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 GLASS 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 bullshit-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.
Samir glanced over his shoulder as they passed 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.
– He’s looking forward to seeing you again.
– No problems?
After all they’d endured, it seemed the most ludicrous question imaginable.
The bus was a throbbing tube of road-worn chrome, twenty years old at least, but luxurious compared to the chicken buses they’d seen farther south. Roque and Lupe climbed on board and sat near the front, plopping down side by side in vinyl seats patched with tape, clasping hands, hers cool inside his, trading the occasional smile. Samir sat alone behind them, so restless Roque felt like reaching around and smacking him one. Not that he wasn’t anxious himself. The driver sprawled in his seat, reading a wrestling magazine as he waited for stragglers, the time of departure apparently far more fluid than they’d feared. All that rush, he thought, now we sit, knowing it wasn’t the delay bothering him. Something he’d heard in Happy’s voice-or rather, something he hadn’t heard-it unnerved him. The words over the phone had seemed adrift, beyond weary, no feeling, no heart. Everyone’s been through a lot, he reminded himself, Happy’s comeback, feeling a twinge of shame. He’d expected to get dumped on, cursed, called a weakling and a failure for letting Tío die, then felt vaguely undone when it didn’t happen. Come on, he thought, resisting an urge to bark at the driver, let’s go, feeling the nearness of home as an urgency, at the same time knowing he was simply afraid.
Forty-Three
EVEN THE BUS DRIVER SEEMED CONFUSED, NOTHING BUT A CLUSTER of half-finished houses, the middle of nowhere. Twilight only enhanced the desolation. Spidery ocotillos and crook-armed saguaros manned the surrounding plain, at the edge of which dust devils swirled in the cool winds funneling down from the mountains. Overhead, a lone hawk caught an updraft and soared in its flux, a small black afterthought in a blackening sky.
The driver rechecked his odometer, confirmed they’d traveled the distance from Cananea that Roque had mentioned, then opened the door, wishing them luck as they gathered their things and shuttled out onto the roadbed. None of the other passengers looked at them. To make eye contact was, ironically, to become visible, and everyone bore a secret, even the children. Their bodies were freight, their lives for sale. The bus pulled away in a plume of black exhaust, its headlights plowing the dusk, and Roque couldn’t help but wonder if they’d been tricked.
Shortly, he realized they weren’t alone. On the stoop outside one of the unfinished houses a scrawny huelepega with matted black hair stuffed his face inside a brown paper bag, sucking up the glue fumes inside. A pack of dogs sulked nearby, trembling, sniffing the air. Then came a pistol shot-the dogs scattered, the gluehead crushed his bag to his chest, jerked to his feet and shambled off into the scrub.
Where in God’s name is he running, Roque thought, wondering if they should follow.
The gunman revealed himself, easing around the corner of one of the nearer houses. Pistol at his side, he approached with trancelike slowness, offering no greeting.
Samir put his hand to his heart. “It has been so long, my friend. My God, you terrified us.”
Happy stopped short, no reply, only a drifting smile, cut loose from the eyes. Turning toward Roque, he said simply, “Hey,” his voice raspy and soft.
Roque said, “You okay?”
“The girl,” Happy said. “She speak English?”
“Not much.” Roque reached for her hand. “Not well.”
Happy looked at their clasped hands, then her face, regarding her as though she were a problem he couldn’t hope to solve. “Remind me, her name?”
A sudden wind kicked up whips of dust. Everyone shielded their eyes.
“Lupe,” Roque said.
Realizing they were talking about her, she offered a shy smile. Happy turned away, gesturing with the pistol for everyone to follow as he led them back to the last house, the only one with a roof as far as Roque could tell. Inside, the walls were bare-no cabinets, no trim, no fixtures-the floors naked sheets of plywood that gave a little underfoot, a spooky sensation in the gathering dark. Cinder blocks sat propped on end like stools, nails lay scattered here and there amid trails of sawdust and cigarette butts and empty pint bottles. Even with the openings where windows should have been letting in air from outside, the room stank like an ashtray.
“How you like the place?” Happy glanced around like he was thinking of buying. “You wouldn’t believe what they want for it.”
Roque wondered where Godo was, the thought of seeing him again cropping up in his mind like a stone in his shoe these past few days. Missing him, wanting no part of him. First their mother, then Tío, who to blame? Who else?
Happy went on, “Came here to watch the place for the guy who owns it. Can’t figure out if we were too early or too late.”
Roque heard it. We. “So Godo’s here somewhere.”
From behind, a thundering: “Call the law!” He filled the doorway, shouldering a duffel. A ragged slide down his arm to the floor-whatever was inside clattered dully. Noticing the look on everyone’s face, he grinned. “Hold the applause.”
Roque felt a sudden coil of inner heat, so much held in check over the last few weeks, all of it now boiling up. “You sorry motherfucker!”
“Stop sniveling.” Godo spread his arms. “Time for abrazos.”
Roque didn’t move. He couldn’t. “Stop fucking around.” His glance darted toward Lupe, who seemed baffled. Me too, he wanted to tell her.
Godo approached. “Who says I’m fucking around?”
“You’re being a dick.”
“Because I want a hug from my hermanito?”
Before Roque could answer Godo swallowed him up in his arms, a warm musty funk rising from his body as he rocked a little back and forth. In a whisper, so no one else could hear: “I know you’re fucked up about losing Tío. Don’t carry it with you. Let that shit go.”
For a moment, Roque couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Who was this person, what had he done with Godo? He swallowed a surge of weepiness and managed to say, “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” Godo pressed his head against Roque’s. “Whole lotta sorry to go around. Not just you. It was all of us. We all lost Tío. Don’t carry that alone.” He gave two fierce slaps to Roque’s back and let him go. Loudly, for the others: “There. That so fucking unbearable?”
Dazedly, Roque embraced Happy as well, for the sake of symmetry if nothing else. Introductions went around. Samir, as always impatient, asked if they were crossing that night.
“I need to talk to you about something,” Happy said. The way it came out, everyone sank. “The people we arranged things through to begin with-I know, we don’t owe them nothing at this point but hear me out-they know something about you. An American showed up, talked to the patrón who runs things along this stretch of the border. You’re supposed to get handed over to him, this American. He represents some company out of Dallas.”