It was too uncomfortable to fit all four of them in the room unless everybody stood, so they kept the door open and Roque sat in the hall as Tío Faustino recounted what Beto had told them. An angry fly caromed against the dingy corridor walls. The overhead light flickered. Samir unsurprisingly voted to stay with the salvatruchos. Lupe deferred to the group. Tío Faustino glanced over his shoulder at Roque with the same sad warmth he’d shown on the stair, at which point something crystallized.
Roque said:-I’ll agree to stay with Beto and the salvatruchos only if you, Samir, agree to let us work something out with El Recio in Agua Prieta. I’ll buy Lupe’s freedom somehow, stay behind myself, whatever it takes. But I’m not going to watch her get handed over.
Tío ventured a quixotic smile. Samir leaned forward to say something but Lupe beat him to the opening.-It’s none of your business.
– I’m talking about my conscience. Whose business is it?
– This is unfair, she said, you can’t-
– You have no idea how such things work, Samir told Roque, the kind of men-
– You’re pushing your luck, Roque said, know that? Don’t kid yourself, you could wind up stranded somewhere in the middle of Mexico, nothing but your thumb in the air and what’s left of your luck in that bag of yours. Wouldn’t kill you to try a little harder, be a team player.
Samir’s gaze sank into the hollows of his eyes.-If that’s how it is, he said quietly, but if this El Recio says no way, the girl stays behind, then what?
– It’ll come down to money.
– Really? How can you be so-
– I’ll deal with it then! Roque’s voice echoed down the bare hallway. Stupid, he thought, get it together.-Now if we’re going with Beto we need to get out of here. I don’t see much to gain sticking around for Chepito if all we’re going to do is say no.
HE MADE A SHOW OF LEAVING THE OLD GUITAR IN THE LOBBY, AS though to guarantee their return, then they ambled out as a group to the fair. Crowds still swarmed the narrow streets, providing cover as the four of them drifted farther away from the posada. Tiny Mayan women marched with woven baskets atop their heads, men carried drowsy children draped across their shoulders, the rest of the throng just bobbed and swayed in the darkening twilight. Roque glanced behind every few seconds, to see who might be following, but it was impossible to tell.
They walked in aimless circles for half an hour just in case, then headed for the feria’s central arcade, comprised of long low tents, where concessions served food. They ordered heaping paper plates of grilled chicken, fried yucca, black beans, papaya slices for dessert, deciding to wait until nine o’clock as innocently as possible, so if Chepito happened to find them they could say convincingly they’d simply wandered out for dinner, lost track of time.
Shortly after eight, fireworks erupted over the still-crowded river, the stuttered explosions deafening. Roque took the show as cue to venture back to the posada but before he did he sat down next to Samir, who was watching a mother several tables over feed her crippled boy.
Leaning in to whisper, Roque said, “Happy told me you saved his life. He said I could rely on you. I haven’t found that to be true, to be honest.” Samir turned his gaze from the mother and son, his eyes hypnotic in their vacancy. “You’ve been a major pain in the ass as far as I’m concerned. Did Happy get it wrong?” Overhead a rocket shrieked with a quivering tail of smoke into the pitch-black sky, paused for a breath, then detonated like a thunderclap in a green-and-white starburst. The crowd gasped and cheered and sighed. Roque got up to leave. “Look after my uncle. Take care of the girl. Live up to what Happy said about you.”
He worked his way back through the dwindling crowd to the posada and chose a dark spot between two vendor stalls to settle in and wait for Beto. The working girls were still gathered out front, watching the last of the fireworks. Some of the roughnecks from earlier came and went as well, refreshed with beer. A quarter before nine, Chepito and his sidekick showed up, materializing from the stragglers still wandering about. The two men vanished inside-a minute passed, then two, then five. Chepito and the other man returned to the porch, the latter carrying the cheap guitar now, holding it by the neck like a club. They questioned the hookers, one of whom pointed the way Roque and the others had taken earlier, toward the river, not the fair. Good, Roque thought, go.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder.
He shot to his feet, spun around, knocked the hand away.
“Easy, cabrón.”
Roque’s skin was slick with sweat. “I didn’t know who you were.”
“I get that.” Beto leaned out into the street, looking each direction. “I already rounded up your uncle and the other two.”
“How did you know where to find them?”
“You keep asking me that.”
Roque wiped his face. “We’ve decided to go with you, not El Chusquero.”
“Yeah. That’s been explained already.” Beto reached into his jeans, withdrew a box of Chiclets, shook two pieces into his palm, sharing one. “Look, I’ll get your uncle and the other two across the river, we’ll pick up a bus on the other side. You should go get your car before those two huecos looking for you figure that’s where you gotta end up.”
A fight broke out in the middle of the street, down the way, near the posada. The hookers started cheering, wading into the fray, bawling out the names of the adversaries: Chepe, Zumbo.
“Get to the bridge,” Beto said. “Tell the border agent you’re heading for Puerto Vallarta, Acapulco, someplace on the coast. Follow the highway all the way to Arriaga. Go to the railway station. There’s a hotel across the street. Ask for Victor. He knows you’re coming.”
ROQUE GOT HIS BEARINGS AND FOUND HIS WAY BACK TO WHERE HE’D parked the Corolla. The lot was marked by Christmas lights draped between poles on either side of the entrance. Pausing in an alley across the street, he waited a moment, making sure only the old man and his grandsons were there, not Chepito, not his buddy, not someone else. He dug into his pocket, pulled out a hundred-quetzal note, then another-a little over twenty-five dollars total-checking them close in the dark to be sure of their denomination, wishing he could spare more. He’d already paid the parking fee up front when he’d arrived; this was for discretion. He crossed the street, dodging a weepy drunk, then two women dragging a handcart, and approached the grandfather who was sitting in a white plastic chair, fanning himself with his hat, his youngest grandson at his feet.
“Hola, viejo.” Roque folded the money into the old man’s hand. “Gracias por todo.”
Hurrying toward the car beneath the ancient ceiba, he tried to reconnoiter the area without seeming too obvious, swatting away mosquitoes with one hand as he walked, digging out his keys with the other. He could feel the old man’s eyes on his back as he opened the car door, dropped behind the wheel. The engine turned over-thank God, he thought, having feared they might have taken the distributor cap-and he put the transmission in gear, flipped on the headlights, steered his way out of the lot and into the street.
Someone started pounding on the car door with a meaty fist-Chepito’s sidekick, still carrying the beat-up guitar in his other hand. He was grabbing for the handle, trying to open the door. Roque elbowed the plunger down, throwing the lock, and accelerated.