Do They Know I'm Running?

by David Corbett

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

  Beneath streaming clouds, the fetid pond gave way to a meadow of knee-high grass and silvery thistle crowned with seedpods. A windbreak of walnut trees rimmed one end of the property, the other three guarded by a broken fence, all helter-skelter rails and tottering posts. Behind the house sat a buckle-roofed barn that once, he was told, held a cockfighting pen. All deserted now, snatched away from Efraim’s family by the county for back taxes. The nearest neighbors lived a mile away beyond a range of low hills.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Full auto,” Chato vamped, “spray the fuck out of anything you see.”

  Godo reached over, lifted the weapon from his hands. “Not these,” he said. “Three-shot burst is the best you’ll get. And that’s a waste of ammo because muzzle lift after the first shot makes the next two sail high. Now clam the fuck up and pay attention.”

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

  Chato complained about the repetition. Godo pinned him with a look. “One more fucking word, you go up in the hayloft and spy for cops. I’m not telling you again.”

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

  “I’m trying to train your muscle memory,” Godo said. “You think this is rough? They did this to me for a whole damn week at Pendleton, called it ‘snapping in.’”

  “Ain’t no ‘snap’ about it.” Chato again.

  Godo, turning: “I said one more word.”

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Fine.” Godo jerked the rifle out of his hands. “You can use the shotgun. Even a girl can hit a target with buckshot.”

  “Chucha de tu madre.”

  Godo stepped forward, pressed his face close to Chato’s. “My mother’s what?”

  A weaselly shrug, glancing away. “You heard me.”

  It was galling to realize the guy was Roque’s age. And while Roque was stepping up, this loudmouth lelo, this fool, thought he already knew everything his ignorant ass would never comprehend if you planted it in his brain with a trowel. “Get the fuck outta my sight.”

  Puchi, stepping in: “Godo, come on. He was just letting off steam, man.”

  “Let me hear him say it. C’mon, runt, apologize.”

  “Picoteado.” Pock face.

  Godo actually found that funny. “Little ranker bitch.”

  “Vete a la chingada.” Go to hell.

  “Shut the fuck up!” It was Efraim now, chiming in. Despite the raised voice, he held his rifle down, like the thing was loaded. Right mind, right habits. “You’re wasting my time.”

  “And who the fuck are you?” Chato, mocking. “You own this place? Not no more, puto.”

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

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

  After a moment, Efraim said, “Tato?”

  Godo shook himself out of it. “C’mon. We haven’t even practiced trigger pulls yet.”

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

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

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

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

  “Hey, it’s me. Godo, relax. It’s me.”

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

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

  Godo swept a damp palm across his face. Why was he sweating?

  Tía Lucha whispered, “Buenas noches, amorcitos,” then withdrew into the hall, padding back to her room in her socks.

  Happy said, “Things okay?”

  He smelled of tobacco and pulque. Godo rolled over finally, nudged himself into a sitting position, tucked a pillow into the small of his back. “Why shouldn’t they be?”

  Happy checked around the room, saw the duffel, glanced toward the hallway, cocking an ear for the click of Tía Lucha’s door. “The thing with Puchi and Chato, that’s what I meant.”

  Godo wondered why Efraim didn’t earn mention. He was the only one worth talking about. “Went okay, I guess.”

  “They didn’t say anything was coming up soon?”

  Godo studied Happy’s face. It was gaunt, eyes sinking into the skull like a bedouin’s. Did the guy ever eat? “They mentioned nothing coming up no time.”

  “That’s important. Put off anything they want you to do.”

  Godo recalled the tedious dry fires and other lessons out at the farmhouse, the free-form shoot-out at the barn. “Too late.”

  “I’m not talking target practice. I’m talking a job.”

  A slash of pain rifled up Godo’s spine, igniting a shimmer inside his skull. He wouldn’t be falling back asleep anytime soon. Damn. He wanted a beer. “You’re talking to the wrong creature. I’m not in the loop there.”

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

  “Those two fools? Couldn’t talk me into lunch.”

  “Keep it that way.”

  Incredible, Godo thought, the attitude. “And if Vasco says put me to work?”

  “Put him off. Buy time.” Happy reached out, took Godo’s arm, a brotherly touch. “Two weeks, that’s all we need.”

  THE CAR, A SIX-YEAR-OLD TOYOTA COROLLA, APPEARED IN THE morning, Sisco driving it, part of the arrangement with the salvatruchos for the trip back to the States. The money had finally come through. Roque guessed the car had been stolen up north and was making the return trip with a new VIN number and license plates, all part of Lonely’s little empire. Roque could only imagine what a relief it was to unload this cacharro on just the right bunch of suckers. He wondered what ridiculous price they’d been milked for but that was Happy’s end. He chose to believe Happy knew his business.

  Tío Faustino worried over the thing throughout the day, replacing the serpentine belt, inserting new plugs, changing the oil and coolant. Test drives around San Pedro Lempa gradually increased his confidence level. Finally, late afternoon, came Roque’s turn.

  He slid behind the wheel and adjusted the seat, Tío sitting beside him, wiping his hands on a rag.—She loses power a little going uphill, probably carbon in the cylinders. That’s most likely causing some of the knocking too. It’s not so bad with the new plugs. I haven’t seen smoke, so we’re not burning oil. He tapped out a merry taradiddle on the console, then reached over to squeeze Roque’s shoulder.—Love her, chamaco. She’s our ticket home.

  Roque got the knack of the Corolla easily, a little loose in the wheel, a leftward drift in the front end, soft brakes. They barreled down a two-lane road lined with fields of sun-browned grass and scant trees. A man in an oxcart bearing plantains passed a small abandoned house bombed with gang graffiti. A woman with a bright red water jug atop her head led her daughter by the hand, the girl staring as the car sped past, the thing no less mysterious for being familiar.

  As they drove, he listened to his uncle recount what Carmela and her friends had told him the past few nights. Street vendors were being driven underground, labeled terrorists for selling pirated CDs and DVDs—Hollywood was incredibly, strangely pissed about this, forcing the government to do something—plus the growing corruption in the national police, to where the FBI admitted they could find only twenty officers worthy of trust out of two thousand they’d polygraphed. Former guerrillas, desperate for jobs, now worked security for the very same men who, twenty years ago, wanted them dead. Whole farming communities had abandoned the land because they couldn’t compete with the low price of imported American corn. The spiraling cost of oil, swelling demand for meat and dairy in China and India, the use of cropland for biofuels, it was all driving up prices. Families couldn’t make ends meet. The number of people starving was larger than before the war.

  —I have this terrible sense of déjà vu, Faustino admitted.—I’m running away to save my boy. Except this time he’s saving me.

  It was after nightfall by the time they returned to the house in San Pedro Lempa. As they entered the courtyard, a figure they hadn’t spotted at first rose from one of the chairs, unrecognizable in the darkness. Roque felt his heart bound into his throat but the man approached with an air of deference, clutching a small cloth bag to his chest. In an accent Roque couldn’t quite place, the man said to Tío Faustino, “I believe you are Happy’s father. My greetings to you.” He placed a hand over his heart, bowing respectfully. “My name is Samir.”

  THEY SAT AROUND THE WOOD-PLANK TABLE BENEATH THE MANGO tree, the fragrance from Carmela’s exotic flowers mixing with the scent of candle wax.

  “Let me tell you something, your son was a worker, very dedicated. But also very kind, very brave.” The Arab paused to take a sip of shuco, a hot corn sludge darkened with black-bean paste, thinned with scalding water and sweetened with raw sugar, something Carmela had worked up. “I owe him a great deal, your son. My being here tonight, not least of all.”

  His face—long and vaguely hourglass shaped, indented at the temples—rippled with shadow in the guttering light, his features both delicate and stern, a beak of a nose but womanly lips, sunken eyes, closely shorn hair. His age was hard to pinpoint, late thirties, early fifties, anywhere between. Given the honey color of his skin and his textbook Spanish, he might just pass for a guanaco at the various checkpoints, Roque thought, if he says as little as possible. His accent seemed a bit starched, vaguely Castilian. As for his English, which he preferred to use with Tío Faustino and Roque for the sake of practice, it too was oddly accented, not just with the usual clipped Arab inflections but a kind of plodding cadence, as though he’d learned the language reciting clunky poems.

  “I met Happy when the country was coming apart. The imams were in bed not just with the insurgency but with organized crime. Muqtada al Sadr and his thugs took over the hos
pitals. If a Sunni man came in with a gunshot wound, the Jaish al Mahdi would come, accuse him of being a terrorist, take him away. His body would get found a few days later, tossed in the street or a field somewhere.”

  Tío Faustino hung on every word. Roque remained unconvinced. The man seemed too put together, like an actor still working into the skin of his role.

  “The Shia hated the Palestinians worse than they hated the Sunnis. And I served in the war against Iran—very odd, a Palestinian in the army, but that’s another story. The Persians are Shia too, so I was particularly loathsome to them. But the worst thing? What my own in-laws did to me.”

  Tío Faustino looked puzzled. “How—”

  “Two weeks after the election, my wife’s brothers came, took Fatima and our daughter away while I was at work. Admittedly, things were getting much worse. Our neighbor, he had two uncles kidnapped, a note demanding $100,000 ransom arrived. Impossible. They tried to negotiate. Next day, the two uncles show up at the morgue, drill holes everywhere. This is the Jaish al Mahdi, okay? I could tell you stories even more horrible than this, trust me.”

  Tío Faustino gazed into the candlelight. “War is a kind of sickness. People go mad.”

  “Two days later, Fatima’s brothers show up while I’m away. They left a letter behind, saying they couldn’t just stand by and watch their sister and niece get raped and murdered while I did nothing, as though I didn’t even want to protect them. Everything I did, every dollar I earned, was for them. But none of that mattered. They took Fatima and little Shatha and their own families and fled to Syria, but they couldn’t get in. They’re stuck.”

  One of the candles burned out. Tío Faustino watched the thin curl of smoke rise. “I’m sure my son understood,” he said, “how hard it was for you, your family ripped apart like that, given what he himself has been through. Being deported, I mean.”

  Roque wondered where Tío was going with this. It seemed a morbid kind of one-upmanship, a game of dueling miseries.