Do They Know I'm Running? Part 29

"Yeah. I can see why."

To the west, immaculate beaches melted away into emerald green water frothed with surf. Pelicans strafed the waves for food. The southern end of the Sierra Madres dropped into the sea. Roque wished he could enjoy it all but he could only think of who wasn't there to enjoy it with him. He'd abandoned his uncle to a lonely grave, far from everyone he loved. It brought to mind his strained conversation with Happy. So much anger, so little grief, but that was hardly surprising. Things have taken an odd turn, he'd said, there might be a bug on Tia Lucha's phone. What had they gone and done, why head for Agua Prieta? And whose side would they take when it came time to talk El Recio into letting Lupe go?

Tourists: Oaxaca is Temporarily Closed.

It will Reopen as Soon as There is Justice.

"That reminds me," Bergen said. "I did a little nosing around about what happened to you folks on the highway the other night. Appears you were mistaken for somebody else. The governor here is facing something that, in its own modest way, feels like full-fledged rebellion. He sure sees it that way, and he's not been shy responding, which is why tourism's in the toilet.

"Word apparently reached him or someone in his camp that members of the EZLN-the Zapatistas, the guerrillas from the next state down, Chiapas-were coming to powwow with the local opposition on tactics. There were rumors of a new general strike. The powers that be decided to nip that little f.u.c.ker in the bud and they had their men waiting out there on the road."

Roque glanced toward Lupe, who was staring out at the hypnotic surf. "Why chase us? What made us so suspicious?"

"It's my understanding," Bergen said, "that the folks who could answer your question best are unavailable." A turn toward the sun sent a shock of white glare across the windshield. Bergen flipped down his visor. "I can tell you this much, if those phony IDs you guys picked up from your salvatrucho salvatrucho pals were from Chiapas instead of Veracruz? We'd still be back there at that checkpoint, most likely facedown on the pavement." pals were from Chiapas instead of Veracruz? We'd still be back there at that checkpoint, most likely facedown on the pavement."

Roque caught a whiff of himself, realizing only then just how scared he'd been. "How come we didn't hear any of this from you before?"

Bergen glanced over his shoulder, his customary smile at half-mast. "You aren't seriously complaining, are you?"

Roque blanched. "No. I'm not."

"Good." Bergen slowed for a tope tope and a pack of women swarmed the windows on each side, holding up bags of oranges, cold drinks, miscellaneous and a pack of women swarmed the windows on each side, holding up bags of oranges, cold drinks, miscellaneous chacharas chacharas. The windows filled with eager hands, the voices almost accusing in their urgency.

Once the van picked up speed again, Bergen said, "I'll tell you a story. About the way things are here. I have this friend, delightful lady, used to run a restaurant in Oaxaca de Juarez. Best pork with mancha manteles mole mancha manteles mole you'll ever know. One morning she was walking to her bank to make the daily deposit when the Policia Federal Preventiva rolled in. This was November 2006, during the teachers' strike. The PFP came to teach the teachers a lesson. Batons, rubber bullets, tear gas, the whole trick bag. Alix, my friend, she tried to help somebody who'd been tear-ga.s.sed, dabbing their eyes with a hankie dipped in Coca-Cola. Trust me, it works. Anyway, she got s.n.a.t.c.hed up by the PFP along with everybody else, dragged to a van, thrown inside with ten other women. One cop said they were going to get taken out in a helicopter and dropped into the ocean. That's not an idle threat down here. It's not folklore, either. It gets done. Good news is, it didn't get done that day. you'll ever know. One morning she was walking to her bank to make the daily deposit when the Policia Federal Preventiva rolled in. This was November 2006, during the teachers' strike. The PFP came to teach the teachers a lesson. Batons, rubber bullets, tear gas, the whole trick bag. Alix, my friend, she tried to help somebody who'd been tear-ga.s.sed, dabbing their eyes with a hankie dipped in Coca-Cola. Trust me, it works. Anyway, she got s.n.a.t.c.hed up by the PFP along with everybody else, dragged to a van, thrown inside with ten other women. One cop said they were going to get taken out in a helicopter and dropped into the ocean. That's not an idle threat down here. It's not folklore, either. It gets done. Good news is, it didn't get done that day.

"Cops took them to the women's prison in Miahuatlan, not that things were swell there, either. Alix got questioned, to use the usual euphemism, and the man in charge used a blanket when he kicked her so he wouldn't leave marks. She was charged with a.s.saulting police, sedition, destruction of public property. Mind you, I'm talking a nice middle-aged lady here, maybe weighs 110 after a heavy breakfast, who was trying to help somebody who was hurt. She closed up her restaurant after that. No more pork with mancha manteles mole mancha manteles mole. Haven't heard from her in over a year."

The driver of the truck just ahead signaled that Bergen could pa.s.s. He downshifted, wound the Eurovan out in third gear, then ventured his move into the oncoming lane.

"What I'm saying is, that's the state of things you folks walked into. Just so you know."

Thanks for the tip, Roque thought, sinking in his seat. It was like they were trapped in some h.e.l.lish video game where the longer they played the more their enemies multiplied.

They hit two more checkpoints in short order, one just before Puerto Angel, the second at the lighthouse turnoff right before Puerto Escondido. Bergen's magic seemed to be taking hold, they got waved through each time. After that their biggest problems were road washouts and wandering livestock until they pa.s.sed Pinotepa Nacional-another checkpoint, but though they got stopped the soldier simply reached in, opened the glove box, checked inside for a pistol or drugs, then directed the van into the slow-moving queue for a giant X-ray machine, its white crane-like boom arching over the road.

By midafternoon they reached Acapulco-or Narcopulco as it often got called these days, Bergen said. The cartels were jockeying for control of the port, with the predictable rise in body count, at least until the army got sent in. Things were returning to normal, more or less, or the illusion of normal. The southern end of town looked shopworn and sad, the northern more stylish and new. Pingo, from his perch up front, pointed to the top of one particularly stunning cliff with shameless reverence.-Check it out, that's Sly Stallone's house.

Come twilight they pulled into a modest roadside hotel half a mile beyond a pig-filled swamp just outside Zihuatenejo-only a dozen or so rooms, high walls isolating each of the entrances, an armed guard stationed in the parking lot, another at the office door. Bergen explained it was a casa de citas; casa de citas; patrons paid by the hour, not the night, a favorite spot for a poke with the mistress. "I know the folks who run this place," he said, killing the ignition, lodging the emergency brake. Beyond the hotel, the hillside rose with lush thickets of nameless greenery, crowned with mango and thorn trees. Across the highway, fishing boats thronged a network of docks. "It's clean, it's discreet, the van will be safe. And I'm guessing, given prior experience, you're not all that eager to travel the roads at night. Me, neither." patrons paid by the hour, not the night, a favorite spot for a poke with the mistress. "I know the folks who run this place," he said, killing the ignition, lodging the emergency brake. Beyond the hotel, the hillside rose with lush thickets of nameless greenery, crowned with mango and thorn trees. Across the highway, fishing boats thronged a network of docks. "It's clean, it's discreet, the van will be safe. And I'm guessing, given prior experience, you're not all that eager to travel the roads at night. Me, neither."

EL RECIO PUT HAPPY ON THE FRONT DOOR, KIKI WITH HIS TOP-KNOT watched the back. Osvaldo with his dumpy suit and roach killers joined El Recio and another man, Hilario, in the kitchen where they got to play butcher.

How had he put it: I think I got something maybe could suit you.

Happy couldn't tell if this was their standard MO or whether they'd taken inspiration from what he'd described of the Crockett takeover. Maybe they wanted to see how he'd react. Using duct tape, they'd tied and gagged the cop and his wife and their son to chairs. The boy was seven maybe, blue fleece pajamas, matching blue socks. The pajamas had little bucking broncos on them. The parents were naked.

El Recio made the parents watch as Hilario did the boy, using wire cutters and grain alcohol and a box of wood matches. Happy leaned against the wall, back turned to what was happening, but he could hear, he could smell. His memory emptied its sewer, he was back inside that claustrophobic room with Snell and his daughter and he would have sold his soul to get away except how do you outrun what's inside you? Keep your eyes on the street, he told himself, focus on what's out there, even if it's nothing. Especially if it's nothing.

He threw back another slug of tejuino of tejuino to buck up his nerve. It scalded his mouth and throat and simmered in his gut. El Recio said the Indians fermented it by putting a ball of human s.h.i.t inside a cheesecloth and burying it in the corn mash, letting it molder. He clutched the bottle, fearing he might vomit. Worse, faint. What would happen, he wondered, if I went in there, tried to stop it? Nothing. Everybody would just get to watch me die too. to buck up his nerve. It scalded his mouth and throat and simmered in his gut. El Recio said the Indians fermented it by putting a ball of human s.h.i.t inside a cheesecloth and burying it in the corn mash, letting it molder. He clutched the bottle, fearing he might vomit. Worse, faint. What would happen, he wondered, if I went in there, tried to stop it? Nothing. Everybody would just get to watch me die too.

The cop was bent, just not bent enough apparently. He'd talked to somebody, a shipment got stopped-of what? Migrants? Drugs? Guns? Happy wasn't told, the wisdom of murder. He knew only this: m.u.f.fled screams howled into thick swaths of tape-the boy, his mother, his stupid on-the-take-but-suddenly-honest cop father-the rocking of wood chairs against the floor as the parents struggled to free themselves, the acrid smell of burned flesh and scorched fleece and smoke, but Happy was there and not there, unable to get the girl out of his head, like she was living under his skin, struggling to get out, her eyes so huge when he shot her old man, then kicking herself into the corner, trying to get away-from him, from her dying old man, from it it.

In the kitchen, El Recio sang in a clownish baritone: Hoy es mi dia Voy a alegrar toda el alma mia There were no questions to ask, nothing to learn. This was a message. The killing would go slowly, over hours, then the rumor mill would kick in and every other cop in Sonora would learn that the boy died first, died horribly and slowly in unthinkable pain, followed hours later by his mother, most likely driven crazy by then, and only several hours after that, at the cusp of dawn, by the father, the man whose chickens.h.i.t conscience could be blamed for it all. After that, who with a badge wouldn't take the money?

There was a lull in the kitchen. Happy dared a glance over his shoulder. Hilario was wiping his hands with a towel, Osvaldo lit up a smoke. El Recio stepped into the doorway, looking skeletal without the snake.

He approached slowly, almost wearily and Happy wondered what depths got tapped in the torturing of a child, then recoiled at his own phony righteousness. A birdlike hand reached out, resting on Happy's shoulder.

"Didn't have time to tell you," El Recio said. "Finally got word about Lonely. Now, what I heard, it's like secondhand, thirdhand, some don't even make sense, all right? But word I got is d.a.m.n near his whole clique went down." His lips were drawn. A vein the size of a night crawler throbbed on the side of his shaved skull. "Cops sent the riot squad in, storm-trooper s.h.i.t, snipers and dogs and choppers overhead, shut the whole barrio down, went door to door like it's f.u.c.king Baghdad. You know how those a.s.sholes love a show. Lonely and ten other dudes, slammed with gang beefs and that's like no bail, no luck, no hope, know what I'm saying?"

Happy had expected this explanation. It was most likely true and thus the perfect lie. The weightless hand lifted off Happy's shoulder, vanished into a pocket, reappeared with an asthma inhaler. Two quick pumps: bob of the Adam's apple, hiss of albuterol. He didn't seem particularly short of breath. Maybe he just liked the taste.

"And here's the s.h.i.t, guey guey. Way I hear it, this Guatemalan comandante comandante your cousin got tangled up with, this clown named El Chusquero?" your cousin got tangled up with, this clown named El Chusquero?"

"I know who you mean." Happy worried his hands around the tejuino tejuino bottle, the rough gla.s.s rea.s.suringly solid. "We had to wire down money to pay him off." bottle, the rough gla.s.s rea.s.suringly solid. "We had to wire down money to pay him off."

"Yeah, well, he's the one who made the call. Maybe it's bulls.h.i.t, you know how some of these idiots think, but this is what I'm hearing, all right? Supposedly this El Chusquero c.o.c.ksucker got f.u.c.ked out of some deal by your cousin, they was supposed to take some boat up the Mexican coast or some s.h.i.t-"

"I heard about this, look-"

"Just listen, all right? Your cousin and uncle, they skipped out, last minute, and this El Chusquero a.s.shole said: Okay motherf.u.c.kers, try this. He picked up the phone, tapped some old pals in uniform down in El Salvador, called in a favor, whatever. And the hammer came down."

Another thumb-punch on the inhaler, eyelids fluttering, a clenching swallow of mist.

"So, like, even if you did have some deal with Lonely, it's useless now. I swear to G.o.d, I never heard word one, never saw a f.u.c.king dime, and now I'm not gonna, no matter what. Sorry, just the way it is."

He slipped the inhaler back into his pant pocket, rubbed at his eye. From the kitchen, ragged sobs.

"Checalo, there's guys who seriously want to f.u.c.k your cousin up, given all the s.h.i.t that came down back in San Salvador."

"Look, Roque's not perfect, I get that." Happy again had to bite back mention of his father's death. "But way I hear it, Roque turned down this El Chusquero to honor the deal with Lonely. So why's he in the s.h.i.t for that?"

"Law of unintended consequences, just the way it is. Besides which, there's some girl supposedly in the picture too. I never heard about this till yesterday, some chick Lonely sent up to gain a little juice with Don Pato."

"I don't know who that is."

"You don't need to know. I need to know. Right? Just like I need to know who ropes the pollos pollos, who rounds up the guias the guias, who watches over the safe houses and makes the bribes and launders the money. I need to know all that because they rely on me. They rely on me to enforce the motherf.u.c.king law, right? You need to know one thing-what I tell you."

"Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"I'm just making a point, okay? Don Pato knows about this girl coming up with your cousin. He knows what's supposed to happen. I don't make it happen, I look weak. I can't afford that. I look weak, next day I'm dead."

Happy realized finally what El Recio was saying. "I don't know why Roque would have a problem handing this girl over." Thinking: Now who sounds weak?

"Things happen, you know? I hear she's like crack for the eyes, guey eyes, guey, and she's got a voice. You know how all the big shots down here wanna be sung about. You're nothing unless there's a corrido corrido on the radio pimping you up. There's talk this on the radio pimping you up. There's talk this pichona pichona and your cousin, like, connected or some such s.h.i.t." and your cousin, like, connected or some such s.h.i.t."

"You want me to talk to Roque, explain what the deal is?"

"When the time comes. Maybe, yeah. Meanwhile I got some bad news on another front."

Osvaldo appeared in the kitchen doorway, a disheveled silhouette, and made a chittering sound with his tongue and teeth. El Recio, without turning, gestured for patience. "Moment.i.to, cabron." "Moment.i.to, cabron." Reaching again into a pocket, this time he withdrew not the inhaler but a small plastic bag of salted plums called Reaching again into a pocket, this time he withdrew not the inhaler but a small plastic bag of salted plums called saladitos saladitos. They smelled like something plucked from the inside of a pig and brined in lye. He lifted one to his mouth, tilted the bag toward Happy, shrugged when the offer was declined, then continued. "This Arab dude you wanted to bring across. There's a problem. An American showed up last week, frumpy motherf.u.c.ker, kinda fat with crooked gla.s.ses, lugging this big old briefcase with him, he met up with Don Pato over dinner at El Gallo. Again, okay, I don't know everything, but the fat guy was, like, way interested in this friend of yours and some kinda deal got made. Just so you know, the Americans are p.i.s.sing blood over the way things are down here. Too many bodies, too much news about it, and the news is, like, freaky. They're willing to go with a winner, even tip their hand, pick a favorite, if it means things calm down. None of this is official, it's all secret-handshake spook s.h.i.t, but whoever the winner turns out to be-and this guy was here to say they'd be happy with Don Pato-he's gotta understand, we can't be moving ragheads across the border. Them, we turn over to this frumpy fat motherf.u.c.ker and his people. Hear what I'm saying?"

He saved my life, Happy thought, wondering if he should believe that anymore. "What happens to him after you turn him over?"

"Not your problem, guey." guey." The skeletal hand returned to Happy's shoulder, a lingering squeeze. Deep in their sockets, El Recio's red-veined eyes warmed. "You stepped up tonight. I wanted to see you carry your weight. You done good. You're part of the picture now, right?" He licked bits The skeletal hand returned to Happy's shoulder, a lingering squeeze. Deep in their sockets, El Recio's red-veined eyes warmed. "You stepped up tonight. I wanted to see you carry your weight. You done good. You're part of the picture now, right?" He licked bits of saladito of saladito off his teeth. "You got no place to go to up north, there's serious heat on you there. And there's people down south now want your f.u.c.king head, or your cousin's head. Yours'll do in a pinch, hear what I'm saying? Best idea you got, stay here with me. Don Pato, the others I mentioned, they're serious cats-run the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n show, this stretch of the border. Anything moves across, it's got their brand on it, otherwise you die. I do what's necessary, they watch my back. Same thing with you and me. Be cool, stand up, don't give me nothing to worry about, I'll look the f.u.c.k after you. I'll get your cousin across. The rest can't be helped." off his teeth. "You got no place to go to up north, there's serious heat on you there. And there's people down south now want your f.u.c.king head, or your cousin's head. Yours'll do in a pinch, hear what I'm saying? Best idea you got, stay here with me. Don Pato, the others I mentioned, they're serious cats-run the whole G.o.dd.a.m.n show, this stretch of the border. Anything moves across, it's got their brand on it, otherwise you die. I do what's necessary, they watch my back. Same thing with you and me. Be cool, stand up, don't give me nothing to worry about, I'll look the f.u.c.k after you. I'll get your cousin across. The rest can't be helped."

From the kitchen doorway, Osvaldo made his tetchy little sound again. The mother was mewling hysterically behind her gag. Hilario backhanded her but she wouldn't settle down.

"Back to business," El Recio said, stuffing the bag of saladitos saladitos back in his pocket. "We'll talk more over breakfast." back in his pocket. "We'll talk more over breakfast."

THOUGH THE WATER WAS TEPID THE SHOWERS FELT LIKE LUXURY-first Lupe, then Roque, finally Samir, each of them scrubbing off the grit and stickiness and toweling dry in the small spare room, nothing but a twin bed for furniture. What else was needed, given its usual hourly occupants? Bergen took a room for himself, Pingo would sleep in the van. The tally of money owed was inching upward-three hundred dollars per person for the ride, which Bergen said would barely cover gas, even at Pemex prices, then the room, food. They'd already pooled their money and handed over what they'd had, the rest being due on credit, for which Roque gave his address, the names of both Tia Lucha and Lalo as guarantors of his debt. Bergen had never promised charity but it all added up so fast. Still, Roque supposed, better that than paying out to some salvatrucho or pandillero salvatrucho or pandillero who'd just keep the shakedown going forever back home. He got it now, it wasn't just that nothing was free. The moment you agreed to pay, you opened the door to h.e.l.l. Bergen was simply a friendlier breed of devil. who'd just keep the shakedown going forever back home. He got it now, it wasn't just that nothing was free. The moment you agreed to pay, you opened the door to h.e.l.l. Bergen was simply a friendlier breed of devil.

Lupe joined him outside and they sat together beneath a roadside mango tree, gazing through the darkness and the day's last traffic at the fishing fleet moored to its lantern-lit docks. The breeze carried the scents of sea salt and beach rot and the echoes of beery laughter.

-We should have gone for a swim before the shower, he said.

Using both hands, Lupe spread her damp hair to let the wind help dry it, lifting her face toward the starlight. The bruising from Lonely's beating had all but healed.-It's stupid to swim at night. You can't get your bearings.

-There's plenty of light from the bar, the docks.

-The waves can be dangerous. Her voice was adamant, almost shrill.-I heard of a woman whose neck was broken just a few months ago and she was a very strong swimmer. The undertow kills several people every year.

For a second, he felt ridiculous. Then he figured it out.-You don't know how to swim.

She shrugged, shook her hair.-Let me guess. You want to teach me.

-I wasn't trying to insult you.

-I'm sorry. It's just ... She glanced up into the dark tree.- She glanced up into the dark tree.- We both know what's coming. I'm tired of thinking about it. Get me a mango, would you?

Climbing up a ways to one of the middling branches-the lower ones were picked clean-he tugged a plump mango from its rubbery stem and tossed it to her, then scrambled back down. Using her nails, she peeled away the skin so they could trade bites. Soon their faces were tacky with juice and pulp.

Between swallows, he said:-I'm going to need another shower.

She slipped her sticky hand in his, their fingers interlocking. He tilted his head to venture a kiss, only to see Samir approaching, chafing his burred black hair with a towel.

-I am sorry to interrupt, he announced, sounding more fl.u.s.tered than contrite.-I have been thinking today, very much, very long, about our situation. I have thought of what Fatima would want of me. I have prayed. And I am here to tell you I am ashamed of how I have behaved. Yes, I need very much to reach America-not for my sake. My family's. But I have been thoughtless, even cruel, in how I have spoken. It needn't be so. I had a chance earlier to talk with Pingo. He knows a man at the border, his uncle, he lives in a town called Naco, who could help us get across. There would be no need to deal with this El Recio character in Agua Prieta. For all they know we burned up in the car, right? Who can say differently, how soon? Months it will take, longer most likely, for them to determine for certain who it was in that car. Again, yes, there is the issue of money and Happy has told you there is none, fine, but things change. You, Roque, can pa.s.s over as you please, perhaps you could head home, ask among friends or family. I could wait with Lupe in Naco. He stood with his shoulders folded forward, as though preparing to bow. His deep-set eyes lacked their usual indignation.-I am agreeable, is what I am saying. I no longer want us to fight among ourselves. It is wrong.

No more was said about it. But later, when the three of them settled in for the night inside the tiny stifling room, Samir took the floor in a sign of goodwill. Roque and Lupe negotiated the narrow bed, spooning though fully clothed, his stomach pressed into the hollow of her back as she pillowed her head on his arm. In time their breathing synchronized, drowsiness settled in. Samir fell asleep first, though, snoring with a chesty rasp. Perhaps we don't know what's coming after all, Roque thought, and shortly Lupe took his hand, nudged it inside her jeans, pressing it against the downy warm curls, holding it there in a gesture of possession, him of her, her of him.

FROM HIS TABLE NEAR THE BACK, LATTIMORE SPOTTED HIM IN THE doorway, the distinctively scruffy beard and hair, the rumpled suit, the c.o.c.keyed gla.s.ses, the clownishly fat and battered briefcase-McIlvaine, the security man from Dallas, what was his company's name-Bayonet? The man made eye contact, offering his tea-colored smile, then began picking his way through the tables and Lattimore felt his stomach plunge with an almost punitive sense of dread. His sandwich turned into a soggy wad of nausea in his hands. Banneret, he thought, that was it. "Jim!" McIlvaine thrust out his hand. "Mind if I sit?" Lattimore nodded to the open chair, setting his oozy sandwich down and reaching for a napkin. "Let me admire your investigative skills-you found me how?"

"Inspired guesswork." McIlvaine reached across to a nearby table where a menu sat unused and plucked it for his own use. "The receptionist said you were out, the hour suggested lunch, I decided to wander around the area, take my chances." He pushed up his gla.s.ses, reading a nearby chalkboard listing specials.

"That's all you wanted, company for lunch?"

"No need to sound so put-upon. I'm not expecting a fanfare but I do have news I think you'll find useful, if you haven't already received it."

Lattimore, resisting a smile, took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. Since the screwup with Happy the information chain had gone into lockdown. The case was infamous, no one wanted his name near it. Memos and e-mails gathered dust somewhere out in the bureaucratic nowhere. Not one single agent outside the country would return his calls. "I'm all ears," he said.

Folding his hands across his midriff, McIlvaine settled into his chair. "I heard the news, the bad business on your end. Quite a c.o.c.k-up, as our British friends would say."

"Yes." Lattimore tasted the grit of his coffee dregs. "British friends, one can't have too many of those."

"Oddly enough, you're near half right." The waitress bustled past and he caught her eye, tipping his menu back and forth as a signal. "Turns out my friend in the Green Zone knew a Brit journalist doing a story on the Al Tanf refugee camp. He got in touch, I scratched out a list of questions, ones I thought you'd want answered given our previous discussion. Well, unhappily but not too surprisingly, he came up empty. There is no record of a woman named Fatima Sadiq in the Al Tanf refugee camp, nor any woman named Fatima with a daughter named Shatha, or more generally a woman married to an interpreter working for the coalition, the Salvadorans in Najaf specifically. Nothing, nada. Sorry. Now who knows how doggedly this Brit asked his questions-it wasn't really his focus, after all, just one of those quid pro quos one accepts in a war zone."

The waitress materialized. McIlvaine ordered a grilled liver-wurst and Swiss on corn rye with pepperoncini and onions, mustard not mayo, coleslaw side, iced tea with extra lemon, then handed her the menu and watched her flee.

Lattimore, prompting, "Andy?"

"Where was I ..." He adjusted his gla.s.ses, glanced at his watch. "Ah yes. Perhaps your Samir's Fatima, if she exists, has moved to another camp, Trebil for instance. Maybe she's gone back to Baghdad, meaning she could be G.o.d only knows where.

These are not people who trust the government or the press, the Palestinians, I mean. They feel very much hunted and betrayed. But there's something else too. Something rather curious."

A busboy delivered a dewy tumbler of iced tea and a saucer of lemon slices. McIlvaine fussed the straw from its wrapper. The busboy, a Latino, vaguely reminded Lattimore of Happy's cousin Roque and he suffered a sudden flash of misgiving, wondering where the kid might be.

"My friend spoke to a contact he's developed, a man once very well appointed within the Mukhabarat. Obviously, this is very sensitive. I can't tell you any more than that about the man."

Like I could burn him from here, Lattimore thought.

"But he remembered a Palestinian named Salah Ha.s.san from the al-Baladiyat neighborhood. The man was arrested for trafficking in foreign currencies sometime after the end of the Iran-Iraq War." He began squeezing lemon into his tea, one wedge, two. "Curiously enough, this Salah Ha.s.san had a wife named Fatima and a daughter named Shatha. And after her husband's imprisonment-they cut off his hand, like they do with thieves, then stuck him in a prison somewhere to be forgotten-the woman, this Fatima, she not surprisingly fell on very hard times. There are brothels in Baghdad, obviously, though they're known to favor green lights, not red. Apparently this Fatima had a small but very devout clientele. But once Saddam's regime fell and the Mahdi militias began their persecution of the Palestinians, which became quite indiscriminate after the bombing of the Al-Askari mosque in Samarra, she grabbed her daughter and fled the area and no one is willing to admit they know where she ran off to. a.s.suming anyone knows. Maybe one of those devoted patrons stepped up, whisked her off to his tent in Araby."

The waitress returned to the table, this time with McIlvaine's sandwich and coleslaw. Setting it down, she turned her attention to the remains of Lattimore's lunch and c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. He leaned back so she could clear. Earlier, he'd considered flirting-innocently, of course, unless she responded-but McIlvaine was like a s.e.xual black hole. Once she was gone: "This source of your friend's, any chance he got a look at the doc.u.ment you showed me, the one linking Samir to the Mukhabarat?"

McIlvaine stuffed a paper napkin into his collar, gripped half his sandwich in both hands and leaned forward over his plate. "It's a contact sheet, that's all. At some point he was brought in for an interview. That's all you can infer from it reliably. Whether there were others-contacts I mean, interviews-it's impossible to tell. Sorry, nothing else on that end to report."

Lattimore smiled absently, wondering how long courtesy would demand he sit there watching the other man eat. Hearing the unmistakable popping growl of a Harley 110 V-Twin outside, then the distinctive potato potato potato potato potato potato of its idle as it backed to the curb, he felt an immediate pang of longing-the empty road, freedom. It occurred to him that Samir might have been one of this Fatima's devoted johns, one whose ardor went haywire, to the point he married her in his mind, plotted to get her and her daughter out of Iraq forever. He was clawing his way to America, trying to find her the future she deserved, one for which she would be slavishly grateful, if he could ever find out where she was. Weirder things had happened, he supposed, especially when p.u.s.s.y was involved. of its idle as it backed to the curb, he felt an immediate pang of longing-the empty road, freedom. It occurred to him that Samir might have been one of this Fatima's devoted johns, one whose ardor went haywire, to the point he married her in his mind, plotted to get her and her daughter out of Iraq forever. He was clawing his way to America, trying to find her the future she deserved, one for which she would be slavishly grateful, if he could ever find out where she was. Weirder things had happened, he supposed, especially when p.u.s.s.y was involved.

"By the way," McIlvaine said, speaking through a mouthful of liverwurst, "any idea where our would-be terrorist might be at the moment?"

THEY ROSE EARLY AND DROVE THROUGH MILE AFTER DEEP-GREEN mile of banana, papaya and mango groves on their way north from Lazaro Cardenas with its ma.s.sive industrial port.

"They used to call this stretch of road Bandido Alley," Bergen said at one point. "The whole state of Michoacan was pretty much a playground for the Valencia cartel. Then the army came in, put up roadblocks, cracked down on drug labs, burned pot fields. Drove the trouble off the coast and into the hills, at least until after dark. No guarantee it won't come back, of course, but for now I think we're safe."

The checkpoints grew fewer in number over time and the Eurovan invariably got waved through. As the sunlight hit its noonday pitch the terrain grew dramatic, the road winding steeply along mountainsides that dropped off into crashing waves. When the road leveled out again the vine-covered hills to the east were wreathed in filmy cloud, the palm-rimmed beaches to the west almost monotonous in their perfection, untouched by tourism or development. On some the surf was wild and unwelcoming, on others it dissolved in a rumbling hiss onto vacant sand. Roque began to understand the stubborn pride of Mexicans, as well as their despair.

They stopped for gas in a beachfront hamlet, buying it from a bowlegged woman smoking a pipe who siphoned it from a drum. A little farther on they lunched on fresh ceviche at a seafood bar and stocked up on water for the afternoon heat.

The hours grew hallucinatory, dissolving into sweaty sunlit dreams of roadside shrines, wild hillsides, makeshift cornfields, thatched enramadas enramadas and and palapas palapas, interspersed with signs marking iguana crossings, armadillo crossings, warnings against hunting racc.o.o.ns.

Once, they found themselves bestilled inside a pastel cloud of b.u.t.terflies.