Chepito went to the man at the card table, whispered something, waited out the reply, then collected a key, dangling it between finger and thumb as he gestured for Roque and the others to follow. The henchling, still nameless, his shirttail pulled over the pistol shoved down into his jeans, took up the rear.
The room was a closet with a cot and a bowl. The canvas of the cot bore a disturbing stain. The bowl had a used bar of soap in it. A tiny window looked out on a passageway between the posada and the next building over.
Chepito maneuvered everyone inside.-I am going to talk with a man who works here with us. He will arrange for your crossing over to Mexico. There will be a boat, it will take you to a spot a little south of Puerto Escondido and there you’ll be met and taken the rest of the way overland. I’ll be back after dark. If you want something to eat or drink, there’s a place in the back, out on the patio, you can get soft drinks and tortillas, maybe beer. Or they can send one of the kids out, get something from the fair. Don’t go wandering around. Even with all the people out, it’s still not safe, not for you.
He met each of their glances meaningfully, then closed the door. The four of them stood there, so close each could feel the next person’s breath on his or her skin. Shortly footsteps clattered on the wood stair: two sets descending, not just one. Roque felt relieved. The thought of being stuck in the cramped room, the nameless henchling standing guard, seemed too grim.
He said:-They’re arranging the crossing to Mexico? Since when?
Tío Faustino turned to look out the small window, craning to get a glimpse of the street.-Something cold and wet is in order, I’d say. Who will join me?
Roque reached for the doorknob, figuring everyone was going, but Lupe plopped down on the cot, avoiding the umber stain.-I’ll stay. In case they come back.
Not missing a beat, Samir dropped his cloth shoulder bag in the corner and settled down next to it, folding his arms, dropping his chin.-I’ll wait too. I hate crowds. If you think of it, bring me back a Pepsi.
Lupe shot him a black glance.-What, you’re afraid I’ll try to squeeze out through the window? Then what-fly away?
– Let me tell you something, I wouldn’t put it past you. He traced a finger across the floor, inspecting the ribbon of grime that came up.-The window part, not the flying.
Tío Faustino nudged Roque into the hall, smiling farewell.-We won’t be long, I promise.
The patio area was in truth a patch of tamped-down sand with tussocks of pampas grass, shaded by a stately conacaste. Two giant wood spools served as tables with a scattering of plastic chairs. The bar consisted of a door spread across two sawhorses, aluminum tubs filled with ice and drinks underneath, packs of cigarettes on top: Rubio, Pasayo, Marlboro, Pall Mall. Tío Faustino bought two tamarindos-they came in sealed plastic bags with straws-and sat with Roque, leaning in so they could whisper, using English as an extra precaution.
“It may be a blessing in disguise, this connection with El Chusquero.” A trio of shirtless boys slinked toward the table to beg. Tío Faustino shooed them off. “If we put our lot in with him from here on out, we may not have to hand the girl, Lupe, over to that sniveling little coward’s connection in Agua Prieta, I can’t recall the name.”
“El Recio.” Roque remembered it well, it meant Tough Guy. “What about Samir?”
“As long as he gets to America, he’ll have no complaints.”
“Are you joking? He’ll have nothing but complaints. You saw him. He hates her.”
“That’s not-”
“He’s developed this thing for her. He’ll only be happy if he sees her suffer.”
“Don’t exaggerate. While you were upstairs serenading El Chusquero with the girl, I was down in the cellar with El Turco, okay? He’s not a monster.”
“You’re only saying that because he saved Happy’s life.”
“Nonsense. He just knows, the way it stands, his fate is tied to hers.”
Tío Faustino rubbed his eyes and when his hands came away Roque noticed how much older he seemed than just a few days ago. His stubble was bristly and gray, the sagging flesh beneath his eyes was the color of tea, his hands shook. Only driving seemed to soothe him and it would be days at least before he was back behind the wheel, assuming they were lucky.
“Besides,” he continued, “it’s not a bad idea to remember where our confidence in that pack of salvatruchos got us.”
“Tío, who knows what El Chusquero’s really up to here? He’s not doing this out of kindness, it’s going to cost. And Happy made it clear, there’s no more money. This last payment’s the end.”
“Maybe we could work something out.”
“No, Tío, listen to me. I know how the guy thinks. He’ll strand us in the middle of nowhere till we pay. And let me repeat: There is no more money.”
“So you’re okay then with handing that girl over to some padrote.” Pimp.
“Good God, how can you say such a thing? I just-”
“We’re not going to have a lot of choices. This one presents itself. I say we consider it. Unless you-”
Tío Faustino broke off his sentence, stiffening imperceptibly, eyes veiled. He seemed to be saying, Don’t look. Shortly, however, the newcomer who’d caught his eye was grabbing a nearby chair, dragging it over to their table through the gravel. Finally, as the chair came close and the stranger plopped down, Roque glanced his direction.
Twenty-Seven
HE WAS HANDSOME LIKE AN EXOTIC ANIMAL, LATE TWENTIES, indio features and muscular, his flat bronze face astonishingly smooth-skinned. His arms were tattooed but his hands, his face, his neck were clear. He wore a Giants cap and an immaculate T-shirt.
“Roque, Faustino-hey.” Their names rolled off his tongue naturally, without affected familiarity. “I’m Beto, your guía. Take you from here to Agua Prieta.”
Roque remembered the name, he was Lonely’s man in Tecún Umán. His English was solid, the accent soft, that lilting musicality few Latinos lost.
Beto gestured to the Indian woman working refreshments for a third tamarindo. She dug one from her cooler, tottered over, money changed hands. It gave everyone a second to think.
Finally, Tío Faustino said, “You’ve lived in the States.”
Beto laughed. “Yeah. Up around Salinas.” He fussed with the straw for his tamarindo, punctured the plastic bag, took a sip. “Worked construction, I was a carpenter, till I got snagged running a stop sign. Believe that? Bad luck, man. Now I can’t go back for ten years.” He checked out the patio area, then a shoulder roll, a bodybuilder tic. “Getting used to it here. Life’s okay. And who needs the constant paranoia, right? Crazy back there now.”
Roque said, “Look, we don’t know who we’re supposed to be dealing with.”
“Nothing’s changed.” Beto’s eyes darted between Roque and Tío. “We’re good to go.”
Tío Faustino said, “How did you know where to find us?”
“This shithole?” Beto glanced up at the cracked and moldy stucco wall of the posada. A large black pijuyo perched on the edge of the roof. “This is my town. What goes on here’s my business. Look, you guys paid for us to get you to the States. That’s what I’m here to do, my leg of the trip anyway.”