Do They Know I'm Running? Part 30

When they struggled through Manzanillo with its cruise-ship crowds, Bergen told the story of a woman known as Mountain Girl, one of Kesey's Merry Pranksters, who gave birth to her daughter Sunshine in the decrepit local hospital, only to flee her room one night when beach crabs, crazed by the full moon, stormed the newborn's bed.

Colima dissolved into Jalisco, the villages thinned out and the Costa Alegre began, with its sculpted mansions on the cliffs and scowling guards at the gates: crisp uniforms, wraparound shades, machine guns. "Nice place to visit," Bergen cracked, "if you're Mick Jagger."

As the sun dropped into the ocean beyond the Bahia de Banderas, Puerto Vallarta came and went in a blur of colonial-era cobblestone streets, roadside market stalls, the rebuilt promenade. "Just a little ways more," Bergen said, to explain why he wasn't stopping. "I know I've warned off driving at night but we're so d.a.m.n close. Keep your fingers crossed."

They took the main highway toward Tepic, then cut off toward the coast, the road a rustic two-lane obstacle course of cavernous potholes, fearless chickens, slinking dogs. Here and there between nameless hamlets a bar appeared, nothing but a box of concrete trimmed with Christmas lights and barbed wire, a jukebox throbbing inside-c.u.mbia, chuntaro, grupero-while outside jubilant drunks wandered the roadbed or stone-eyed men stood with arms crossed, watching the strange van rumble past.

The isolated stretches grew longer, the darkness so thick it felt like their headlights were boring a tunnel and they were barreling through it, jostled by the bad road, swarmed with dust.

It was in one of those mid-hamlet stretches of pitch-black night that the headlights appeared behind them. They seemed to float independently, buoyed by the darkness like fireflies, then the engines could be heard and Roque realized they were motorcycles. Shortly everyone turned around to look.

"They're getting closer," Roque said.

"I'm aware of that," Bergen replied.

Soon the pack was right behind, eight of them riding two abreast, the riders' silhouettes in the dust clouds, muscular arms slung from ape hangers, wind-raked hair. Samir stared at them, face skeletal in the joggling light. "And you said leave the weapons behind."

Bergen dodged a rat-size tarantula scuttling across the road. "You think we'd even have gotten this far, past all those checkpoints, if there'd been a gun in this van?"

"What good will it have done," Samir said, voice rising, "to get this far only to end here?"

"Relax, ace. We haven't reached the end. Far from it."

The motorcycles made no move to pa.s.s but seemed content to herd the van along from behind. Soon the salty tang of the surf broke through the smells of gasoline and dust. Just off the road, at the end of a rutted lane lined with sprawling jacarandas and guava trees, another bunkerlike building sat, barred windows glowing with caramel-colored light. Another two dozen motorcycles sat outside, a ragtag collection of cafe racers, dirt bikes, crotch rockets, choppers, rice burners, trikes. When Bergen hit his signal and braked for the turn, Samir leaned forward and hissed, "What in the name of G.o.d are you doing?"

Bergen downshifted and the van lurched, slowing. "Stopping for the night," he said. "Unless you have somewhere else in mind."

He pulled into a sandy spot beneath a sagging palm and killed the motor. The riders backed their bikes into the line outside the clubhouse, the revving engines a thunder roll in the settling dust. Some of the other members filled the lamp-lit doorway, tossing beers to the new arrivals. Beyond them, a fire roared in a barbecue pit.

Samir hand-mopped sweat from his stubbled face. "You know these people?"

Bergen opened the door and the overhead light flickered on, fixing the Arab's expression. "I think that would be a reasonable inference." His voice was free of mockery. "You know, a little grat.i.tude wouldn't kill you."

As everyone else extricated themselves from the van, Bergen opened the back and withdrew one of the cardboard tubes with a rolled-up painting inside, then thumped it against his leg as he strolled toward the clubhouse entrance, the others straggling behind. The surf tumbled onto the sh.o.r.e beyond the tree line, breaking on the beach in surges of foam, the sharp scent of brine mingling with that of wood smoke and roasting fish.

A scrum of bikers waited outside the glowing frame of the doorway. Bergen held the cardboard tube aloft and called out to the nearest one, a princely muscular vato vato with swept-back hair and a soul patch furring his lower lip.- with swept-back hair and a soul patch furring his lower lip.-I have a little art for you, Chelo. A masterpiece.

BERGEN SAT DOWN AT ONE OF THE LONG HAND-CARVED TABLES AND several bikers joined him, including the one named Chelo, the leader. Roque and Lupe and Pingo and Samir, all but ignored, stood there idly until one of the bikers flashed a dentally challenged smile and gestured them grandly to an empty table. As Bergen unrolled his painting Roque took a second to get his bearings-an old Wurlitzer jukebox, two pool tables, a few b.u.mper pinball machines. The bar looked like it had been salvaged from elsewhere and a banner hanging behind it read: Los Mocosos Locos-San Blas, Nayarit The bikers themselves were refreshingly stereotypical-shaved heads on some, tangled manes for the rest, a spattering of Fu Manchus, two or three chest-length beards, bandannas, harness boots, black leather chaps and vests with the club's colors emblazoned across the back: a whorl-eyed skull over crossed six-shooters. It was like walking into a remake of Angels Unchained Angels Unchained, except the skin shaded darker, the swagger wasn't half as pompous and everybody spoke Spanish. Still, Bergen looked like a golf coach in their midst, with Roque and the rest his scraggly fourfold shadow.

As Bergen unrolled the painting-it was the same one he'd shown at the roadblocks, the one he compared to Chagall-Chelo reached into the pocket of his leather vest and withdrew a jeweler's loupe and a razor blade. Bergen and one of the other bikers held the painting flat; Chelo set the loupe down onto the canvas and lowered his eye to the lens. Roque, sensing what he was about to watch but unable to believe it, traded a brief stunned glance first with Lupe then Samir-only Pingo seemed unbothered-then turned back in time to see Chelo, calm as a surgeon, razor a perfectly straight section from the canvas inch by inch. When the narrow strip was clear he handed it to one of the others, who coiled it around his neck like a chain of raffle tickets, then Chelo bent over the painting again, adjusted his loupe, found the next invisible demarcation and repeated the process, painstakingly tr.i.m.m.i.n.g another strip from the canvas, the same width as the last.

Bergen glanced up once, winked at Roque, then returned his focus to his slowly vanishing masterpiece. One of the women, almost busting out of her leathers, came by with a bucket of iced beers and settled it onto the table for Roque and the others, while another brought a plate of mango slices, with roasted shrimp and mahimahi and pargo pargo, marinated in lemon and chilies. The four of them dug in shamelessly, wolfing their food down with their hands, intermittently turning back to watch as bit by bit the painting vanished, carved into long shreds, each of which then got piecemealed further into squares the size of postage stamps. f.u.c.king h.e.l.l, Roque thought, backhanding the slop from his chin, we've been bluffing through checkpoints for two whole days with a couple hundred hits of blotter acid.

No money exchanged hands, Roque noticed, this was a longstanding deal, credit not an issue. A bit of a character, Father Luis had called Bergen, with a very storied life. That and then some, Roque thought. And what of the priest himself? Maybe he was the impersonator warned about on the poster at the entrance to his own d.a.m.n church. If so, Roque thought, my uncle lies in his cemetery, consecrated by a phony sacrament. Bringing the point home was the current procession of Los Mocosos Locos idling in, approaching their leader and collecting a hit of acid into their cupped palms, swallowing it down like a communion wafer, then heading back outside for the fire pit.

Bergen ambled over to the table where Roque and the others sat, working on their third plate of roasted fish and shrimp.

-Looks tasty. He plucked a fatty charred hunk of pargo of pargo from the plate, chewed with gusto.- from the plate, chewed with gusto.-Everybody happy?

No one said anything. If they weren't stunned from what they'd just observed they were tipsy from the beer, sated from the food.

Turning to Samir, Bergen lowered his voice. "You can thank me anytime."

Samir looked incensed. "You used us."

"That a joke? I'm doing you a favor."

"We were a distraction. A decoy."

Pingo, sensing the change in drift despite the use of English, excused himself, grabbing an extra beer from the ice bucket and steering a path outside. Bergen's smile withered. "Listen, you ungrateful p.r.i.c.k. Think of where you'd be right now without my help. If not dead, d.a.m.n close. You might also consider that, should any of these good people get the idea you've got a problem with what you just watched-they get the vaguest notion you're the talkative sort, as in better off facedown in a ditch somewhere-they won't ask my permission. Now cheer the f.u.c.k up." He slapped Samir's shoulder like a sales manager coaxing the new guy onto the floor. "You've just been fed and you've got a place to sleep tonight. Because of me. Put it in perspective, Samir." He p.r.o.nounced it smear smear. "Or I'll tell these nice folks you've got something you'd like to say."

He reached for the bucket, collected the final beer, then turned to Roque and Lupe.-You two aren't above singing for your supper, I hope.

THE GUITAR WAS BEHIND THE BAR, A GUILD DREADNOUGHT WITH fairly new strings. As Roque tuned and played a few test chords he smiled at the crisp sweet highs, the rich booming lows, a beautiful ax, Bluegra.s.s Jubilee. He joined Lupe out among the others who circled the fire. The acid was starting to hit, a number of the bikers were staring into the flames as though seeing within them their own spirit faces; some picked through the charred crackling skin of the fish they'd just eaten, as though it held some mystic portent; others just sat and smiled, hugging their knees, heads eased back. The rest milled about, beers in hand, bestowing warm abrazos abrazos to every brother they met. to every brother they met.

For the sake of visibility and projection above the crackling fire, they fashioned a mini-stage from four wood chairs, then hoisted Lupe onto it, perched like a surfer on an unsteady wave. Roque sat in a fifth chair to her side. He strummed the opening chords of "Sabor a Mi," suggesting they open with that. Lupe nodded her a.s.sent and, as the introduction gently concluded, lifted her chin, closed her eyes and began the first verse.

It took a bar or two for her voice to find its center and the lyrics at first seemed lost in the roar of the fire and the distant surf. As the chorus came around, though, she had the crowd with her, a few even daring to sing along: No pretendo ser tu dueno No soy nada, yo no tengo vanidadI don't pretend to be your master I am nothing, I have no vanity Their voices spurred her on. The next verse bloomed with even deeper feeling and as she came back around to the chorus the others chimed in more devoutly, their gravelly voices harmonizing in tone if not pitch. As the song concluded, the klatch of tripping bikers erupted into whistling applause. A few wiped away tears.

Lupe leaned down toward Roque, gathering her hair away from her face. "'Sin Ti'," she whispered.

He felt stunned.-Are you sure?

She didn't answer. Instead she stood up straight again on the rickety platform of chairs and called out:-On our way north, we lost someone. His name was Faustino. He was the uncle of Roque here. He was very kind to me. He believed in me. I would like to sing this next song in his memory. It meant a lot to him, because he too lost someone, lost her long ago.

She signaled to Roque that she was ready. He played the introductory chords, a lump in his throat-how is she going to sing, he wondered-but as her cue came around she closed her eyes, balled her hands into fists and lifted her face toward the night: Sin ti No podre vivir jamas Without you I will never be able to live He had heard her sing often over the past few weeks, under so many different circ.u.mstances. He had not yet heard her sing like this. You're going to break these crusty b.a.s.t.a.r.ds' hearts, he thought, if not mine. Had he not loved her already, he would have been helpless then. Again the bikers sang along on the chorus, their voices a growling background hum. They understood. They knew loss, they knew remembrance, even tripping their brains out, and this time, as Roque ended with a strumming flourish and Lupe wiped her face, their applause was a benediction.

That night the two of them slept in a corner of the clubhouse, tucked inside a single musty sleeping bag, pressed together, legs entwined. The others lay nearby, so there would be no lovemaking, but she lay her head upon his heart and he stroked her smoke-scented hair until sleep claimed first her, then him. Outside, the fire raged all night, bikers milling in and out, seeking beer or food, their voices subdued in a nameless reverence. Once, when Roque eased awake, startled by some sound, he noticed through fluttering eyelids that Samir was sitting against the wall, clutching his knees, staring at the two of them snuggled together, his face veiled with shadow.

TWO DAYS AFTER THEY DID THE COP AND HIS FAMILY THE BOA got sick. The thing wasn't eating. El Recio implored it, cooed to it, tried all its favorite snacks-live fetal rats, baby mice, bunnies-let it coil up in its favorite chair, stroked its mottled scales. He said they felt cold. How else the f.u.c.k they gonna feel, Happy thought, it's a G.o.dd.a.m.n snake. But he knew what was happening, suspected even El Recio knew. G.o.d doesn't take it out on you when you sin, that wasn't how it worked. He's not content with an uneasy conscience, he wants to push you into the flames, strip you of everything but the desire to die, watch you beg. And so he takes it out not on you but on those you love-wasn't that what you'd done to him?

El Recio threw on a shirt, said they were going out. He wanted to buy a heat lamp.

"You'll burn him up," Happy said. "Why not just put him in the oven?"

El Recio froze. "What'd you just say?"

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

"I said you might burn him up."

"Her."

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

"You said stick her in the oven."

"I didn't mean it like that. I was trying-"

"You want to eat La Princesa?"

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

"Want to eat my baby?"

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

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

Through the door, El Recio bellowed back: "Me vale madre." "Me vale madre." I don't give a d.a.m.n. I don't give a d.a.m.n.

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

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

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

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

"Happy? It's me."

Happy mouthed Roque's name, letting G.o.do know who it was. "Where are you?"

"The bus station in Guaymas."

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

"No. We'll be there soon. Look, Hap-"

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

"Yeah. He's good. Pain in the a.s.s sometimes but good. Look, there's something-"

"And let's not forget the girl-Lupe, am I right?"

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

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

Roque said, "How did you hear about her?"

"That's not an answer."

"It's not like you and I had a chance to talk much the past week."

"That's not an answer, neither."

"Tio and I were trying to figure something out. A way to help her. It's complicated."

"I know."

"What do you know?"

"Who she belongs to. They're waiting for her."

Another silence, longer this time. "Yeah, well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"It's not negotiable."

"With who-them or you?"

Happy felt his chest clench, like someone had tightened a screw. "I don't deserve that."

"I'm sorry. It's just, if you knew what we'd been through-"

"I could say the same. So could G.o.do."

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

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

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

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

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

"Samir there? Something I'd like to talk to him about."

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

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

Then there was Roque. The magical one.

"There's a place south of town," he said. "I'll give you directions."

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

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

-He's looking forward to seeing you again.

-No problems?