Do They Know I'm Running? Part 15

He heard an unfamiliar voice coming from outside.-Excuse me, he said, getting up from the floor to head out toward the sound, leaving Lupe and the lizard to themselves.

The stranger looked nothing like Roque had imagined. He wore jeans, a rugby shirt, a denim jacket way too large, plus a Dodger's cap, blue again, his only nod to MS-13. His name, Roque gathered from the conversation, was Humilde.

Samir slung his bag at his hip, the shoulder strap crossing his chest. Tio Faustino prepared to head off with nothing but the clothes on his back. He wrapped his arms around Roque in a farewell embrace. "We'll see each other tomorrow. Don't worry." Slapping Roque's back, he waited for the others to drift out of earshot before adding in a whisper: "I cannot live with my conscience, knowing what that girl in there has facing her at the end of this trip." He backed away, taking Roque's face in his hands, a shocking gesture, overly tender, except the cast of his eye was calculating, not affectionate. "We have to think of something, you and I. The problem will be El Turco."

G.o.dO WATCHED THE CLOCK, WAITING UNTIL TiA LUCHA HAD been gone a full hour, meaning she'd be safely chained to the cash register, mid-shift, stuck till midnight, no likelihood she'd circle back home for anything. He pushed open her bedroom door, crossed to her dresser, sat on the edge of the bed. He wondered how lonely she was, not having slept with Tio Faustino for several weeks now. There was no way to know, of course. Not the kind of thing she'd discuss.

Chancing the mirror, he suffered the usual jolt, his moonscape face. Speaking of lonesome beds, he thought. Maybe, someday, I'll find myself a blind girl.

Leaning down, he tugged open the bottom dresser drawer. Tia Lucha's underwear trended toward the functional, boxy white panties, thick-foamed bras. He lifted the soft prim stacks one by one, moving them to the bedspread, then reached back in for the thing he wanted. Setting the worn manila envelope in his lap, he gingerly undid the clasp. Postcards and letters tumbled out, sent from El Salvador, people he'd never met writing about stuff he knew nothing about. It was the photos he wanted, the old ones, some brittle to the touch, some worn so smooth from handling they felt like cloth.

The ritual was always the same but no less intimate for that. He liked to begin with the oldest, one particular favorite-here it was-picturing Lucha with her little sister Graciela, his mother, in their school uniforms. They stood outside the family home, a modest cinder-block house with a clay tile roof in the village of San Pedro Nonualco. A man in a harlequin costume was holding a macaw for the girls to pet, the two sisters so unalike, Lucha with her pinched face, her sour wince, pigtails so tightly braided they looked like they hurt, Graciela with her candy-red cheeks and plummy eyes, her gap-toothed smile, her wooly black tangles.

In another picture they walked hand in hand in crisp white dresses down a meandering cobblestone street. Other girls and boys marched along with them, everyone dressed for First Communion, heading toward the colonial-era bell tower. Lucha dragged Graciela along, the older sister bulling ahead while the younger lagged behind, reaching out to touch the fierce red blossoms of a fire tree.

He moved on to the teenage years, when his mother dropped her baby fat, though not all of it, slimming down here, filling out there. Was he to feel ashamed or proud that his mother's image aroused him? Again, the contrast with her older sister practically reached out to slap you, Lucha with her twiggy shoulders and k.n.o.bby wrists, the gaunt face, eyes dark and deep and sullen. But Graciela's were shiny and full and wicked. Her smile was ripe, like an orange slice. She c.o.c.ked her hip just so, suggesting the hunger of a born tease. Where were they? G.o.do liked to imagine it the doorway to a secret lair, a place where the teenagers hid away to talk in the dark about movies, smoke, touch each other, but it was probably just the neighborhood tienda tienda, selling bread and sodas and aspirin.

There was a gap then, seven years or so, no images with the savagery of the war for backdrop, nothing from the feverish trek to America. When his mother appeared again, she was holding her newborn son, G.o.dofredo, swaddled in fleece, named for a maternal uncle. She looked weary, anemic, but strangely happy, or at least relieved. No pictures of the father.

Now came the snapshots he lived for. He was just a kid in them, a wolf-eyed sc.r.a.p clinging to his mother's hand or nuzzled in her arms, their cheeks pressed close, her hair cascading down both their faces. He sometimes believed he could smell the floral tang of her shampoo, the talc.u.m scent of her skin. Worry bags darkened both eyes, her smile wan, her skin pasty. She'd put on weight again. The lonesome grind of exile-one took comfort where one could, and in America food was easy, unlike love. Still, to G.o.do, she resembled perfection.

Last, the pictures of her pregnant with Roque, the killer innocent, hijo del amor hijo del amor. Again, no snaps of a dad. She offered the camera a brave smile, hand poised on the swollen belly like a last regret. I would have saved you if I could, G.o.do thought, and as those words lingered in his mind Happy walked in, finding him on the bed, Tia Lucha's underthings stacked beside him, a snapshot in his trembling hand.

To his credit, Happy declined to express surprise or disgust. G.o.do was too lost in grief to feel ashamed. They regarded each other guardedly, almost kindly.

Finally, Happy said, "I need to tell you something."

That seemed fair, G.o.do thought, wiping his face. One secret deserves another. He tucked the pictures back into the envelope, which he then returned to its spot at the bottom of the drawer. After carefully replacing the undergarments, he said, "Let's not talk in here," smoothing out the bedcover as he rose to leave.

Happy chose a spot at the kitchenette table, G.o.do plopped down on the couch. Outside, the wind chimes gonged erratically in a brisk wind.

Happy seemed tormented, running his hands through his hair. He'd let it grow back these past few weeks, to where it resembled short black fur. G.o.do waited him out, still in the backwash of memory, recalling the chicas chicas in their starched white dresses, the in their starched white dresses, the chicos chicos in their boxy suits, proceeding up the stone-paved street to their first holy sacrament, stepping smartly, little soldiers, all except the girl named Graciela, who got distracted, tempted by the fire tree. in their boxy suits, proceeding up the stone-paved street to their first holy sacrament, stepping smartly, little soldiers, all except the girl named Graciela, who got distracted, tempted by the fire tree.

He was told by one of his squaddies, who'd also been wounded and medevaced to Landstuhl after the checkpoint blast, that he'd cried out for his mother as he lay there crippled and b.l.o.o.d.y, face in shreds, Gunny Benedict vaporized. But G.o.do remembered none of that. All he remembered was the little bird chopper hovering overhead, rotor wash scattering dust everywhere, the door gunners aiming not just at the gathering Iraqis but the dazed, b.l.o.o.d.y marines-he remembered it, even as he feared it wasn't true.

But don't go there, he thought. Not now.

"There's something I should have told you," Happy said. "About this thing, bringing Pops back, dealing with Vasco. Somebody else is coming along too, this guy I met in Iraq. He was our terp."

G.o.do was having trouble understanding. Happy's eyes looked like they might melt from dread. "The guy's a haji?" haji?"

"He's Palestinian, lived in Baghdad. His family's in a refugee camp on the Syrian border." He reached out for the sugar bowl with both hands, as though rea.s.sured by its shape and weight. "You can't tell anyone about this."

"You sound scared."

"We're bringing an Arab across the border. What the f.u.c.k do you think that means?"

G.o.do blinked. An artery pulsed in his neck and he pictured it, the tall figure in woman's clothing, marching forward, so calm, a martyr ...

"What if he's not who I think he is? What if, say for instance, he worked for the Mukhabarat? What if everything he told me's a lie, who he is, what he wants?"

G.o.do caught something in Happy's voice. He was holding something back. "What does he want?"

"That's the f.u.c.king point, I don't know!" Happy gripped his head again. "He saved my life. At least, that's what I thought. Maybe I got played."

G.o.do glanced at the clock. It was a little before nine, Tia Lucha wouldn't be home for three more hours. The trailer felt empty without her. He wondered if he should tell her that, wondered if she would want to hear such a thing from him.

"I can't figure out what you're trying to tell me, Hap. Saved your life how?"

FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE HE'D BEEN DRIVING IN IRAQ, ALL THE TRUCKS were camouflaged.

"This is wrong, very wrong." Samir crumpled a can of Iraqi Pepsi as he followed Happy around the trailer, checking the tires and brake lines in the swirling grit. "They'll think this is a military convoy. That doubles, triples the chances of an ambush. You should say something."

"I speak up," Happy said, fingering tread to gauge its depth, "I'm f.u.c.ked three times over. Lose my pay, get sacked, find myself back in El Salvador. That's not an option, I told you."

The war increasingly resembled a ma.s.sive game of bait and switch. Happy had come to focus solely on not getting killed. Sure, somebody was getting fleeced and somebody else was getting rich but he just kept telling himself: It's not your problem. Besides, driving was the only relief from the boredom, which the heat made insufferable. Some of the contractors had built a driving range and a fishing pond to pa.s.s the time but those were off-limits to the Salvadorans and Filipinos who formed the truck pool. TCNs-third country nationals-were beasts of burden. Sometimes their trucks didn't even have windshields.

And yet they still dreamed of earning special status for a work visa to the U.S. It was a kind of group delusion. The company made no promises, nor did the emba.s.sy. Still, every man hoped, believing dedication and sacrifice could somehow manufacture luck.

The warehouse complex had sixty-four squat, sand-brown buildings packed inside the double-blast walls, with Alaska barriers strung with razor wire stacked along the whole perimeter for extra protection against suicide attacks and VBIEDs-car bombs. Uniformed Kurds of vague employ and armed with AK-47s glowered from their posts in the guard towers, which were mounted with belt-fed Dushka machine guns.

The drivers finished their prep, strapping down tarps on the flatbeds, tightening pineapple pins, slamming home bolts on trailer doors. They were bringing mattresses and baby incubators to the new hospital in Najaf, some desks for a rebuilt school, plus the usual drayage of rice and grain, bricks, bags of cement, drums of paint and acetone and asphalt sealant. There were sixteen guards in the convoy, four American vehicle commanders with 9mm Glocks and short-stocked Serbian Zastava M21s, the rest Colombians with Kalashnikovs. It was rumored the VCs made as much per month as a two-star general.

After final load checks against the manifest, the Kurds in the towers aimed their Dushkas and AKs into the nearby streets as the gates opened and the convoy roared out in a storm of noisy dust toward Route 10. Two security SUVs led, followed by Happy and four other trucks, another SUV, then the final five trucks and a trailing security detail. It was always the slow in-town streets that posed the greatest danger but soon they hit the highway and were sailing along, miles of shimmering asphalt, the heat a mere ninety-six unG.o.dly degrees.

Every now and then a child ambling along the roadbed lurched off his feet and waved as the convoy rumbled past. Gestures of friendliness didn't matter; the presence of every person and vehicle got radioed up and down the convoy. Happy kept his eyes alert, checking his sectors, while Samir, noting the prevalent variety of livestock cl.u.s.tered along the road, talked about the proper way to butcher a goat.

They hit Baghdad at noon and rolled through the southwestern suburbs, long crowded boulevards lined with palms, the radio traffic constant up and down the line as guards and drivers called out possible threats: a haji haji with a gas can wandering into the street; a kid on a bicycle yammering into a cell phone; a clump of trash on the roadside, possible IED. One of the Colombian guards asked permission in clipped English to shoot a crane roosting in its nest atop a telephone pole. "Request denied, n.u.m.b.n.u.t.s," one the American VCs drawled back. Happy's throat felt like he'd swallowed pumice, stomach coiled like a fist, until they hooked up with Route 8. The road congestion cleared. He could breathe again. with a gas can wandering into the street; a kid on a bicycle yammering into a cell phone; a clump of trash on the roadside, possible IED. One of the Colombian guards asked permission in clipped English to shoot a crane roosting in its nest atop a telephone pole. "Request denied, n.u.m.b.n.u.t.s," one the American VCs drawled back. Happy's throat felt like he'd swallowed pumice, stomach coiled like a fist, until they hooked up with Route 8. The road congestion cleared. He could breathe again.

The squat mud-colored houses grew shabbier and more isolated the farther south they drove. Cowbirds and vultures veered low over the canebrake r.i.m.m.i.n.g fetid marshes while sheep and bellowing cows scavenged through reeking landfills for food. Happy told himself he hated this place, hated its scarred blankness, its punishing dust and soul-crushing sun. At the same time, he had no difficulty imagining why it was that, centuries ago, the nomads who wandered this landscape devised a G.o.d of judgment.

The road split midway to Karbala, the convoy veered southeast onto Route 9. They crossed the Euphrates and were heading toward Karbala itself, charging through light traffic toward some nameless village, when Samir noticed the road suddenly empty. Traffic was no longer merely light, it was gone.

"Something's wrong," he said. "Up ahead, something's-"

Fifty yards ahead of the lead SUV, a dump truck roared out from behind one of the crude white houses, pulling onto the highway in a blackish cloud. It stopped, blocking the road. As the lead SUV hit its brakes, preparing to challenge the driver, the red coiling tail of an RPG slithered from a wall of canebrake thirty yards off the road. The first rocket was followed quickly by two others, the last trailing in from the opposite side of the highway. That one hit. The lead SUV exploded in a savage plume of white flame, the pressure wave from the blast rocking the windshield of Happy's rig, scattering it with gravel and shrapnel. Suddenly gunfire rained in from everywhere, not just from AKs but an RPK machine gun, the sh.e.l.ls slamming and pinging against the trailer and cab.

"Keep going, move!" Samir crouched down in his seat, slamming one hand against the dash, the other gesturing manically for Happy to pull forward.

"There's no place to go! The road-"

"Around! Around! You can't stay here."

Happy struggled to recall his ambush training: Continue forward if possible, low gear. Use your truck to push barriers aside, aiming for a corner of any vehicle in your path. He slipped the transmission into gear, prepared to ease off the clutch, but in front of him two bloodied survivors from the first SUV, one dragging the other, struggled toward him, screaming for help, while from the second SUV the Colombians and the American VC had already taken two casualties while trying to find targets, return fire. Help them, he thought. No, continue moving forward. He froze, unable to decide.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g tail of red flame veer out of nowhere toward his tractor grill. Samir shouted, "Down!" and leaped across the seat, shielding Happy with his body as the RPG hit, rocking the entire cab off its tires, nudging it ten degrees right, shattering the windshield. Happy felt a knifing sting in both eyes, unsure what it was-tiny splinters of gla.s.s or metal or just brittle grit and dust shaken loose from the blast. Regardless, he couldn't see. The engine stalled. Then he heard the crackle of flames.

"Out! Get out!"

Samir's voice seemed swathed in cotton. Happy's eyes still felt raw, he couldn't see. He was covered in jagged shards from the splintered windshield but he grabbed at the door handle, fumbled for the lever, lifted hard, felt the door give way. Tumbling out, he plummeted ten feet to the ground, almost breaking his wrist and shoulder in the fall. Samir dropped close beside him, nearly crushing his hand, then grabbed his sleeve. "Under the trailer! Stay down."

Happy would remember the gut-coiling nausea of his terror, the stench of cordite and burning gasoline and finally blood, the continuing gunfire sending ricochets everywhere, off the asphalt, the tires, the truck's underframe. He thought: Why are they shooting at me-what have I ever done to them? We're transporting baby incubators for f.u.c.k's sake, school desks, food. Some time afterward, he would learn that the Badr Brigade and the Sadr militia, the two main Shiite paramilitary forces, were vying for control of government patronage; the attack most likely resulted from the Sadr faction hoping to undermine the Badr organization's role in funding development. But that would mean little to him later and nothing to him now.

How much time pa.s.sed? Why could he still not see except through a shimmer of tears? The Colombians, Samir told him, were overwhelmed, too few gunmen, too many enemies, all invisible. Four of the other trucks, one by one, exploded in sheets of white flame, their crews dead or wounded or scattered. Then Happy smelled the trickle of diesel leaking from his fuel tank. It was a fuse. It was death waiting to happen.

He began scrambling out from under the trailer. Samir dragged him back.

"We have to get out!" Happy kicked at Samir's hands. "The gas tank!"

Tangled together, two halves of some comic beast, they scuttled into the crossfire and ran for a culvert overgrown with elephant gra.s.s running parallel to the road. What if gunmen are hiding here, Happy thought, feeling now an odd indifference to the idea of dying-at least I won't be scared. His body clawed ahead, unwilling to give up yet, prodded into the tall sharp gra.s.s by Samir. Several inches of thick brackish water, foul with excrement, sat in the bottom of the culvert, while a noxious cloud of stinging flies swarmed up from nowhere. The truck erupted then in a towering fireball, an ear-splitting blast, the shock wave knocking them onto their knees in the thick black water. Nothing cohered anymore, there were just the screams of the dying clouded by smoke, flickering silhouettes backlit by raging fire, helpless shouts of cruel insistent horror or triumph, the words in English and Spanish and, farther away, Arabic.

Samir grabbed the shoulder of Happy's filthy shirt, dragging him up onto his feet. "I see something. Come."

Happy let himself be pulled along, able to see no more than a few feet ahead, the rest of the world a riot of savage form. They ran crouching, far too long a ways it seemed, Happy with his head down, afraid to lift it for fear of one lucky shot, footfalls breaking the crusted, sunbaked sand, then the screech of rust-dry hinges, a wood gate slammed open, gravel underfoot. He smelled manure, the musk of wool, the char of a wood fire. Samir dragged him through a door, sat him down in a bed of straw. "We'll wait," he whispered, chest heaving. "Maybe somebody radioed ahead. Maybe a patrol from Karbala will come. LAVs, tanks."

Happy blinked and blinked, feeling the fine sharp dust in his eyes finally milking away. Not gla.s.s, he thought, thank G.o.d for that, but he was still unable to focus. His breath rumbled inside his chest, he coughed up dust. Then Samir grew suddenly stiff, his breath stilled. His clothing rustled, the stench of s.h.i.t unfurled off his clothes as he slowly rose to his feet. Happy looked up: a reed-thin silhouette in the doorway of the barn, flowing black dishdasha, a checkered keffiyeh wrapped around his head. A Kalashnikov in his hands.

Samir spoke quietly in Arabic to the man, an old farmer perhaps. Or one of the gunmen? In the time it took to say a rushed prayer, some bargain was made, exchanged in whispers. Happy would know only that the man withdrew. Samir sat back down. "I told him we wanted nothing, we would say nothing." Happy chose to believe, sitting in silence until the churning roar of Hueys flying low echoed from the south, relief from Karbala. They left the barn behind and ran crouching back the way they'd come, through boiling smoke and the cries of the dying, waving their arms in the rotor wash and its choking storm of dust.

G.o.dO LISTENED TO HIS COUSIN'S TALE, MARVELING AT HOW LANGUAGE told you nothing. It was the tremor in Happy's voice, the haunting emptiness in some words, the sloppy quick clutter of others, that gave him away. You can't make up that fear. And for the first time in a long while, he felt the two of them were truly kin.

"Seems to me," he said finally, "you need to know more about what went on with this farmer, this gunman, whatever he was. You could call down, have Roque hand your guy the phone, put it to him."

Happy glanced up from behind his hands. "If he lied to me back then, why not just keep lying?"

"Got a point."

"He's down there with Pops. With Roque."

G.o.do's eye strayed to the clock. A little past ten now, still two hours until Tia Lucha would be home. A migraine was ticking away behind his eyes. "Yeah."

"What should I do?"

Good question, G.o.do thought, watching as the walls inched inward a little, then inched back. He decided not to mention it to Happy. "He wants to get to the States. He's not gonna f.u.c.k up Tio Faustino or Roque, not while they're his ticket."

"What about once they're across? When he doesn't need them anymore?"

G.o.do kept an eye on the walls, checking for further insolence. "Seems to me you're gonna have to catch them just south of the border, right before they cross. Deal with it then."

ROQUE SLEPT NEAR THE DOOR, LUPE ACROSS THE ROOM, BOTH curled up on the concrete floor, nothing but newspapers and flattened cartons for comfort, the air close and hot. At some point in the interminable night, the lizard finally chose his path and vanished from the wall.

Rafa had locked them in, saying he'd be back around daybreak. They'd arouse too much suspicion, he said, trying to cross in the middle of the night. He parked the Corolla in the service bay, so no one could hot-wire it, and come morning Roque and Lupe would drive it through the checkpoint, then continue on several miles to a roadside chalete chalete run by a woman named Chita. There they'd wait for Humilde to appear after a nightlong trek with Samir and Tio Faustino in tow. Simple, Roque thought, lying awake, picturing ways it could all go wrong. run by a woman named Chita. There they'd wait for Humilde to appear after a nightlong trek with Samir and Tio Faustino in tow. Simple, Roque thought, lying awake, picturing ways it could all go wrong.

He kept coming back to Tio and Lupe. Was she really the tragic cause his uncle made her out to be? All that talk about sucking Arab c.o.c.k, she said it so breezily-and hadn't Lonely called her a putilla putilla, a wannabe wh.o.r.e? She wasn't just a singer with stars in her eyes, gulled by her own ambition. She had other talents, talents Lonely got bored with, though not so bored he wasn't willing to sell them to somebody else.

Regardless, there was something broken inside her, something she'd tried to mend with fury. It made her a wild card. Maybe she'll try to run, he thought, maybe she'll want some sort of payback, a way to get even or maybe she'll just turn the rage on herself, roll into a ball, settle in for her fate. There was no way to tell.

A kind of homesickness came over him, not for Rio Mirada or Tia Lucha but Mariko, and yet the dishonesty in that seemed clear soon enough. You just want to get laid, he thought, and the feeling gave way to something else, a kind of emptiness, as though his heart had become a grave and in the grave was buried what he'd once considered love. What is it we want, he thought, that we try to find in a woman? Especially a woman who isn't fooled, who won't buy into the usual bag of tricks. Secretly we want to be seen for who we are, the rest is just show. We want love, not praise. And yet that seemed a recipe for weakness, a shortcut to failure.

And, he reminded himself, failure's not an option. Everyone is so proud of you.

He drifted off into fitful sleep and the dreams that came to him seemed slight, disjointed-except one, which echoed back to another dream, the one he'd had at Mariko's house all those weeks ago. Again there was twilight, a gun blast, the snarling dog. And yet the sense he was carrying something priceless, something he'd have to fight to keep, had changed. He saw his mother standing a little ways ahead. Her hair, usually long and densely matted in her pictures, was cut short like a nun's. She looked sickly and frail. The face, however, was unmistakable. He tried to call out but the sound caught in his throat and that was when his mother-or whoever, whatever she was-pointed to a dusty leather bag at his feet. A ridiculously large and agile tarantula pushed its way out from under the unbuckled flap, scuttering toward him.

He shot up blinking, felt the scaly presence on his neck, brushed the lizard off.

A throng of golondrinas of golondrinas chirruped in the trees outside. Not to be outdone, a rooster crowed. Roque rubbed his neck as he rose from his bed of cardboard to peer out through the sooty cob-webbed window, hoping for some trace of daylight. chirruped in the trees outside. Not to be outdone, a rooster crowed. Roque rubbed his neck as he rose from his bed of cardboard to peer out through the sooty cob-webbed window, hoping for some trace of daylight.

RAFA APPEARED WITHIN THE HOUR AND UNLOCKED THE DOORS. THE dream had left a residue, a sense of defeat, and Roque feared what he might do if trapped inside any longer. Lupe didn't stir at first and only rose once Roque backed the Corolla out of the service bay, her hair mussed, her eyes piggish with sleep as she clutched the plastic bag of new clothes.

Rafa told them it would be best to cross the border early, before the guards working the day shift settled into their routine, but Roque got the feeling he just wanted them gone. Lupe dropped into the pa.s.senger seat, the better for appearances, he supposed, though he imagined she'd want to climb in back once the border was cleared, fall asleep again. He had a pretty good idea she'd be sleeping a lot in the coming days.

The clouds were a steely blue-gray and fat with rain, the air fresh but muggy. Twice in twenty minutes a quick thrumming shower fell, whipped by crosswinds, the downpour stopping as suddenly as it began. If that's the worst of the weather, he thought, Tio and Samir shouldn't have too bad a slog. Still, he wondered what shape and frame of mind they'd be in after trekking through pathless rough all night, rain or no rain.

The landscape was rolling windswept bluffs covered with tall brown gra.s.s, not unlike the foothills of Northern California, except there were more trees and he recognized none of them. He had no idea what bugs or other critters lurked out there, nor did he know if bandits were a problem. It was Humilde's job to steer clear of such things, for which he'd been paid through Lonely, part of Happy's end, the up-front fee. Roque had their pocket money with him, locked inside the glove box, a little less than three hundred dollars cash, enough for food and gas, they hoped. If Tio Faustino got jacked, he'd get jacked for nothing, not that that would change the experience much.

Taking a turn too fast, Roque braked hard to miss a stalled truck sitting square in the road. The back end got away from him on the slick pavement, the car fishtailed as he overcorrected and Lupe sucked in a scared breath. Finally he got the car square, pa.s.sing the breakdown, accelerating away, a knee-jerk fear of robbery. He watched as the truck grew small in his rearview. Pay attention, he told himself, heart clapping inside his chest.

A little farther on the terrain flattened out, broad fields extending for miles to either side of the highway. Scrawny cows grazed in the cane stubble amid bolts of sunlight and roaming pockets of cloud shadow. Shortly he spotted the Puente Jorge de Alvarado ahead, the bridge that spanned the Rio Paz.

Trucks pulled over onto the side, engines idling, waiting for a signal to proceed across the bridge to inspection, while young women in ap.r.o.ns went driver to driver, selling refrescos refrescos and fruit juice and and fruit juice and pan dulce pan dulce. The atmosphere was genial. Roque's heart raced.

Once past the line of trucks and across the bridge he entered the rustic customs plaza and headed for the inbound lane marked "Traficos Livianos," intended for cars. Lupe undid her hair, shook it out, sliding a little closer in her seat. They'd discussed none of this. She leaned over the center console, draped an arm around him and rested her head against his shoulder, the better to hide her bruises. It was all show-they were a loving pair, they'd tangled recently, he'd knocked her around, just to remind her who spoke and who listened. A man other men would understand.

The immigration agent waved the car forward. He was short, dark, muscled like a wrestler. Roque had the registration out-it was in his name, arranged by Lonely-and his pa.s.sport. Lupe listlessly fished around in her pocket for her Doc.u.mento Unico de Identidad, handed it to Roque, then once again buried her face sleepily into his arm.

Bowing at the window, the agent reviewed the doc.u.ments cursorily, then gazed in at the couple. His eyes lingered on Lupe, a stare so intense Roque wondered if she'd stuck out her tongue. Seconds pa.s.sed. Finally she glanced up, offered a drowsy smile.

Roque studied the burly agent's face. It was a knot of dark-skinned folds and creases, studded by onyx eyes, almost princely in its homeliness. He was taking too much time. I should ask if anything's wrong, Roque thought, but he couldn't get his mouth to form the words. Keep smiling, he told himself, ridiculous advice, sure to fail. Maybe he wants a bribe. No, disaster. Sit tight. It's a trick, the silence. A ruse. Wait.

Lupe squeezed his arm. "Amorcito," "Amorcito," she murmured sleepily. she murmured sleepily.

Still, the guard waited. Then with a brisk jolt he returned the doc.u.ments, stepped back, waved the next car forward.

Roque put the car in gear and pulled away.-Stay put for just a minute more, till he can't see us.

Lupe said nothing, still clinging to him gently and he fought back the stir of a mindless erection. They pa.s.sed the line of merchant stalls along the roadway, the vendors selling Mayan handicrafts, watermelons, lightbulbs, socks. He checked the mirror, saw the agent growing smaller, occupied now with the next car in the queue.

"Okay," he said at last.

Yawning, she lifted her head, unwrapped her arm from around his shoulder and settled back in her own seat, hands folded between her thighs, listing against the door.-Next time, she said, don't just sit there like a fool. Check your hair in the mirror, jot down your mileage, pick your teeth, chew your nails-anything. He was waiting for you to say something stupid don't just sit there like a fool. Check your hair in the mirror, jot down your mileage, pick your teeth, chew your nails-anything. He was waiting for you to say something stupid.