Do They Know I'm Running? Part 12

It was like he'd farted.

"You don't take the whole shipment," Nico said, "who needs your G.o.dd.a.m.n trucks? You drive in here, leave the pallets behind, I mean, you nuts? Blows the whole scheme. I want the whole load out of here. Otherwise why am I doing business with you? And this way we can both plead ignorant, some cop stops you on the street, checks the load, finds-"

"But what what the the f.u.c.k f.u.c.k am I gonna-" am I gonna-"

"Sell it to your local bodega, cluckhead. Give it to a homeless shelter, throw it in the G.o.dd.a.m.n bay, what the f.u.c.k do I care?"

Happy cringed at the false note-cluckhead, something only a cop would say-as Vasco lashed back with some abuse of his own, too hot to let his ears cue him in. Meanwhile, Zipicana sat there watching the back and forth with solemn eyes. Finally, he lifted his hand, as though stepping in to referee.

"There's something else we need to discuss." His scrutiny shuttled face to face, then settled on Vasco. "You have the thirty?"

Vasco, still fuming over the bananas, "I have some questions first."

"I give a f.u.c.k about your questions. You don't have the money, we're done."

"Yeah." Vasco glanced at Happy, the gaze poisoned with blame. "I've got the money."

Zipicana pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Vasco. Happy recognized it, the list of Banco de Cuscutlan account numbers pa.s.sed along from Lonely in San Salvador for wire transfer of the thirty thousand. "Divvy it up any way you want," Zipicana said, "not all the same amount, though. Don't be stupid. And make sure it gets done today."

Vasco tucked the paper into his breast pocket. "How soon till we get a shipment?"

"A month. Maybe six weeks."

Vasco's eyebrows levitated. "Six weeks? Why the f.u.c.k-"

"That's nothing you need to know."

"Like h.e.l.l it ain't. I'm out thirty grand till then."

Zipicana grinned, his eyes more cold than mocking. "What, you want interest?"

"I'm putting my a.s.s out in the wind here. Happy vouches for me. Who vouches for you?"

"Listen to you." It was Nico, leaning back in his chair while Zipicana rose to his feet with a stagy air of menace. He doffed his suit jacket, then began unb.u.t.toning the silver shirt, cuffs first, then the collar, then on down. "Who vouches for me?" He stripped the shirt off with a flourish, then lifted his welterweight arms, turning slowly to display the tattoos no laser had touched, his torso a billboard. A spiderweb covered his left shoulder, a black widow dangling on a thread, the number 13 on its back in a red hourgla.s.s, while from below a devil's claw emerged from flames to clutch his heart. Two masks appeared on his right shoulder, one happy, one sad-Smile Now, Cry Later-with fist-size letters and numerals in chainwork down that side of his chest: M-S-1-3. The name Mara Salvatrucha scrolled in a vine down one arm, while down the other you could read amid florid decoration: Sleep with the maggots, norputos norputos. On his back, across his shoulders, in finely detailed Gothic lettering: 13 por vida, 18 son putas 13 por vida, 18 son putas. A black billiard ball with a 13 in the white circle bore the added inscription: Rest in p.i.s.s, Jotos Jotos. Then, in the small of his back, a graveyard of headstones, each bearing the name of a dead chamaco: chamaco: Skyny, Gato, Slayer, Pincho, Dreamer, El Culiche, Vampi, Pingue, Zorro ... Skyny, Gato, Slayer, Pincho, Dreamer, El Culiche, Vampi, Pingue, Zorro ...

Happy glanced over at Vasco and gauged from his expression that he was thinking: Who vouches for this guy? The madhouse. The street. The devil.

"Let me tell you something," Zipicana said, reaching for his shirt. "We don't need you, am I right? What we got to sell, we can find a buyer. No problem. And whoever steps up, he gets more than five hundred kilos and a bunch of f.u.c.king bananas. He gets the crown, understand? So what you want to ask yourself"-he slipped on the shimmery silk shirt, fussed the collar into place-"is this: Do I want to rule or be ruled? Who do I want for partners? Who do I want for enemies? Because the storm is coming, chero chero. You want to be ahead of it, not behind it."

Out in the warehouse, a pallet crashed to the floor, followed by echoing curses. Vasco sat there fuming. "I ask for some sort of proof this is more than just wind," he said, "you make threats. I'm supposed to sit here and take that. It's a lot to ask, especially considering the other angle to this we still haven't discussed."

Zipicana, tucking in his shirttail: "You're talking about the extra cargo coming up by separate carrier."

"I'm talking about the f.u.c.king Osama you guys are bringing across the border."

There, Happy thought, feeling both a flash of dread and a wave of relief. Please G.o.d, he thought, no foul-ups, no tech glitches. Meanwhile, Vasco ragged on. "You want me to front thirty grand, stick out my neck on something I want no part of, and in return you offer me take-it-or-leave-it, with a threat for good measure. I'm getting screwed three ways here with nothing but a promise for my trouble."

Zipicana made a face like he understood. But. "Remember, we don't know you."

"You said I was vouched for."

"We're talking terms here. You want the plum job, you gotta go the extra mile. You don't want to, don't b.i.t.c.h about what you missed. Don't come to me begging for your chance back."

With his thumbs Vasco tapped out a furious rat-a-tat on the arms of his chair. One of the workers came up to the office window, pushed back his blue hard hat and knocked softly on the gla.s.s to get Nico's attention. Nico held up five fingers. The guy shook his head, ambled off. Happy wondered if he was undercover too. Or the real owner, wanting his office back.

Zipicana sat down on the edge of Nico's desk. "You say you want no part of this other thing, our lonesome friend who's coming up to visit. What's that about? You got some feeling for this s.h.i.tbag country? You know what happened to Happy's family here. I won't bore you with my story. I'll bet, though, your own family has a tale or two, am I right?"

Vasco met Zipicana's eyes and, after a moment, nodded.

"Like they give a rat's a.s.s about us. f.u.c.k us in a heartbeat and play to the cameras. You seen what I seen. You hear what I hear. To h.e.l.l with this country. Nothing but fat f.u.c.ks and loudmouths. Somebody wants to bring down Disneyland, Dodger Stadium, Golden Gate Bridge, Candlestick Park-who the f.u.c.k cares? And the more cops have to waste time focusing on that s.h.i.t? Better for guys like you and me. Better for And the more cops have to waste time focusing on that s.h.i.t? Better for guys like you and me. Better for business business. No matter how bad things get, people gonna want their high. Especially then. You think about that. Meantime, you just wire the money to the numbers I gave you, you'll see, you got no problems being linked to the Arab, me, anything. That's a promise. You're like a silent partner, okay? You can't ask for better than that, not with what we're offering you a piece of."

HOURS LATER, DURING DEBRIEFING, HAPPY ASKED LATTIMORE ABOUT Zipicana: Where did he come from? How did he know how to pinball Vasco so well?

"Liked his shtick, did you?" Lattimore sat at his cluttered desk, slogging through paper. Short-tempered from the monotony, he slammed his desk drawers, glared at the phone if it interrupted. "Yeah, Ol' Zippy-hana, as we like to call him, sure knows how to put on a show."

Happy could sense the shortness of temper cycling his direction. "I don't get it. He pretty much said the same thing I-"

"Correct. And I ran through all that with Zippy, told him the weak spots in your improv, so to speak. Thought we had ourselves a meaningful chat. Turns out I should've saved my G.o.dd.a.m.n breath."

"I don't-"

"The point is to persuade him, Mr. Orantes, seduce him into the scheme, not box him in so bad he's got no way out. Christ, Vasco, the dumb cluck, he doesn't go along, what's he looking at? Slavery, basically. Looking up at a woeful dips.h.i.t like Sancho Perata running his life. I'd call that h.e.l.l on earth." He began peeking under files, looking for his pen. "His real name is Chimo, by the way. Chimo Trujillo. Used to be a shot caller for the Normandie Locos till we got him on a carjacking beef."

Happy wanted to get away from Lattimore's resentment, but where would he go? They were all trapped now, caged together in the same machine, this lie.

"And of course Vasco sits there, ready for his close-up, and basically says, 'You're threatening me. What else can I do but agree to whatever you say?' Lawyer's gotta be brain-dead not to make hay with that."

Happy's stomach was roiling again. He would've popped out for a quick smoke if he hadn't already ripped through his pack. "But Pitcavage said they always say that." The weakness in his voice, the wishful thinking, even he could hear it. "And they always lose."

"Yeah, and I've heard a lot of other things he's said, right around the time things turn real." Lattimore found his pen, opened a folder, fingered through the 305 reports already filed, searching out some forgotten detail like it was the most thankless ch.o.r.e of his life. "But ol' Chimo, yeah. Guy could sell eggs to a G.o.dd.a.m.n chicken, I'll grant him that."

THEY GOT OUT OF THE CAR AND SMELLED THE POND FIRST, THE water foamy with sc.u.m. Chato made an ignorant crack, something about farmers and pigs, secrets of the barnyard. He'd been holding court the whole drive, a barky crank-fueled mania that only got worse when he fired up a blunt, sailing off into high bake: I'll put in a good t.u.r.d for you. Let me give you a t.u.r.d of advice. Honest, dude, I give you my t.u.r.d of honor. On and on and on-he must've said "t.u.r.d of honor" a hundred times-to the point G.o.do had to resist the urge as the trunk popped open to grab the first gun he saw, shoot the little f.u.c.ker right there, put him out of everyone else's misery.

Luckily, the other two had grown sick of him too-Puchi, who'd driven, and a third guy G.o.do hadn't met before, Efraim. They jumped on the kid and he shut up finally, at least as long as it took to unload the weapons: a Mossberg shotgun, a Glock with the ungainly eighteen-round mag, a more manageable Sig Sauer 9mm and three M16s, bought in pieces over the Internet and at gun shows, a.s.sembled by Efraim, who had quickly become G.o.do's favorite of the bunch: quiet, capable and just a little haunted. By what, G.o.do wasn't sure, but it made him feel a kinship.

Happy had pushed him into this. It's for the family, he'd said, think of Tio Faustino. Vasco was a d.i.c.k but they were all d.i.c.ks. He was paying the freight, end of story. This is how the devil hands back your soul, G.o.do thought. It's not a gift.

He'd mustered the foresight to push for an outdoor venue, not an indoor shooting range. Secretly, he'd feared the extra compression, the echo, all those weapons firing at once. He gave himself credit for not losing it on the way over, cringing under every overpa.s.s, fearing an IED lay stuffed inside every roadkill pelt.

Beneath streaming clouds, the fetid pond gave way to a meadow of knee-high gra.s.s and silvery thistle crowned with seedpods. A windbreak of walnut trees rimmed one end of the property, the other three guarded by a broken fence, all helter-skelter rails and tottering posts. Behind the house sat a buckle-roofed barn that once, he was told, held a c.o.c.kfighting pen. All deserted now, s.n.a.t.c.hed away from Efraim's family by the county for back taxes. The nearest neighbors lived a mile away beyond a range of low hills.

Efraim led the way to the front door, tore away the county notice and the sagging yellow ribbon, then shouldered the door open. The wood splintered with a gratifying crack. Kicking aside some debris, he gestured everyone in.

Dusty emptiness, footfalls echoing on scuffed wood. The sun-bleached walls bore the rectangular ghosts of pictures and mirrors now gone. Efraim led them to what had once been the dining room and they sat near a southern window, enjoying the intermittent warmth whenever the sun peeked through the clouds as they lunched on tortas tortas bought from a taco wagon along the way, chasing their mouthfuls with swigs of orange soda. bought from a taco wagon along the way, chasing their mouthfuls with swigs of orange soda.

The food kept Chato from yapping. G.o.do, his appet.i.te iffy, appreciated the meal for the silence alone. It also gave him a chance to regard Efraim more mindfully. The guy was sleek and dark with soulful eyes but there was a bitter streak running through him. To G.o.do that spoke of depth. This is the guy who'll pay attention, he thought, who'll remember what he learned when the time comes to use it, who won't freak or improvise crazily if everything goes to h.e.l.l.

After lunch, Efraim produced the three M16s. They were patchwork, different years' models hashed together, one with an M4 upper a.s.sembly, another an AR-15 stock, a lot of soldering to hold them together, serviceable all the same. Chato picked one up, that imbecile grin, strumming the thing. "This the ax you used over in Iraqistan, right?"

G.o.do flashed on a story he'd heard, about a jarhead in Al Anbar who was goofing off, playing air guitar with his piece, when he accidentally discharged a round and killed another marine the next tent over.

"Full auto," Chato vamped, "spray the f.u.c.k out of anything you see."

G.o.do reached over, lifted the weapon from his hands. "Not these," he said. "Three-shot burst is the best you'll get. And that's a waste of ammo because muzzle lift after the first shot makes the next two sail high. Now clam the f.u.c.k up and pay attention."

He showed them how to release the magazine, jack back the charging handle and eye the chamber for live rounds. Once it was clear none of the rifles was loaded, he demonstrated the proper way to hold the weapon, cheek flush against the comb of the stock, b.u.t.t plate tucked tight to the shoulder. He made each of them thumb off the safety twenty times, so it was something they'd a.s.sociate with habit, not fumbling need.

Chato complained about the repet.i.tion. G.o.do pinned him with a look. "One more f.u.c.king word, you go up in the hayloft and spy for cops. I'm not telling you again."

G.o.do collected one of the rolled-up targets he'd brought, purchased from a gun shop in Rio Mirada. They had man-shaped silhouettes on them, so everyone remembered they were here to learn how to shoot people, not big red dots. He taught them how to blade the V notch, rest the target's center atop the sighting post. He made them do this over and over, bringing the weapon up to the shoulder, aiming, sighting, letting the weapon drop again-sitting, kneeling, standing, p.r.o.ne. After half an hour of this, the complaints were universal, even Efraim looked bored.

"I'm trying to train your muscle memory," G.o.do said. "You think this is rough? They did this to me for a whole d.a.m.n week at Pendleton, called it 'snapping in.'"

"Ain't no 'snap' about it." Chato again.

G.o.do, turning: "I said one more word."

"This is bulls.h.i.t."

"Fine." G.o.do jerked the rifle out of his hands. "You can use the shotgun. Even a girl can hit a target with buckshot."

"Chucha de tu madre."

G.o.do stepped forward, pressed his face close to Chato's. "My mother's what?"

A weaselly shrug, glancing away. "You heard me."

It was galling to realize the guy was Roque's age. And while Roque was stepping up, this loudmouth lelo lelo, this fool, thought he already knew everything his ignorant a.s.s would never comprehend if you planted it in his brain with a trowel. "Get the f.u.c.k outta my sight."

Puchi, stepping in: "G.o.do, come on. He was just letting off steam, man."

"Let me hear him say it. C'mon, runt, apologize."

"Picoteado." Pock face. Pock face.

G.o.do actually found that funny. "Little ranker b.i.t.c.h."

"Vete a la chingada." Go to h.e.l.l. Go to h.e.l.l.

"Shut the f.u.c.k up!" It was Efraim now, chiming in. Despite the raised voice, he held his rifle down, like the thing was loaded. Right mind, right habits. "You're wasting my time."

"And who the f.u.c.k are you?" Chato, mocking. "You own this place? Not no more, puto." more, puto."

For some reason, that was the thing that pushed G.o.do over. He reached out, gripped the shoulder of Chato's hoodie, started dragging him toward the door. Chato dug in, sneakers squealing against the hardwood, arms windmilling, then G.o.do finally dropped the M16, let it clatter on the floor and landed one solid shoulder-driven fist into the center of the kid's face, feeling the nose turn to slop. Chato staggered, dropped to one knee. G.o.do, letting go of the sweatshirt finally, turned to Puchi. "Take care of him."

As they headed off to the kitchen sink, Chato yelped over his shoulder, "f.u.c.k you up, man." G.o.do picked up the rifle, let the fury subside. As he did, he saw the lone donkey wandering the street, braying in distress, while looters rampaged through the nearby buildings, stacking their booty onto trucks, pushcarts, wheelbarrows, all of Baghdad convulsed in a kind of ma.s.s kleptomania. And if the looters spotted the marines staring at them, they just waved, smiled. Laughed.

After a moment, Efraim said, "Tato?" "Tato?"

G.o.do shook himself out of it. "C'mon. We haven't even practiced trigger pulls yet."

Half an hour later they were outside, Chato with his busted nose and racc.o.o.n eyes posted in the hayloft by majority vote, the other three tacking up targets against the barn wall. Knowing the sound of the M16s blazing away would mess with his head in ways he couldn't predict, G.o.do told Puchi and Efraim to let him demonstrate first a proper firing stance for the four standard positions. As he did, he squeezed off a round in each position. A froth of sweat beaded up instantly, his neck, his face, a sudden impulse to hit the deck. He commanded himself to hold it together. Strange memories or just hallucinatory bulls.h.i.t slashed through his mind and he flinched more than once, jarring his aim. No one seemed to notice, though, or if they did they had the tact to stow it. Gradually the shock of it wore off. He began to feel not just okay but comfortable. With the comfort came a curious kind of acceptance.

He let the other two take a crack at it then, firing off three-shot cl.u.s.ters. He showed them how to compensate for muzzle lift, gauge for wind, zero their sights. When an hour's worth of shooting brought no squad cars or any other outside interest, they let Chato come down and try a few rounds, hopeless though he was. G.o.do let him wield the Mossberg and the kid took to the shotgun like pie. No point bothering to show him how to shoulder it, the various a.s.sault-and-carry positions, Rhodesian ready, Taylor a.s.sault, the kid wouldn't listen anyway. Shrugging off his sulk, he pranced about like he'd stepped off a movie screen, blasting at the barn wall, crying out "Boo-yah" while Puchi and Efraim tried out the pistols, getting a little Hollywood themselves, the spirit of the thing, and all G.o.do could think about were those hajis hajis in the rubble-strewn street, thieving their way to freedom, staring back at the helpless marines, shooting them the thumbs-up, here and there a peace sign, cackling. Mocking. in the rubble-strewn street, thieving their way to freedom, staring back at the helpless marines, shooting them the thumbs-up, here and there a peace sign, cackling. Mocking.

BACK AT THE TRAILER THAT NIGHT, HE FELT SPENT IN A WAY THAT echoed the exhaustion he'd known nowhere but combat. Why he should feel this way now, after a day doing nothing but coaching three hopeless mutts, escaped him.

He dropped his gun-filled duffel onto the floor and his body onto the bed, unable even to muster the will to kick off his shoes or kill the light, suddenly aware he'd not given his gimp leg so much as a moment's thought the past few hours as he tumbled down into a soft heavy sleep without alcohol, without pills, first time in weeks. Then an earthquake, a furious shaking, and he felt the hand first and knew it was real and stirred himself, leaping back from the touch, terrified, forgetting where he left his weapons.

"Hey, it's me. G.o.do, relax. It's me."

G.o.do placed the tone, rea.s.suring and yet a little put out, before he recognized the voice. His eyes felt like someone had dripped syrup into them. Gradually, Happy took form, craning over the bed. He was dressed in a black work jacket, T-shirt, jeans, looking like a second-story man. Tia Lucha stood behind him in the doorway, her face stripped of the moon mask. She looked sad, human, like herself, not the person she became out there, in Gringolandia Gringolandia.

"You were making this sound, man." Happy sat down on the edge of the bed, gestured to Tia Lucha that everything was okay. "Thought I needed to flip you over or something."

G.o.do swept a damp palm across his face. Why was he sweating?

Tia Lucha whispered, "Buenas noches, amorcitos," "Buenas noches, amorcitos," then withdrew into the hall, padding back to her room in her socks. then withdrew into the hall, padding back to her room in her socks.

Happy said, "Things okay?"

He smelled of tobacco and pulque pulque. G.o.do rolled over finally, nudged himself into a sitting position, tucked a pillow into the small of his back. "Why shouldn't they be?"

Happy checked around the room, saw the duffel, glanced toward the hallway, c.o.c.king an ear for the click of Tia Lucha's door. "The thing with Puchi and Chato, that's what I meant."

G.o.do wondered why Efraim didn't earn mention. He was the only one worth talking about. "Went okay, I guess."

"They didn't say anything was coming up soon?"

G.o.do studied Happy's face. It was gaunt, eyes sinking into the skull like a bedouin's. Did the guy ever eat? "They mentioned nothing coming up no time."

"That's important. Put off anything they want you to do."

G.o.do recalled the tedious dry fires and other lessons out at the farmhouse, the free-form shoot-out at the barn. "Too late."

"I'm not talking target practice. I'm talking a job."

A slash of pain rifled up G.o.do's spine, igniting a shimmer inside his skull. He wouldn't be falling back asleep anytime soon. d.a.m.n. He wanted a beer. "You're talking to the wrong creature. I'm not in the loop there."

"Money's in the pipeline. Things are moving." Happy worried his fingers into a knot. "Pops'll be back in a week, two tops. We're good. No rush. Don't get talked into anything."

"Those two fools? Couldn't talk me into lunch."

"Keep it that way."