“Yeah.”
“What for, bro?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. You kill three people but you don’t know.”
“One guy clamped my car...”
“Yeah, it said so on the news.”
“And then I robbed the 7-Eleven. But I really don’t know.”
“I don’t even know what to say.”
“Thanks for coming here.”
“Fuck you. What am I supposed to do, just forget about you?”
“I didn’t know if you would.”
“That’s because you don’t know shit.” Miguel started to cry.
“I need clothes,” Luis said.
“I brought you some, like you asked. They’re in my car. Wait here and I’ll get them.” Miguel walked to the road, got a backpack from his car, headed back into the woods. Luis was now sitting on the ground. Miguel dropped the backpack in front of him.
“Thanks,” Luis said.
“You better head for Mexico. There’s no way you can beat this. They got you on video at the 7-Eleven, and they got a body laying next to your car. White people. You’re looking at death row for sure.”
Luis didn’t say anything.
“Get to Mexico. You can just disappear there, they’ll never find you. The narcos’ll cover your ass if you work for them. But go. You gotta go.”
“I know. I’m gonna go.”
“How?”
“I’ll steal a car.”
“You know how to hot-wire?”
“No.”
“You gonna kill somebody to get a car?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Miguel was crying hard. He took out his car keys and threw them at Luis. “Asshole. Asshole. Take my fucking car.”
“Miguel...”
“Shut up. Take the fucking car. I’m still paying it off, so I guess insurance’ll cover it, maybe. I’ll wait a couple days before I report it stolen. At least you won’t get pulled over driving a hot car.”
“Thanks. You know the cops’ll probably figure it out that you helped me.”
“Fuck them. They got to prove it.” Miguel sat down on the ground beside Luis. “Asshole. What happened? I thought I was gonna be best man at your wedding for sure.”
“You would’ve been.”
“I know. And you would’ve been my best man. Oh my God. My God.”
They sat there together for a few minutes, not looking at each other and not saying anything. Miguel stopped crying, wiped his face with his tie. Then Luis said, “Hey, Miguel?”
“What?”
“Listen, it’s gonna be all right. I’m gonna be all right.”
“Sure you are.”
“No, I mean it. I don’t want you to be worried. I don’t want you to worry about anything. It’ll be all right.”
Miguel stood up, and then Luis did the same. Luis held out a dirty, bloodstained hand, and Miguel squeezed it. “You gonna be in touch sometime?” Miguel asked. “At least let me know you made it?”
“Don’t worry about anything.”
“You got money?”
“Yeah.”
“Shit. You got it from the 7-Eleven.”
Miguel walked away. He didn’t look back.
Luis opened the backpack and searched inside it. There were two pairs of jeans, two T-shirts, a thick shirt, a wool jacket, boxer shorts, socks, a pair of running shoes. He stripped off his own clothes, the cold making his teeth chatter, and put on Miguel’s. The shoes were a little bit too big, but they would do. He spat several times on the shirt he had taken off, and used it to wipe his hands and face. He bundled his discarded clothes together and hid them under a bush. Then he picked up the backpack and walked to the road.
Miguel’s car was a white Camaro. Luis got in and looked at himself in the rearview. There was still some dried blood on his face and in his hair. He licked his fingers and rubbed it off his face, then ran his fingers through his hair, brushing the red flakes away. Then he put on his sunglasses and started the car.
As he drove down the road into Santa Fe, he saw Miguel walking quickly. He honked the car horn, and Miguel waved a little. Luis watched him in the rearview until he couldn’t see him anymore.
He drove at the speed limit to Albuquerque. The car had a quarter tank of gas left. He wondered whether it would be safer to stop at a busy gas station there in town where he might be recognized but probably wouldn’t be noticed, or in a quiet one outside of town where he was less likely to be recognized but more likely to be noticed and remembered. Somehow it felt as though a gas station in town would be safer, but he just didn’t want to get out of the car, so he pulled onto the I-40 going west and filled up with gas at a place about ten miles out of the city.
He kept thinking about his apartment, about the things it contained, his plates and cups and skillets, Catboy. His life with Vanjii. He wished he had asked Miguel to take care of Catboy.
In the early evening, he crossed the Arizona state line. When he reached Flagstaff, he got on I-17 and headed south, until the pines gave way to cacti.
When Vanjii got home from work, Jaimie told her that her dad had called twice. She called him back, and he told her what he had seen on TV. Vanjii yelled at him, then said she was sorry. She hung up. Then she found Miguel’s number and called it. Miguel didn’t want to talk because he was afraid his phone might be tapped. He didn’t tell Vanjii that, he just said he had to go out somewhere. She was angry with him, but he called her from a public phone about ten minutes later and they talked for a long time.
By the time he got to Phoenix, it was around 8 in the evening. Luis exited on Seventh Street, turned onto Roosevelt, and followed it to Grand. When he saw the Bikini Lounge, he wanted to stop there just because it was someplace he had heard of.
The place wasn’t busy, even though you could get some brands of beer for a dollar a bottle, and a pitcher for three dollars. A guy was deejaying, playing soul standards from the 1970s. Luis ordered a beer and sat at the bar and listened.
At the beginning of a Curtis Mayfield song, a woman and a man got up and started to dance, standing right in front of the deejay’s booth. They danced slowly, holding each other close. The man was balding and the woman had gray in her hair and Luis somehow knew they had been together for years. It felt like a knife in his spine.
Jaimie was in the living room working the phone, talking to men as they jacked off. Carlos, as usual, wasn’t home. Vanjii was in the kitchen drinking coffee and staring at the table. She hadn’t told Jaimie anything, and didn’t think she was going to. She didn’t even know how to tell it to herself.
A fly landed on the table. It sat there, eyes sending images to the brain, lungs receiving oxygen, heart beating with certainty. Vanjii didn’t think, she just slapped with her hand, coming from behind so the fly saw nothing, and then the fly was crushed flat, just a stain on the wood. Vanjii washed her hands and made more coffee. She wondered when she’d be able to cry.
When Luis left the bar, he walked around for a few minutes. At 1 in the morning, it felt hardly less warm than a summer afternoon in Santa Fe. A person slept in every other doorway. Luis wanted to walk farther, but he could find nowhere to head to, so he went to his car.
He was almost out of gas. He stopped at a Circle K on First Avenue and Van Buren. As he was pumping the gas, a guy came up to him. “Hey. Excuse me...”
Luis looked at him and didn’t say anything.
“Listen,” the guy said. “I need a favor. My little girl’s sick, and she’s on East Fillmore, and I need to go there and see her tonight, but I got no car. If you can just give me a ride up there, I’ll give you five bucks for the gas.”