Do They Know I'm Running? Part 17

"First thing? Check does the door open in or out. That dictates how you sweep the room. This one opens in. Stand on the side closest to the k.n.o.b-why?"

Puchi and Chato just stared, breathing through their mouths. Efraim said softly, "Fatal funnel." G.o.do loved the guy.

"Specially if the room's dark and the hallway's lit? Do not and I mean do not not lean across the doorway to reach the k.n.o.b. Okay. Tuck your weapon in tight against the body. Soft-check the k.n.o.b." He lowered his voice to a hush. "Gentle. Don't give yourself away. If it's not locked, turn, push-don't slam it open, that'll just make it snap back." lean across the doorway to reach the k.n.o.b. Okay. Tuck your weapon in tight against the body. Soft-check the k.n.o.b." He lowered his voice to a hush. "Gentle. Don't give yourself away. If it's not locked, turn, push-don't slam it open, that'll just make it snap back."

He let the door glide back in a slow easy arc.

Chato screwed up his face. "Why not just kick kick it in? Show the motherf.u.c.kers who rules." it in? Show the motherf.u.c.kers who rules."

G.o.do wanted to b.u.t.t-stroke him with the AK. He turned to Efraim. "You tell him why."

"Fatal funnel." It came out sounding almost philosophical.

"And if the door's not locked," G.o.do added, "why risk getting your a.s.s shot?"

"f.u.c.k you both," Chato said. "I seen it: Check out YouTube you don't believe me. Motherf.u.c.kers are kicking in kicking in the f.u.c.king the f.u.c.king doors." doors."

G.o.do decided to wrap the rest up quick: Step back from the doorway to prevent getting your weapon s.n.a.t.c.hed, give yourself room to fight; shoulder your piece, crab-walk in a half circle across the fatal funnel, sweeping the room in twenty-to thirty-degree angles. "Do not not cross your legs as you move. You trip, you're dead. Shuffle, fast-hey knucklehead, Chato, heads-up, this is slice the f.u.c.king pie-the longer you're exposed in that doorway, the more likely you end up dead. Be aggressive. You see something? Shoot. Check foreground, background, ceiling, floor-fast, fast, you linger, you're dead-then move to the next slice." cross your legs as you move. You trip, you're dead. Shuffle, fast-hey knucklehead, Chato, heads-up, this is slice the f.u.c.king pie-the longer you're exposed in that doorway, the more likely you end up dead. Be aggressive. You see something? Shoot. Check foreground, background, ceiling, floor-fast, fast, you linger, you're dead-then move to the next slice."

He had their full attention now. Repet.i.tion of the word "dead" tended to do that.

"Okay, you've still got the two areas at extreme angles on either side of the door, deep back near the far corners, right? Maybe n.o.body's there. Maybe there's one guy, you don't know which side. Maybe there's two, one on each side. You commit commit-choose one side, step into the doorway, strong-side foot forward, aim toward the s.p.a.ce, but check back over your shoulder, boom boom, just a glance, tenth of a second tops. Be decisive, keep moving, that's your advantage. You see something, pivot, drop to a knee, fire up at the guy, chest shots, head shots. If there's two, hit the guy behind you first, then pivot back for the one in front. If you're still alive, clear the rest of the room."

He guided them through stairwells next, same fundamentals, different geometry, emphasizing decisiveness, mobility, aggression. Efraim, as always, proved the model student, careful with his footwork, mindful, precise. Next to him, even Puchi looked sorry. At times the vato vato showed real promise, the makings of a stone killer, but at some point his concentration always broke, he played down to his audience, Chato. It became just another round of what-the-f.u.c.k to them, sharp one minute, sloppy the next, no clue how easy it was to die. Christ, you didn't even need to be stupid. He'd seen it, men he knew, buddies, crashing through a doorway, responding to the shadow in the corner a snap too late. And yet only a sniveler could be so weak, he thought, as to convince himself there's a smart way to die. showed real promise, the makings of a stone killer, but at some point his concentration always broke, he played down to his audience, Chato. It became just another round of what-the-f.u.c.k to them, sharp one minute, sloppy the next, no clue how easy it was to die. Christ, you didn't even need to be stupid. He'd seen it, men he knew, buddies, crashing through a doorway, responding to the shadow in the corner a snap too late. And yet only a sniveler could be so weak, he thought, as to convince himself there's a smart way to die.

ROQUE WATCHED THE THREE FIGURES EMERGE FROM THE SHADOWS of the southerly ravine. Humilde led, with Tio Faustino trudging behind with a bit of a limp. He looked thinner from a distance too, something Roque dismissed as a trick of the eye. Samir brought up the rear with an ungainly lope, clutching the soft leather bag at his hip. No zopilotes zopilotes lazed overhead, waiting for someone to falter. A good sign, Roque supposed. lazed overhead, waiting for someone to falter. A good sign, Roque supposed.

Lupe was curled up in the backseat, sleeping, pretending to sleep. He remembered what she'd said, How dare you? How dare you? Get used too often, he supposed, kindness begins to look like nothing more than step one in getting screwed. He wanted to feel for her. He wanted to feel clean. He wasn't sure either was possible. Or wise. Get used too often, he supposed, kindness begins to look like nothing more than step one in getting screwed. He wanted to feel for her. He wanted to feel clean. He wasn't sure either was possible. Or wise.

He glanced back at the three men laboring up the ravine. A cooling wind caught their backs, though he suspected the day would heat up soon. By early evening they'd be in Tecun Uman, the opposite end of the country, a.s.suming the roads were clear, no problems at the checkpoints. They were to go to the Posada Rico and ask for a man named Beto. He would take care of the border crossing into Mexico and through Chiapas.

As the three of them came within earshot, Roque considered calling out but merely waved, a gesture Tio Faustino, slogging waist-deep through swaying gra.s.s, listlessly returned, breaking into a smile. The smile of a man with a nice-guy death wish, Roque thought. Was that really such an unforgivable thing?

Humilde gestured for water as the three men staggered up and Chita, the owner of the chalete chalete, plucked three bottles from a cooler and handed one to each. They drank in parched gulps, scratching at the tick bites on their legs. Tio Faustino had a particularly nasty spider bite on his ankle as well. Probing the tender flesh with his thumb, he glanced up at Roque.-Maybe Lupe would spare some of her magic cream?

Roque went off to ask. Rapping lightly on the gla.s.s where Lupe's head rested, he waited for her to stir, sit up, crank down the window. A funky wave of heat greeted his face.

-My uncle was wondering if you had any of the heparin cream left.

She mumbled something, rubbed her good eye, rummaged around in the plastic bag that held her clothes and medicine-everything she owned now. Finding the half-depleted tube, she handed it to Roque.-What happened?

He turned away, not answering. What do you care, he thought, biting his tongue.

Tio Faustino was holding a small jagged chunk of ice dredged from Chita's cooler against the spider bite as Roque returned. Dabbing the welt dry, he applied a smidge of cream, gingerly rubbed it in. Without glancing up, he asked,-So how is she doing?

Samir snorted.-She's not your problem. Stop worrying about her.

-She's okay. Roque didn't know how much he should say in front of Humilde, didn't know how much had already been said.-She sleeps a lot.

The coyote shook his wrist, rattling his watch around so he could check the time.-You should get going. You'll want to reach Tecun Uman before dark. It's a bad place to get lost.

TiO FAUSTINO, WHO NEVER FELT MORE AT HOME THAN BEHIND THE wheel, gave in to his exhaustion and the stiff swollen ankle, telling Roque he should drive. There was a far more difficult crossing ahead that night and he wouldn't be alone in needing rest.

Lupe kept her perch in front, Samir and Tio piled in back. As the car pulled away from the chalete chalete there were no farewell waves, no shouts of there were no farewell waves, no shouts of "bueno suerte." "bueno suerte." Roque wondered what had happened overnight to create such a chill, though on reflection he could understand not wanting to get too close to people you knew you'd never see again except for bad luck. Roque wondered what had happened overnight to create such a chill, though on reflection he could understand not wanting to get too close to people you knew you'd never see again except for bad luck.

The two-lane road curved gently through rock-etched hills, small cane fields, patches of dense green forest. Roque marveled at how empty the countryside was, only the occasional champa champa of sc.r.a.p and tin, so unlike El Salvador with its crowding, its overworked land, as though a switch got thrown at the border-one moment you're in India, the next you're on the moon. of sc.r.a.p and tin, so unlike El Salvador with its crowding, its overworked land, as though a switch got thrown at the border-one moment you're in India, the next you're on the moon.

In the backseat, directly behind Lupe, Tio Faustino drifted in and out of a rumbling, fidgety, leg-scratching sleep. Occasionally, giving it up, he would gaze out his window and hum softly, the inevitable "Sin Ti." From guilt, perhaps, or self-consciousness, Lupe glanced over her shoulder at him and, this was the strange part, began to hum along. Tio fought back a smile, eyes closed, humming in inadvertent harmony now, given his lamentable pitch. Finally, as though from some unspoken signal, they both began to sing, their voices barely rising above a whisper: Sin ti Es inutil vivirWithout you It is useless to live Using English, to shut Lupe out, Samir said, "Old man? You sing like a dying goat."

Tio Faustino chuckled, then winked at Lupe.-No, my friend, I know what a dying goat sounds like. A whole truckload of them, actually. I'll tell you about it sometime.

The car topped a steep grade, then rushed down a blind curve into a deeply gorged valley, thick with shadow. Roque didn't spot the roadblock until too late-not soldiers, not cops. An unmarked pickup sat lengthwise in the road, right at a pinch point, the rock faces looming close to either side. There was no way to steer around. Four pistoleros pistoleros, two in the truck bed, the other two on the ground, aimed their guns at the Corolla, bandannas masking their faces.

"Stop! Back up!" Samir pounded the seat behind Roque's head. "Now! Fast!"

Roque braked, reached for the gearshift, but then one of the pistoleros pistoleros, aiming skyward, fired off a shot and the air in the tight ravine cracked open with the sound. Roque froze, remembering the uneasy lack of farewells or good wishes at the chalete chalete. Humilde had betrayed them, set them up. No, he thought. That can't be true. Please don't let that be true.

Samir, gripping the seat back, pulled himself forward, hissing in Roque's ear: "I know you are afraid, but you have to do it. Now-reverse!"

The two masked men approached the car, twenty yards away, closing. Above them to either side, jags of weathered stone thrust upward, flecked with scrub. A black zanate zanate, rousted by the gunshot from its perch on one of the overhangs, winged down and away into the swallowing darkness. Roque at last felt something turn, his hand blindly sought the gear k.n.o.b, fumbled, found it-he jammed the transmission into reverse, floored the gas pedal and turned to look out through the back window as another shot rang out.

He'd gone no more than thirty yards when he realized there was a pickup behind them as well, breaking the up-road turn, barreling downhill. There were armed men standing in its truck bed too, except they had rifles, not pistols. They began firing, automatic bursts louder than the uphill pistol shots, or was that just illusion? Could terror f.u.c.k up your hearing? He felt strangely calm now, his thoughts still, his body numb, a counterweight to the visceral dread as he just kept plowing the car uphill, steering toward the inner bend of the curve, intent on dodging the downhill truck if possible, tagging it to knock the gunmen down if not. There's your plan, he told himself, feeling a kind of pride. Everyone else in the car had ducked, he heard shouting but couldn't make out words. Maybe there were none. Regardless, the only word he could fathom at that moment was "escape." It floated like a goldfish in the clear bright bowl of his mind. To live is to escape, he thought as Lupe shouted, "Buzo!" "Buzo!" Look out. Look out.

The downhill pickup veered to miss the up-rushing car and it was only then he realized the men with the rifles had not been firing at the Corolla at all but at the pistoleros pistoleros below. Braking, he turned to look front as the riflemen routed their adversaries, two of the masked men down on the ground, clutching wounds, the other two having fled. Roque could not see beyond the pickup blocking the road; for all he knew the two who'd run were down as well. below. Braking, he turned to look front as the riflemen routed their adversaries, two of the masked men down on the ground, clutching wounds, the other two having fled. Roque could not see beyond the pickup blocking the road; for all he knew the two who'd run were down as well.

Down, he thought. Don't cheapen it. What you mean is dead.

The two riflemen dropped from their truck onto the asphalt, each one choosing a different wounded pistolero pistolero, and fired a three-shot burst point-blank. In a bizarre reversal of his previous deafness, Roque heard not only the shattering crack of the weapons but the church-bell ping of the ejected bra.s.s casings against the pavement. Then just as suddenly and perversely his hearing turned inward again, the pulse in his ears a hammering throb. He swallowed, the sound like a melon stuffed down a tube. The dying men had not begged for their lives. The killers had not waited for them to do so. Everyone understood everyone else. We're all in on the secret, Roque thought, the secret called death. The two riflemen turned uphill and began walking toward the Corolla.

PEOPLE'S FRIED CHICKEN WAS THE LATEST BODY s.n.a.t.c.hER TO inhabit the corpse of a seventies-era burger stand in an area of Richmond called the Iron Triangle, saddest neighborhood in the area's most homicidal city. The canted beams out front bristled with graffiti, a half-dozen bullet holes pocked the window gla.s.s. The parking lot's asphalt buckled so badly G.o.do imagined some ancient tribal curse gathering force from below, trying to break through. Where better to hawk a black market AK, he thought.

Through the smeary gla.s.s he noticed that two of the black girls working the counter wore head scarves and abayas: abayas: Muslims. It was a growing subculture here, a way to detox the ghetto. He felt blindsided and not a little p.i.s.sed off as he grabbed the door, following the others inside, then the smell of the place hit him. What was it Chato said? Muslims. It was a growing subculture here, a way to detox the ghetto. He felt blindsided and not a little p.i.s.sed off as he grabbed the door, following the others inside, then the smell of the place hit him. What was it Chato said? They do something weird with the chicken They do something weird with the chicken. Grilled meat, lemon, tamarind paste, mint, like some of the houses he'd searched in Iraq. A jolt of terror, feeling for the trip wire, waiting for the explosion, even as he knew it wouldn't come. He checked to see no one had noticed. Wiping his palms on his shirt, he edged another step inside, let the door close behind him.

While Chato and Puchi pimp-strolled across the room to claim the corner table, Efraim went to the counter to order drinks. G.o.do lingered, neither here nor there, glancing up at the overhead menu and noticing the place sold only Pepsi, just like over there, c.o.ke being linked to Zionists and the devil.

Lowering his eyes, he studied the chunky black girl in the scarf taking Efraim's order. She had Cherokee cheeks in an otherwise perfectly round face, a laugh-line squint and a blazing smile so selfless G.o.do could imagine joy coming to her easily. Enviable, that. Inadvertently, he searched her face for tattoos, like the Shia women wore, and shortly not just his palms but his neck and brow were cloying with sweat.

Efraim carried the drinks on a tray to the corner table and G.o.do followed like a pup, sat down quickly, grabbed his Pepsi. It was oversweet but the cold was what he wanted. He finished the thing in two fierce swallows.

"The f.u.c.k, homes." Puchi, chugging his ice with a straw. "Sucked that down like a junkie."

G.o.do wiped his lips, already craving another. Out in the parking lot, two bikers wearing Nomad patches straddled hogs, gazing down into the open trunk of a BMW owned by a catlike Asian dripping gold, hair slicked back, shades despite the darkness. The conversation was quick, close, almost intimate. Maybe thirty feet away, a trio of black hood rats-more gold, worn over a dashiki, a turtleneck, a Raiders jersey-lurked behind a Mercedes SEL, apprising another set of merchandise, staring into the open trunk, listening carefully to the owner's patter, in this case a bottle blonde in candy-red slacks and slave-maker pumps: body of a p.o.r.n star, face like a dropped pie.

f.u.c.king place is an open-air gun mart, G.o.do thought, wondering if any of the players out there were ATF. "How long till your guy shows up?"

Puchi leaned down to his straw like he was snorting a rail. "Ask me when he gets here."

G.o.do belched into his fist, looking off. The moon-faced girl was counting change into the palm of a washed-out, splay-footed woman whose body cascaded fat. Her stretch pants matched her hair curlers. Beside her, a bone-thin towheaded girl sucked on her fingers while b.u.mping mindlessly against her mother's slab of a thigh. It looked like some sort of gag, the two of them together, especially with the moon-faced girl in the head scarf standing just beyond them, that breathtaking smile, the cash register a kind of shield, protect her from the white trash. She reminded G.o.do of someone, the counter girl, the memory just out of reach at first. Finally, it crystallized: Mobley, Jam Slammer Mo, his squaddie with the hip-hop battle anthems, Outkast's "Call the Law" the hands-down favorite, bellowing the words into the teeth of the shamal sandstorms from his perch at the Humvee's turret: Just grab my gun, and let's go out Grab my gun, and let's go out G.o.do spotted the two grenades rolling toward them across the concrete floor and had time to shout out, everybody charging back at flash speed, diving for cover, but Mobley was dragging the SAW, those two-hundred-round ammo drums. The explosions tag-teamed, a sheering white one-two thunderclap followed by AK fire from somewhere near the back of the house, muzzle flashes crackling through the smoke and dust. G.o.do and Chavous answered with suppression fire, Gunny Benedict crawled forward toward Mobley's screams. The blast had ripped his leg in two, just above the knee, the arteries torn like thread. He bled out so fast he was convulsing from shock by the time Gunny reached him. Calling for a corpsman was pointless. Mobley was dead before they could drag him into the courtyard, the severed half leg still inside the house.

Call the law, and hold the applause "Hey dude, she asked you a question."

It was Puchi. G.o.do glanced up, saw everyone grinning, not kindly. At the table's edge, the moon-faced girl stood there waiting.

"I just axed if you'd like a refill on your soda," she said.

Her voice was soft and more feminine than her size suggested. Gazing up into her face, framed by its veil, he searched for what it was that reminded him of Mobley, feeling vaguely ashamed, as though at some level his mind still believed they really did all look alike.

"Yes," G.o.do said, a whisper. "Please. A refill would be nice."

"It's a dollar," she said.

He dug into his pocket for the bill, thinking: ax. Who was it in the squad that used to tease Mobley about that? I axed you nicely. Don't make me ax you again.

He handed her the money and watched her bobbing hips as she ambled away. Girl can work it till you jerk it, he thought, veil or no veil. He wondered if she felt disgusted by his face.

The night Mobley died, army psyops crews roamed the city in their Humvees, cranking out the deafening sounds of men and women screaming, cats fighting, Guns N' Roses: "Welcome to the Jungle." The favorite, though, was a gut-knotting laugh, the creature from Predator Predator, played with amped-up ba.s.s at a hundred decibels, echoing off the pavement and the concrete walls of the pillbox houses and apartment buildings, like the voice of some cut-rate G.o.d.

"Hey hey hey." Puchi nodded toward the parking lot, sucking loud on his straw, the dregs of his Pepsi. A gray windowless van had just pulled in. "Here comes business."

Watching as the driver got out and crossed the parking lot, G.o.do took notice of how underwhelming the man was. Among the contractors he'd met in Iraq, a fair number had come from special forces backgrounds; they'd kept up with the PT, rock-hard bodies, switchblade minds. c.o.c.ky, sure, but sometimes you just had to grant that. There were plenty of others, though, who'd simply grabbed the back of the gravy train and refused to let go, slack habits, washed-out eyes, the mouthy swagger of small men: users, gasbags, phonies. They didn't just lack fire discipline; they used their weapons like bug spray. Everything about them stank of self-delusion and the fear of weakness.

The man pulled a chair from another table and sat near Puchi, neither close enough to be part of the circle nor far enough away to seem too much a p.r.i.c.k. He wore work boots and cargo pants, with a khaki T-shirt underneath a frayed cammie combat blouse, the name tape removed. That alone was enough to make G.o.do hate him. His eyes were smallish and filmy green while his skin had a raw red quality just short of a rash. He had a wisp of a mustache blurring his lip and a fistful of sag hiding his belt. His left eye drooped, suggesting some sort of nerve damage, and his left hand trembled till he jammed it in his pocket, which he did the instant he caught G.o.do's stare.

Puchi did introductions. The man went by Chuck. He tugged a cigarette from a pack lodged in his shirt pocket and lit up right there, using a yellow Bic. No one behind the counter so much as frowned, let alone told him to put it out; they seemed to be ignoring him, actually. Christ, G.o.do thought, maybe he owns the place.

"We had a chance to float the boat a little," Puchi said, slipping into some prearranged code. "I'd say everybody was happy."

"Not quite," G.o.do said, squaring himself in his seat. He'd been wondering how the guy got the weapons in. He'd heard tales of GIs sawing off the bottoms of oxygen tanks, slipping the AKs in, welding the bottoms back on, then loading them into shipping crates for transport back to their unit's home base, all but impossible to track to a specific soldier. Maybe Chuck here had a guy in uniform working for him, easier that way, no customs. G.o.do felt certain that, if he asked, he'd only get a lie for his trouble.

Improvising, just to see where it went, he said, "You get the guns in Iraq, that's one thing. If that's where you get the ammo too, there's a problem. Saddam's factories got sloppy packing cartridges, it's why they had so many misfires. So the weapons, fine.

Ammunition? Unless it's Czech or Cuban, Yugoslav, anything but Iraqi, we're not in the market."

The guy named Chuck tapped ash onto the floor. His gaze was watery and a little off-center with the sagging left eye. He turned to Puchi. "What's this guy talking about? You can buy a 7.62 round anywhere."

"Not the quant.i.ty we want," G.o.do said. "Not without red flags everywhere."

Chuck turned to him, squinting against his cigarette smoke. "I don't know you," he said, half matter-of-fact, half insulting.

G.o.do mocked up a smile. "Sure you do. All the guys at Harmon Stern knew me."

Chuck blinked, turning his cigarette in his fingers. His left hand still sat tucked away, safe in his pocket. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You guys came through my checkpoint four times a day."

Chuck shot Puchi a glance. "What's he going on about now?"

Puchi shrugged. "He worked over there. Like you."

"So what?"

"Harmon Stern a.s.sociates." G.o.do rocked back in his chair a little. "Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about."

Chuck took a short tense drag on his smoke. "I didn't work with that outfit."

No doubt the guy's lying, G.o.do thought. Too vague, too interior. "You sure about that?"

Chuck stood up, said to Puchi, "This is f.u.c.ked up."

"Don't let him bug you, man." Puchi waved toward G.o.do like that might make him go away. "He came back with kind of an att.i.tude. Not like he's the only one, am I right?"

"I'm not f.u.c.king around. I don't care where he's been. Or what happened." Chuck's eyes flicked over to G.o.do's face, jittered back. "He gets his s.h.i.t in check or this is over."

G.o.do basked in the power, the situation his to dictate. What did he care if Puchi and Chato scored another AK or two? Chuck looked like he might bolt for the door, Puchi seething in silence, Efraim just sitting there, arms crossed tight. Chato, in a world of his own, fiddled with his straw, making soft trumpet sounds with his lips.

"You think I'm just messing with you?" G.o.do laced his fingers behind his head. "We had trouble with Harmon Stern, not just once or twice. All the time. They were like a cancer in Al Anbar when I was there. This one time in particular, they shot two unarmed hajis hajis for sport, the two guys just working on their pickup along the road to Ramadi. We dealt with the blowback for days. Had a f.u.c.king riot on our hands." for sport, the two guys just working on their pickup along the road to Ramadi. We dealt with the blowback for days. Had a f.u.c.king riot on our hands."

"That's got nothing to do with me," Chuck said, a little stronger now.

"Convince me."

"Convince you?" you?"

"Yeah. And don't be so touchy."

Chuck dropped his b.u.t.t on the floor, crushed it with his boot. "You think I'm touchy?" He leaned forward, fists on the tabletop. The inwardness had fled. "I get sick of Molly Mopes s.h.i.tting on what we did. You were there? Then you know as well as I do there was d.a.m.n near no way to tell a good haji haji from a muj. You could talk to a guy one day, he's friendly as a foot ma.s.sage, that night you catch him carrying gasoline out to the highway to soften the asphalt, bury an IED. You want to fault somebody for shooting two guys by the side of the road? Listen up-unless you were there at that instant, unless you knew what the intel was, unless you know what those two from a muj. You could talk to a guy one day, he's friendly as a foot ma.s.sage, that night you catch him carrying gasoline out to the highway to soften the asphalt, bury an IED. You want to fault somebody for shooting two guys by the side of the road? Listen up-unless you were there at that instant, unless you knew what the intel was, unless you know what those two hajis hajis did, how suddenly they moved, how they acted right before the trigger got pulled, unless and until you know all that, you don't know d.i.c.k. And guess what, I don't care how bad things turned after. That means nothing. Those people used any excuse they could to b.i.t.c.h about what we were trying to do. Ungrateful s.h.i.tbags most of them. But we had a job to do and we did it. We didn't lose one package we were hired to protect. Not one. I owe n.o.body an apology, least of all you." did, how suddenly they moved, how they acted right before the trigger got pulled, unless and until you know all that, you don't know d.i.c.k. And guess what, I don't care how bad things turned after. That means nothing. Those people used any excuse they could to b.i.t.c.h about what we were trying to do. Ungrateful s.h.i.tbags most of them. But we had a job to do and we did it. We didn't lose one package we were hired to protect. Not one. I owe n.o.body an apology, least of all you."

G.o.do waited for a second, watching as, across the room, the towheaded girl and her walrus of a mother attacked their food. "My gunny got killed because of f.u.c.kups like you."

"That's it." Chuck shoved the bad hand back in its pocket. "I don't need this." He turned toward the door and stormed out, Puchi watching his back as though waiting for that magic point when he'd stop, cool off, rethink it, come back in, if only to give G.o.do a ration of s.h.i.t. But that didn't happen. The guy who called himself Chuck, the man G.o.do felt almost certain he remembered now, if not him some guy just like him, climbed into his plain gray van and peeled out so fast his rear axle leapt almost a foot off the ground when it tagged a high-crested buckle in the blacktop. The other parking-lot shoppers stopped everything, staring after the van as it fishtailed away.

Puchi turned back to G.o.do, eyes glazed with fury. "Vasco's gonna have your b.a.l.l.s for that."

EL CHUSQUERO, AS HIS HENCHLINGS CALLED HIM-THE COMMANDER-took great pride in his wooden English. "I ask only, you know, because it look so, yes? You ..." He winked, flourishing his hand back and forth between Roque and Lupe. "And she ..."

He had a meaty face with sleep-lidded eyes, an oft-broken nose that sloped back to a glistening forehead. His thinning black hair rustled in the downdraft from the ceiling fan. He wore a blue guayabera and khaki slacks, the crease as straight as a blade.