They were seated in his office, painted a stark white and located at the back of a traditional thick-walled house, his headquarters. The only furnishings in the room were his desk with its leather swivel chair, a huge Guatemalan flag hanging behind him on the wall and two wood chairs for Roque and Lupe.

He was the leader of the gunmen who'd come to their rescue out at the roadblock in the hills. Who he and those men were, exactly, remained somewhat foggy, though it seemed obvious by now they weren't exactly Robin Hood and his Merry Men.

The desk was arrayed with a yard-long cord of rope with two close knots in it-the better to crush the windpipe of your victim, or so the Commander had explained during their leisurely afternoon together-plus a stretch of piano wire tied to two blocks of wood, a modest if chilling collection of knives, a bayonet honed to razor sharpness, a machete similarly seasoned, a set of nunchuks, even a length of chain he called a pirulo pirulo. An overreliance on firearms was the mark of an amateur, he'd remarked at one point, wanting to be thought of as muy maton muy maton, a real killer, a point he'd driven home with an anecdote from his days with the Kaibil corps, the Guatemalan special forces. They gave each recruit a puppy at the beginning of basic training, he'd said, and that puppy was your sole responsibility until the end, when you were commanded to slit its throat. Some recruits wept, others vomited. "But I," El Chusquero intoned with exuberant pride, "I not shame me."

He'd been studying Lupe's face with unsettling fascination throughout the afternoon. Clearly he thought Roque was the culprit-and, judging from the tone of his winking insinuation, approved.

"Honestly, it wasn't me," Roque told him, trying to sound more humble than moral. He sat tuning the impossible guitar. They'd been serenading the man for hours now, ever since he'd learned they were musical.

The Commander sat back in his chair, rocking pensively, contemplating Roque's disavowal. Sunlight drilled the window ledge. The putrid, sickeningly sweet stench of cascaras de cafe of cascaras de cafe, the husks stripped away from coffee beans, thickened the stifling afternoon air, like a mix of rotting chocolate stirred with human s.h.i.t.

Roque strummed the guitar to test the tuning, deciding it wouldn't get better with more fussing. Distraction had become its own kind of focus as they'd run through song after song. Luckily the Commander's tastes were unoriginal. He preferred many of the same ranchera ranchera ballads that Roque had played in San Pedro Lempa; what others he requested were easy enough to fake after hearing him or Lupe hum a bar or two. They tended to be about defiant pride in the face of f.e.c.kless betrayal. Women came off badly in them-shrewish, cruel, duplicitous, needy-thus his fascination, Roque supposed, with Lupe's face. Meanwhile she was growing hoa.r.s.e from the nonstop performance and even with the additional requests the repertoire was tediously thin. Roque had played some songs a dozen times. But there was no thought of stopping. ballads that Roque had played in San Pedro Lempa; what others he requested were easy enough to fake after hearing him or Lupe hum a bar or two. They tended to be about defiant pride in the face of f.e.c.kless betrayal. Women came off badly in them-shrewish, cruel, duplicitous, needy-thus his fascination, Roque supposed, with Lupe's face. Meanwhile she was growing hoa.r.s.e from the nonstop performance and even with the additional requests the repertoire was tediously thin. Roque had played some songs a dozen times. But there was no thought of stopping.

"This is your woman, do not tell me no." The Commander eyed Roque tauntingly. "I can see. I have eyes. More-I have ears. You play, she sings, like lovers." lovers." It came out with a baiting smile, an insult wrapped in a dare. It came out with a baiting smile, an insult wrapped in a dare.

Roque was aware that, while playing, he'd thoughtlessly stolen a glance now and then at Lupe as she'd lifted her face, eyes closed, concentrating on the lyrics and her pitch. Her voice, as always, kindled something inside him and perhaps that had come out in his playing, though he'd only tried to match what he'd heard as she sang, like any good accompanist. As time had pa.s.sed and the repet.i.tions multiplied he felt he'd become increasingly attuned to the nuances of her phrasing. Now all that seemed a hopeless mistake.

Lupe broke in.-Music is intimate by its nature, she said. Roque had learned over the past two hours that she had an awkwardly functional if limited command of English that permitted her to pluck out certain meaningful words-like "lovers." She also had a knack for reading faces, gestures, tone of voice.-A song can make anyone seem amorous, even two strangers, if it is done properly.

El Chusquero squirmed. To keep from having to show Lupe any attention whatsoever and to continue hacking away at his English, he spoke to Roque: "Strangers? No. Not possible. You think I'm stupid-I no have eyes?"

For some reason, Lupe kept at it.-I can see you too are a romantic.

She was either daringly brilliant, Roque thought, or fiercely stupid. The Commander trained his gaze on her. The silence felt like a shroud.

-I think you're being generous, she continued.-Too generous.

Seriously. We barely know each other. She flicked her hand back and forth, herself, Roque.-It's the songs. The songs bring the feeling out of me, out of him. Out of you.

Rather than respond, El Chusquero turned his attention to the laptop resting on his desk among the weapons. He'd shown them a website earlier, explaining it to them, feeling it would prove instructive. He'd kept the screen averted since then but now he tapped the s.p.a.ce bar so the screen saver melted away, revealing the background slide show, then glanced up at his two visitors with a truculent smile.

The website belonged to an incarcerated colonel named Otilio Ruben Villagran Pozuelos, under whom the Commander said he had served in Peten during the civil war. The reasons for Colonel Villagran's imprisonment were left vague, though it was clear the dutiful El Chusquero considered them a travesty. That didn't keep the colonel from living in relative opulence-in his earlier tutorial, the Commander had shown them pictures of his old superior's prison quarters posted on the site: a s.p.a.cious and freshly painted room with a refrigerator, an entertainment center with cable TV and a stereo, a bra.s.s bed, elegantly appointed bookshelves, rugs on the floor, even a few tasteful watercolors adorning the walls. But for the lack of natural light, it almost seemed more a condo than a cell.

The slide show now in progress, however, was horrific. The pictures had been taken with cell phones during a riot inside the prison: one group of cholos cholos cowing another within one of the prison sectors, wielding machetes and dart guns called cowing another within one of the prison sectors, wielding machetes and dart guns called chimbas; chimbas; a prisoner trying to escape through a hole in the wall; a a prisoner trying to escape through a hole in the wall; a cholo cholo grabbing the would-be escapee by the hair, raising a machete to hack at his neck. In the background, torchlight reflected the glimmer of row after row of empty mayonnaise jars, and Roque remembered Happy's letter, recalled his story of nightlong humiliation in La Esperanza, the Salvadoran prison. Roque's imaginings of that night could not come close to what he was now obliged to watch. Lupe turned away; this was permitted since, after all, she was merely a woman. grabbing the would-be escapee by the hair, raising a machete to hack at his neck. In the background, torchlight reflected the glimmer of row after row of empty mayonnaise jars, and Roque remembered Happy's letter, recalled his story of nightlong humiliation in La Esperanza, the Salvadoran prison. Roque's imaginings of that night could not come close to what he was now obliged to watch. Lupe turned away; this was permitted since, after all, she was merely a woman.

El Chusquero, meaningfully turning to Spanish:-You see the fate of our enemies.

-I am not your enemy, she said.

-You see what happens to those who mock us.

-I would never- -Don't contradict me!

Lupe sagely dropped her glance to the floor. A tremor fluttered along the hollow of her throat.-I'm sorry, El Chusquero.

Responding to an impulse from G.o.d knew where, Roque began playing softly the opening refrain of "Cancion de Cuna"-Song of the Cradle-the Cuban lullaby he used to practice endlessly when he first began playing guitar. It drove G.o.do crazy, the constant repet.i.tion, but then gradually he always calmed down, often despite himself, succ.u.mbing to the insidious languor of the melody.

Eyes still trained on Lupe, El Chusquero reached down to a lower desk drawer and took out a small gla.s.s cage. At first Roque could not make out what lay inside, except for a quivering shudder of small black forms, two dozen or so, swarming across mounded beds of sand, in the midst of which lay a rubbery lump of hairy flesh, prey of some kind. Gradually he recognized the armored bodies, the glossy pincers, the uniquely coiled tails.

He stopped playing.

El Chusquero, employing Spanish again, so Lupe could not pretend to misunderstand:-Let us call this the lovers' test. These, you may or may not know, are a particular kind of Guatemalan scorpion. They're not as deadly as those one encounters farther north but the sting is still quite painful, especially if there is more than one. Right now they are feeding on a tarantula we found out in the firewood. But they can always be tempted to eat whatever we give them. He gingerly lifted the cage's gla.s.s lid.-So here is the test: Which one of you is willing to put a hand inside? You cannot both refuse. He stared at her bruised face.-One must suffer so the other does not. Such is love, no?

For some reason, Roque suddenly became acutely aware of the groaning rumble of flatbed trucks loaded high with sugarcane laboring through the village's modest zona urbana zona urbana, that and the sulfurous smell of the cascaras de cafe cascaras de cafe. His tongue and throat had turned stone dry. Still, after a labored swallow:-Why are you doing this?

Before the man could answer, Lupe jumped to her feet, approached the desk and reached out with her left hand.-You are mistaken about us, El Chusquero. I don't know why you won't believe me. But if one of us must be the victim, let it be me. A guitarist must look after his hands, no? And we may well need to play and sing again as we make our way north, to earn a little money here and there.

Her face was a mask of stoic indifference. Roque realized she'd understood instinctively what he hadn't, there was no way to negotiate out of this. He sat gazing at her, feeling unmanned. El Chusquero eyed her too, but with an almost merry suspicion, while the chittering ma.s.s of black bodies continued boiling over one another in their gla.s.sed-in world.

Suddenly the Commander reached out, snagged her wrist-not roughly, more like the father of a reticent bride.-And what else, for the sake of your lover's hands, would you be willing to do for money?

For what felt like an eternity neither of them moved, eyes locked, her breathing feathery from terror, his smile gradually draining away. Finally he tossed her hand aside and slammed the gla.s.s lid shut.-You think I'm a s.a.d.i.s.t, a fool. That tells me who you are. What kind of woman you are. You know nothing of me, what I think, what I feel. Sit the f.u.c.k down.

Lupe drifted back to her chair, a terrified sigh trembling up from her belly as she clasped her hands in her lap. The Commander watched, saying nothing. Finally, he turned to Roque.-Play something, a.s.shole. And not that weepy little number you were f.u.c.king around with before.

Roque formed his left hand around the guitar neck, searching out an intro chord, but nothing came. Every tune that entered his mind seemed charged with some secret insult. Thankfully, he was spared a decision as a knock came softly at the door. One of the henchlings peeked in, a member of the crew of riflemen from the encounter on the road, a young Mayan named Chepito.-El Chusquero, a moment, please. He was small and coiled tight, dressed in a bleached-out work shirt and jeans, a pistol tucked in his waistband.

The Commander took one last look at Lupe, then without comment left the room, closing the door to the hallway behind him.

Roque and Lupe turned to each other as though unsure the other was really there. Before he could say anything, she lifted a finger to her lips, darting her eyes toward the door. Always the wise one, he thought, doubly ashamed. Unable to help himself, he glanced at the scrum of small black scorpions one last time, imagining her hand in there, swarmed, stung, piped with venom. For his sake.

The Commander burst back into the room, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Gesturing curtly, he ordered Lupe and Roque out. Wasting no time, they obeyed.

They had known that while the Commander sat with them, indulging his taste for rancheras rancheras, his men had been busy trying to determine who the four strangers they'd saved really were. For fear of the consequences if they were discovered holding anything back, Roque had explained their arrangement-the payment to Lonely and his network of smugglers, all aligned with Mara Salvatrucha. El Chusquero had responded that the gunmen at the roadblock had been members of the salvatruchos' of the salvatruchos' main rival, Mara Dieciocho. Someone had tipped off the main rival, Mara Dieciocho. Someone had tipped off the pistoleros pistoleros about the border crossing and they'd hoped to kidnap the four of them, kill them in some strikingly memorable way, post the video on the Web and discredit their enemies' operation, show that Lonely and the about the border crossing and they'd hoped to kidnap the four of them, kill them in some strikingly memorable way, post the video on the Web and discredit their enemies' operation, show that Lonely and the salvatruchos salvatruchos could protect no one, the better to move in, claim their share of the lucrative racket of moving people and product north. But none of this was entirely clear. So much of what the Commander said came larded with a caustic if dull-witted irony, as though anything he actually chose to tell you was in essence a kind of joke. And he'd said nothing about how his own men happened to come along at just the right time, nor about any could protect no one, the better to move in, claim their share of the lucrative racket of moving people and product north. But none of this was entirely clear. So much of what the Commander said came larded with a caustic if dull-witted irony, as though anything he actually chose to tell you was in essence a kind of joke. And he'd said nothing about how his own men happened to come along at just the right time, nor about any mara mara affiliation of his own. Roque suspected the man had no such ties except to the incarcerated Colonel Villagran, which brought to mind the hideous prison-riot photos. You see the fate of our enemies. But who, exactly, were those enemies? Who wasn't? affiliation of his own. Roque suspected the man had no such ties except to the incarcerated Colonel Villagran, which brought to mind the hideous prison-riot photos. You see the fate of our enemies. But who, exactly, were those enemies? Who wasn't?

Chepito led them to a room in the bas.e.m.e.nt that reeked of mildew and body odor. As though to parody the Commander's Spartan sense of decor, it was totally devoid of furniture. Tio Faustino, Samir and a third man sat cross-legged on the bare cement floor with a deck of worn playing cards, engaged in a game of canasta. The stranger was twentyish, gaunt, unshaven, his hair stiff from lack of washing and his uncut fingernails rimmed with grime. His sunken stare resembled an animal's, though from dread or hunger or just raw tedium it was hard to tell.

Lupe immediately fled to a corner, dropped to her haunches, tucked up her knees and covered her head with her arms. Samir shot her a glance of naked contempt. Tio Faustino, wiping a glaze of sweat from his face, glanced at Roque inquiringly but he responded with a shake of his head, set the guitar down with a ringing thud, then dropped to the floor himself, using the instrument for a pillow as he lay on his back, draping an arm across his eyes. He felt impossibly tired, the adrenalin jag of the past few hours draining away like a toxic dream.

Samir, using Spanish for the sake of the stranger, said to Roque:-Guess how long our new friend here has been trapped inside this house?

By way of introduction, the stranger interjected:-My name is Sergio. His voice was faint, trebly, educated.

Peeking out from under his arm, Roque saw an unwashed hand snaking through the air in his direction. Lifting himself up on an elbow, he squelched his queasiness, shook it.-Roque.

-Oh I know. I've heard so much, so much about you. And Lupe.

The girl's name arched across the room, a lobbed pitch. She did not swing.

Sergio turned back to the men.-It's been wonderful, having someone to talk to, you have no idea. And canasta, not just solitaire. A miracle.

He beamed like a schoolboy, clutching his fanned cards to his chest. Roque suppressed a mild case of the creeps.

-Tell him how long you've been here, Samir prompted.

-Oh, yes. Yes. Nine and a half months. As of last Wednesday.

Samir shot Roque a baleful glance, saying in English. "Let me tell you something, I'll kill somebody before I stay here nine and a half months."

-His family can't come up with the ransom, Tio Faustino offered.

-It's far too much money. Far too much. Sergio chafed a hand beneath his nose, then swept it through his hair.-They think my family is rich. We're not. We're merchants. Appliances: stoves, refrigerators, washers, dryers. We have eight stores, in five towns, here and there across the country. But that's nothing. We own no land. We have no political connections. We do not belong to society. We work. My family has not forgotten me, don't think that. No. But the ransom is impossible. Too much, too much.

Tio Faustino drew a card from the stock, arranged it in his hand, then placed a six of spades faceup in the discard pile. Everyone knew the stories, hostages held for seven to ten years, some killed when it became clear the family would never come up with the money, sometimes even when they did. He shuddered, thinking if mere months could reduce a man to this, what would years do? To change the subject, he leaned a little closer, lowering his voice so no one stationed at the door might overhear.-Sergio, what is it with El Chusquero, this colonel in prison? Are these guys soldiers or gangsters?

-Both! Good G.o.d, both, of course. Both. Though it wasn't yet his turn, Sergio took a second to review his hand and the melds arranged before him, tapping his cards expectantly with his filthy middle finger.-You haven't heard of Los Zetas? Mexican commandos working for the Gulf cartel. a.s.sa.s.sins. They were trained by Kaibil officers like El Chusquero. They're notorious.

Roque watched Samir draw a card, puzzle over it, grimace, toss it down onto the discard pile.

Sergio was next. He drew a card, screwed up his face, played it on a meld of sevens, smiling absently at this small success.-The military is the mafia here. The army refused American aid because it came with strings attached. Human rights conditions. They laughed at that. They got their arms from Israel, Argentina. The CIA helped of course. And unlike El Salvador, they won their war. Using butchery, indiscriminate slaughter, with spies and informants everywhere, scaring everyone into silence. Worse, complicity. That kind of power, when no one can touch you, what to do with all of that once the last shot's fired? Take over the national police, tell the Colombian and Mexican cartels you're open for business. He laid down his discard as though applying the final touch to a painting, then folded up his hand and rapped it pensively against his chin.-They say two-thirds of the cocaine reaching America pa.s.ses through Guatemala. Maybe more.

The door opened. Chepito appeared again, accompanied this time by another of their rescuers out on the road. The young man was armed as he had been then, a semiautomatic rifle, bearing himself with a vacant intensity. Chepito gestured for the four newcomers to follow along, nailing Sergio with a hard stare that told him to stay put. Roque dared to believe they were going to be freed, even as the price of that luck seemed clear. Sergio erupted into helpless chatter, the words tumbling out even more manically than before, almost birdlike in tenor, thanking them all for playing cards, asking that they perhaps maybe if at all possible contact his family-no one else, of course, the police, the press, nothing so bold-just his mother, his father, his sisters, let them know he was alive, inform them he was well, instruct them to do whatever they were told to do if they were contacted. He wanted to come home. He prayed every day and night to see them again.

-Do whatever El Chusquero says, he called out as the door clicked shut.-Do nothing to jeopardize yourselves. Or me.

Securing the padlock on the door, Chepito chuckled. "Pobre hueco." "Pobre hueco." Poor f.a.ggot. Poor f.a.ggot.

Shortly they stood a.s.sembled in the bare white room before the ma.s.sive Guatemalan flag. The Commander as before sat at his desk, rocking in his chair, neither beaming nor glowering, his thumb to his mouth as he chewed the nail pensively. The array of weapons and the gla.s.s cage with its little black riot inside remained exactly where Roque had seen them last, the scorpions earning a helpless shudder from Lupe, a furtive glance from Tio Faustino, a smile of admiring revulsion from Samir. Apparently El Chusquero gave no thought to the chance someone might grab a knife or the bayonet or the nunchuks, put up a fight, make a run for the door, not with Chepito's sidekick standing behind them, his safety off.

"Well, look like is time for everyone turn over his bowl of soup," the Commander announced mystifyingly. His eyes tracked each of their faces one by one. "I admit to you that I be in touch with Senor Lonely. We talk, we understand, okay? We agree on this: You want to reach Mexico, you need my protection. This will cost five thousand dollars each person." His smile was generous. He gave the scorpion cage a meaningful pat. "I understand this is much money, but not too much, yes? Besides, in America, there is always someone with the money."

THE CALL CAME IN AS HAPPY SAT AT THE WHEEL OF THE VAN, overcast afternoon, hooded dog walkers braving the wind. He was waiting for Puchi to close the deal with the latest bunch of marks, a Mexican family, hardscrabble parents with three quiet kids, thought they'd found the perfect answer in American Amigos Moving.

Increasingly, the dupes were Latinos. Less likely to make a fuss, Happy supposed, guessing at Vasco's logic. Even if they were legal, had all their doc.u.ments in order, they'd be fools to risk it, take the chance that somewhere in the faceless maze of gringo justice they'd cross exactly the wrong guy, the one with an ax to grind, a s.a.d.i.s.t on a mission. Sure, maybe after a couple years and lawyer fees up the culo culo it would all end well, but you'd never get back to square one. People getting screwed, misidentified, shipped off, ignored when they tried to tell the truth, maybe just blindsided by cruel luck, their lives gutted-the number of stories had upticked crazily the past year, even on the fabled Left Coast, the People's Republic of California. Only those with nothing to lose, Happy thought, could go ahead and b.i.t.c.h. Better to keep your head down, move along, hide. it would all end well, but you'd never get back to square one. People getting screwed, misidentified, shipped off, ignored when they tried to tell the truth, maybe just blindsided by cruel luck, their lives gutted-the number of stories had upticked crazily the past year, even on the fabled Left Coast, the People's Republic of California. Only those with nothing to lose, Happy thought, could go ahead and b.i.t.c.h. Better to keep your head down, move along, hide.

Case in point: the father here, a short stocky dark-skinned obrero obrero from Hermosillo, gentle cat, soft-spoken, handyman by day, waiter nights and weekends. He stood there beneath the leaden sky in the tree-lined street, outside the new house, shamed before his wife and sons, counting out the extra bills into Puchi's hand. Not even a green card can save you from this, Happy thought, and that was when the cell phone in his pants pocket began to throb. from Hermosillo, gentle cat, soft-spoken, handyman by day, waiter nights and weekends. He stood there beneath the leaden sky in the tree-lined street, outside the new house, shamed before his wife and sons, counting out the extra bills into Puchi's hand. Not even a green card can save you from this, Happy thought, and that was when the cell phone in his pants pocket began to throb.

He dug it out, checked the digital display, the number not just unfamiliar, it had one too many digits. Flipping the phone open, he pressed it to his ear, expecting some mistaken stranger or just dead air.

It was Roque. "Pablo. Hey." He sounded wrong. "We've got a situation here."

Happy spent the next two minutes trying to focus, holding back his rage and dread, as Roque set about trying to explain, as best he could, the "situation."

It seemed a gratuitous insult-the old man, kidnapped. He'd already been s.n.a.t.c.hed once by the feds, wasn't that enough? Of course it meant money, quick, except there was none. He glanced in the mirror at the gentle obrero obrero waiting for his furniture to appear from the back of the truck. Who was the sucker now? waiting for his furniture to appear from the back of the truck. Who was the sucker now?

He tried to take heart from Roque's voice. The more he talked, the stronger he sounded, holding it together, but how could the kid have let this thing happen? First rule of schemes, Happy thought: They fall apart. They mock you. He bit his fist to keep the nausea down, closing his eyes tight, listening until Roque had nothing to say except, "Don't call back to this number. It won't work. I'll contact you in two hours."

Disposable phone, Happy thought. It explained why he hadn't recognized the incoming number. The kidnappers, whoever they were, probably tossed Roque's cell somewhere, realizing their location could be tracked through the transmission towers. Kid didn't even need to use it, just have it on. Now that it was history, no one would know where they were, not Lattimore, not the spooks, n.o.body.

That too was the situation.

"And in two hours, we discuss what?"

"Getting the money together. Where to send it."

"Yeah. Look. I can see some problems there."

"Jesus." Roque's voice plummeted twenty stories. "Don't talk like that."

Suddenly Puchi and Chato were slapping their hands on the door of the truck cab, making faces. It was time to unload. On top of everything else, a faint mist had started to fall. Happy held up a finger: Gimme one minute.

"I mean, who the f.u.c.k am I supposed to hit up for twenty grand?"

There was a noise on the other end. Roque said, "Wait a minute," followed by a sound like windblown sand hitting gla.s.s, static on the line. Roque came back: "Like I said, two hours, I'll call you." The line went dead.

THE FURNITURE FELT LIKE TONNAGE AS HAPPY HELPED CARRY IT OFF the truck through the drizzle and into the small house. He ignored the shame-faced obrero; obrero; everybody's got problems, he told himself. Once or twice, though, as he dropped a chair into place or nudged a dresser into its spot, he caught the stare of one of the kids, a boy, the oldest, maybe twelve, thin as a birch and nothing but hate in his eyes. everybody's got problems, he told himself. Once or twice, though, as he dropped a chair into place or nudged a dresser into its spot, he caught the stare of one of the kids, a boy, the oldest, maybe twelve, thin as a birch and nothing but hate in his eyes.

As they drove back to the truck yard, the sun peeked through the gunmetal haze along the horizon. Something like a plan started taking shape in Happy's mind. The smallness of the amount, he thought, was interesting. It wasn't a real kidnap, they weren't trying to bleed the family. They must've already known we were tapped out, he thought, the fee paid to Lonely. They just want a little something to make up for their trouble. They killed a few men, from what Roque'd said, and that deserved fair compensation. The ransom was just a way to tax the salvatruchos salvatruchos without actually causing ill will. Lonely was no doubt delighted: Stick it to the without actually causing ill will. Lonely was no doubt delighted: Stick it to the pollos pollos. It made it look like he'd made a deal but it cost him nothing. Every business should catch breaks like that.

He considered phoning Lattimore, hitting up the bureau for the ransom. Not like it isn't in their interest to keep this thing afloat, he thought. They had flash and drop money, twenty grand was in the realm of possibility, theoretically. Small or large, though, the amount would mean d.i.c.k to Lattimore. The bureau's not a bank: Happy had actually heard him say that into the phone to some other snitch. It doesn't hand out money it doesn't expect to grab right back. You flash it for a buy, you drop it on the table during a sting, that's it. Even when a kidnapper's threatening a child, an agent's going to make the family bargain for more time, cash out a policy, work a loan on the house, whatever. The bureau always holds out, Happy'd learned, hoping you get itchy and scratch up the money on your own, helpful f.u.c.kers that they were.

Meanwhile Happy had yet to see dime one for his undercover work. The case had moved forward at a bouncing clip, while the wheels of the bureaucracy churned along at their usual speed, slow as a root ca.n.a.l. The money he made from Vas...o...b..rely paid expenses. Lucha was broke and he didn't want her fully in the loop regardless. She'd just fret herself into a state.

No, the only answer was Vasco, hit him up again. And he'd refuse. Too much thrown at this deal already, he'd say, with pinche nada pinche nada to show for it. Your uncle and cousin got themselves s.n.a.t.c.hed? Not my problem. Let Zipicana handle it, the cocaine kingpin with the hard-on for terror. He's the one who wants to bring the raghead across anyway, right? About time he anted up for the privilege. to show for it. Your uncle and cousin got themselves s.n.a.t.c.hed? Not my problem. Let Zipicana handle it, the cocaine kingpin with the hard-on for terror. He's the one who wants to bring the raghead across anyway, right? About time he anted up for the privilege.

And who could argue with that, Happy thought as he eased the moving van into its parking stall, secured the brake, turned off the ignition. He jumped down from the cab and went to his locker.

He left the wired flannel shirt he'd received from the bureau on its hook; he'd done no recording of Puchi and Chato in the phony mover deals for weeks. It didn't rise to the level of actual fraud, he'd been told-contractual misunderstanding, it could be said, the money at issue small-claims stuff-and thus wasn't a crime, federal or otherwise. It was getting to be an issue, the recordings. Pitcavage, the AUSA, was pushing for deeper involvement of Vasco and his crew in the terror angle: Get them to talk about helping pick out local targets, the Fed Building, Coit Tower, Golden Gate Bridge. Think of what Hollywood would want to blow up, he said, then get video of Vasco or Puchi or Chato casing out the place.

But Happy was the least chatty guy on the planet. After that initial meet with Vasco, everything felt forced. He wasn't comfortable bringing stuff up out of nowhere, it wasn't his nature. He was convinced everybody would see right through him, then what? That's why so many of his tapes were filled with brief bits of idle chat separating long, worthless silences. He never engaged and no one took the initiative to engage him. He was the world's worst rat, except he'd brought them the case of a lifetime, Mara Salvatrucha meets al-Qaeda, and he couldn't understand why they didn't seem happier with that, especially since, if Lattimore's offhand suspicions were true, if Samir wasn't really who Happy thought he was, that might very well be what they were looking at. His stomach lurched. Samir, a true jihadi jihadi. Christ. If that's true, he thought, I'm gonna spend the rest of my life trying to convince anybody who'll listen I was played just like everybody else. He had a pretty good idea a lot of that convincing would take place in prison.

He took his cell phone, which served as both a transmitter and a backup recorder, out of his pants pocket and placed it on the locker's upper shelf. Ironic, since he was finally about to initiate a conversation worth recording. But it just seemed best that the next few minutes not exist, not as far as the government was concerned.

Chula was coming down the stairs, dragging little Lucia behind her, as Happy made his way up. As always, the mother had a smoke lit, cigarette dangling from her lips as she stuffed a wad of bills into her purse; the child was sniffling, her eyes wet and red. Girls' night out, Happy thought, listening to the heels of Chula's pumps hammer the wood-plank steps. No words were exchanged as they pa.s.sed but Chula, as always, tossed him a look of lukewarm want while Lucia, clutching her smoky stuffed bear, regarded him with the distant needy meanness he knew her for. I pity that child, he told himself, but his heart wasn't in it.

Vasco sat stewing in his usual post-Chula funk, facing the window in the lamplight, chewing a fingernail on one hand, holding a smoke in the other, white sharkskin boots propped on his desk. He'd developed a rash of some kind in the past week, a blotchy redness on his neck, and he'd scratched at it so savagely the skin was b.l.o.o.d.y and raw. A pair of Band-Aids covered the worst of it. Jiggling one foot like he needed to pee, he c.o.c.ked an acid eye toward the door as he heard Happy knock, but otherwise did nothing. Happy accepted that as invitation to enter.

The coils of copper wire were gone, the mortgage flyers remained. Happy sat on the sofa and the cushion emitted a stiff vinyl sigh. "We've got kind of a situation," he began, invoking Roque's words.

To his credit, Vasco heard the story out without a single d.a.m.ning comment or insult. His face remained inert as once or twice he tapped his cigarette against his ashtray. When Happy was done, he said simply, "Kidnapped."

Happy nodded. "f.u.c.ked up, I know."

"And they're only asking twenty grand-total, right?"

Happy explained his understanding of things, the likelihood the money wasn't a ransom at all but a kind of secondhand fee. Vasco heard him out, then: "Doesn't matter either way. I'm not fronting any more money."

Down in the truck yard, someone dropped a tin bucket onto the concrete floor. A wail of surprise, a chuckle.

"I don't blame you," Happy said, "especially after what G.o.do did last night."

He was referring to the sabotage of the gun buy at People's Fried Chicken. He'd heard about it from Puchi during the shift, Chato chiming in, the usual speed-freak rag.

"G.o.do can kiss my a.s.s but that's got nothing to do with this. I'm not throwing good money after bad, simple as that."