over the painting again, adjusted his loupe, found the next invisible demarcation and repeated the process, painstakingly trimming another strip from the canvas, the same width as the last.

Bergen glanced up once, winked at Roque, then returned his focus to his slowly vanishing masterpiece. One of the women, almost busting out of her leathers, came by with a bucket of iced beers and settled it onto the table for Roque and the others, while another brought a plate of mango slices, with roasted shrimp and mahimahi and pargo, marinated in lemon and chilies. The four of them dug in shamelessly, wolfing their food down with their hands, intermittently turning back to watch as bit by bit the painting vanished, carved into long shreds, each of which then got piecemealed further into squares the size of postage stamps. Fucking hell, Roque thought, backhanding the slop from his chin, we’ve been bluffing through checkpoints for two whole days with a couple hundred hits of blotter acid.

No money exchanged hands, Roque noticed, this was a longstanding deal, credit not an issue. A bit of a character, Father Luis had called Bergen, with a very storied life. That and then some, Roque thought. And what of the priest himself? Maybe he was the impersonator warned about on the poster at the entrance to his own damn church. If so, Roque thought, my uncle lies in his cemetery, consecrated by a phony sacrament. Bringing the point home was the current procession of Los Mocosos Locos idling in, approaching their leader and collecting a hit of acid into their cupped palms, swallowing it down like a communion wafer, then heading back outside for the fire pit.

Bergen ambled over to the table where Roque and the others sat, working on their third plate of roasted fish and shrimp.

– Looks tasty. He plucked a fatty charred hunk of pargo from the plate, chewed with gusto.-Everybody happy?

No one said anything. If they weren’t stunned from what they’d just observed they were tipsy from the beer, sated from the food.

Turning to Samir, Bergen lowered his voice. “You can thank me anytime.”

Samir looked incensed. “You used us.”

“That a joke? I’m doing you a favor.”

“We were a distraction. A decoy.”

Pingo, sensing the change in drift despite the use of English, excused himself, grabbing an extra beer from the ice bucket and steering a path outside. Bergen’s smile withered. “Listen, you ungrateful prick. Think of where you’d be right now without my help. If not dead, damn close. You might also consider that, should any of these good people get the idea you’ve got a problem with what you just watched-they get the vaguest notion you’re the talkative sort, as in better off facedown in a ditch somewhere-they won’t ask my permission. Now cheer the fuck up.” He slapped Samir’s shoulder like a sales manager coaxing the new guy onto the floor. “You’ve just been fed and you’ve got a place to sleep tonight. Because of me. Put it in perspective, Samir.” He pronounced it smear. “Or I’ll tell these nice folks you’ve got something you’d like to say.”

He reached for the bucket, collected the final beer, then turned to Roque and Lupe.-You two aren’t above singing for your supper, I hope.

THE GUITAR WAS BEHIND THE BAR, A GUILD DREADNOUGHT WITH fairly new strings. As Roque tuned and played a few test chords he smiled at the crisp sweet highs, the rich booming lows, a beautiful ax, Bluegrass Jubilee. He joined Lupe out among the others who circled the fire. The acid was starting to hit, a number of the bikers were staring into the flames as though seeing within them their own spirit faces; some picked through the charred crackling skin of the fish they’d just eaten, as though it held some mystic portent; others just sat and smiled, hugging their knees, heads eased back. The rest milled about, beers in hand, bestowing warm abrazos to every brother they met.

For the sake of visibility and projection above the crackling fire, they fashioned a mini-stage from four wood chairs, then hoisted Lupe onto it, perched like a surfer on an unsteady wave. Roque sat in a fifth chair to her side. He strummed the opening chords of “Sabor a Mi,” suggesting they open with that. Lupe nodded her assent and, as the introduction gently concluded, lifted her chin, closed her eyes and began the first verse.

It took a bar or two for her voice to find its center and the lyrics at first seemed lost in the roar of the fire and the distant surf. As the chorus came around, though, she had the crowd with her, a few even daring to sing along:

No pretendo ser tu dueno

No soy nada, yo no tengo vanidad

I don’t pretend to be your master

I am nothing, I have no vanity

Their voices spurred her on. The next verse bloomed with even deeper feeling and as she came back around to the chorus the others chimed in more devoutly, their gravelly voices harmonizing in tone if not pitch. As the song concluded, the klatch of tripping bikers erupted into whistling applause. A few wiped away tears.

Lupe leaned down toward Roque, gathering her hair away from her face. “‘Sin Ti’,” she whispered.

He felt stunned.-Are you sure?

She didn’t answer. Instead she stood up straight again on the rickety platform of chairs and called out:- On our way north, we lost someone. His name was Faustino. He was the uncle of Roque here. He was very kind to me. He believed in me. I would like to sing this next song in his memory. It meant a lot to him, because he too lost someone, lost her long ago.

She signaled to Roque that she was ready. He played the introductory chords, a lump in his throat-how is she going to sing, he wondered-but as her cue came around she closed her eyes, balled her hands into fists and lifted her face toward the night:

Sin ti

No podre vivir jamas

Without you

I will never be able to live

He had heard her sing often over the past few weeks, under so many different circumstances. He had not yet heard her sing like this. You’re going to break these crusty bastards’ hearts, he thought, if not mine. Had he not loved her already, he would have been helpless then. Again the bikers sang along on the chorus, their voices a growling background hum. They understood. They knew loss, they knew remembrance, even tripping their brains out, and this time, as Roque ended with a strumming flourish and Lupe wiped her face, their applause was a benediction.

That night the two of them slept in a corner of the clubhouse, tucked inside a single musty sleeping bag, pressed together, legs entwined. The others lay nearby, so there would be no lovemaking, but she lay her head upon his heart and he stroked her smoke-scented hair until sleep claimed first her, then him. Outside, the fire raged all night, bikers milling in and out, seeking beer or food, their voices subdued in a nameless reverence. Once, when Roque eased awake, startled by some sound, he noticed through fluttering eyelids that Samir was sitting against the wall, clutching his knees, staring at the two of them snuggled together, his face veiled with shadow.

Forty-Two

TWO DAYS AFTER THEY DID THE COP AND HIS FAMILY THE BOA got sick. The thing wasn’t eating. El Recio implored it, cooed to it, tried all its favorite snacks-live fetal rats, baby mice, bunnies-let it coil up in its favorite chair, stroked its mottled scales. He said they felt cold. How else the fuck they gonna feel, Happy thought, it’s a goddamn snake. But he knew what was happening, suspected even El Recio knew. God doesn’t take it out on you when you sin, that wasn’t how it worked. He’s not content with an uneasy conscience, he wants to push you into the flames, strip you of everything but the desire to die, watch you beg. And so he takes it out not on you but on those you love-wasn’t that what you’d done to him?

El Recio threw on a shirt, said they were going out. He wanted to buy a heat lamp.

“You’ll burn him up,” Happy said. “Why not just put him in the oven?”