Do They Know I'm Running

El Recio froze. “What’d you just say?”

Happy caught the hinge in El Recio’s voice. The eyes, though, were far worse.

“I said you might burn him up.”

“Her.”

Get me out of this, Happy thought. “Her. Sorry. You might burn-”

“You said stick her in the oven.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I was trying-”

“You want to eat La Princesa?”

“No. No. Look, I just came by to talk about those houses-”

“Want to eat my baby?”

On and on it went, Happy constantly trying to get back to what he came to say-an offer he wanted to make, a favor if looked at right-but the skinny calvo just turned everything into drama. Finally, like a hotheaded madrecita, he shoved Happy down the hallway, out the door, tears in his eyes, screaming not to come back until he could show some human feeling.

Happy stood there in the mud-washed street, staring across the ripening sewer trench as the door slammed shut, the noise scattering the crows that’d perched in a paloverde tree in the empty lot next door. Cupping his hands, he shouted, “Lo siento.” I’m sorry.

Through the door, El Recio bellowed back: “Me vale madre.” I don’t give a damn.

On their way back from the job the other night, El Recio had told Osvaldo to stop the car as they passed a cluster of empty houses halfway between Cananea and Agua Prieta. Ghostly in the moonlight, they were part of a project that was only half finished, like so much of Mexico, at least the parts Happy had seen. El Recio said he and a partner were going in on three of the properties and he was worried about thieves, vandals.

Happy and Godo had gotten the sense they were drawing too much attention at the hotel, sooner or later someone could come around, find out about the weapons and God only knew where that would end. So Happy had figured they’d go down, squat in one of El Recio’s houses, ward off anybody who came around to rip out the copper or the woodwork or the rebar or anything else they could turn around for cash. He didn’t exactly say no, Happy told himself. If worse comes to worst, I’ll buy him a new fucking snake.

He wandered about the fringes of Agua Prieta, bought some tamalitos at a vendor truck and headed back to the hotel. The girl, Paca, was there again, another round of English. From the sound of things, the lesson plan was a little more basic today: roof and window, shirt versus blouse, fork knife spoon. Apparently the mother had come by yesterday, thanking Godo, helping rewrap the gauze on his hand. He seemed more relaxed. Maybe he’d gotten laid.

As Godo fingered open the tinfoil wrap of his tamalitos, Happy’s cell began to trill. Their eyes met, Happy dug the phone from his pocket. Again, an unknown exchange. If anyone was using this to track where I am, he figured, they’d have found me by now. He flipped the phone open, put his ear to the welcoming hiss.

“Happy? It’s me.”

Happy mouthed Roque’s name, letting Godo know who it was. “Where are you?”

“The bus station in Guaymas.”

Southern Sonora, Happy thought, though over on the Sea of Cortez. “Not so far.”

“No. We’ll be there soon. Look, Hap-”

“Samir there?” He thought of what El Recio had said, about the Americans, the deal they’d struck with Don Pato. How to explain that, after the man had come so close.

“Yeah. He’s good. Pain in the ass sometimes but good. Look, there’s something-”

“And let’s not forget the girl-Lupe, am I right?”

The hiss surged, thrumming like a hive. “I was about to tell you about that.”

“Kinda late in the game, wouldn’t you say?” Happy felt a curious absence of anger. Still, the point needed to be made.

Roque said, “How did you hear about her?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s not like you and I had a chance to talk much the past week.”

“That’s not an answer, neither.”

“Tio and I were trying to figure something out. A way to help her. It’s complicated.”

“I know.”

“What do you know?”

“Who she belongs to. They’re waiting for her.”

Another silence, longer this time. “Yeah, well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“It’s not negotiable.”

“With who-them or you?”

Happy felt his chest clench, like someone had tightened a screw. “I don’t deserve that.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just, if you knew what we’d been through-”

“I could say the same. So could Godo.”

A door slammed down the hall, then footsteps. Two men tramped toward the stair, one a murmur, the other a braying laugh. Their shadows flickered in the crack beneath the door.

“What do want from me, Hap? I didn’t tell you about Lupe because I wasn’t sure what to say. I am now. This guy we met in Oaxaca, he has an uncle who’s a cop in Naco. He can help us get across, no El Recio.”

Happy went cold-a cop? “You don’t know,” he said, wrestling the memory back into its hole, “what you’re playing at.”

“As far as anybody knows, we all died in the ambush with Tio. Five bodies burned up inside our car, no way they’ve ID’d who’s who yet. You can say you got a call from Tia Lucha, she heard from Oaxaca about the car. Understand? We’re dead. There’s no one to hand over.”

The tightening in his chest loosened a little, making him feel light-headed. The thing could work, he thought. It was lunacy, it was tempting the devil. But…

“Samir there? Something I’d like to talk to him about.”

“Can it wait? The bus is leaving and I need to know where we can meet up with you.”

He glanced over at Godo, fingers smeared with cheese and grease from the tamalito. The ugly one, he thought, the broken one. And I’m the stupid, worthless one.

Then there was Roque. The magical one.

“There’s a place south of town,” he said. “I’ll give you directions.”

ROQUE HUNG UP THE PHONE, OPENED THE FOLDING GLASS DOOR TO THE phone booth and followed Lupe and Samir to the bus. Bergen had dropped them at the station, handed them some cash for tickets plus a little extra for food. Pingo had gone with him-all that talk of hooking up with the union in Nogales for a work permit, utter bullshit-but he’d given them his uncle’s name and contact information in Naco.-He’s solid, he’d said, he’s tough. He won’t screw you.

Samir glanced over his shoulder as they passed through waves of diesel exhaust from the idling buses.- What did he say? The Arab had reverted to pest since they’d left San Blas, his impatience a kind of itch that everybody was obliged to scratch.

– He’s looking forward to seeing you again.

– No problems?

After all they’d endured, it seemed the most ludicrous question imaginable.

The bus was a throbbing tube of road-worn chrome, twenty years old at least, but luxurious compared to the chicken buses they’d seen farther south. Roque and Lupe climbed on board and sat near the front, plopping down side by side in vinyl seats patched with tape, clasping hands, hers cool inside his, trading the occasional smile. Samir sat alone behind them, so restless Roque felt like reaching around and smacking him one. Not that he wasn’t anxious himself. The driver sprawled in his seat, reading a wrestling magazine as he waited for stragglers, the time of departure apparently far more fluid than they’d feared. All that rush, he thought, now we sit, knowing it wasn’t the delay bothering him. Something he’d heard in Happy’s voice-or rather, something he hadn’t heard-it unnerved him. The words over the phone had seemed adrift, beyond weary, no feeling, no heart. Everyone’s been through a