"That would've been nice to hear before I had to beg twenty grand more off my cousin. So going by boat's no good. What's your plan?"

Beto opened his notebook to another page, another rough map. "Know what we call Chiapas? The Beast. More arrests there than anywhere. If it ain't the federales federales, it's the Mexican la migra la migra. If it ain't them it's the paramilitaries, the vigilantes. And yeah, I'll admit it, the maras maras prey on the poor f.u.c.kers too. You pay for protection or you just f.u.c.king pay, all right? The way to get through Chiapas, honest to G.o.d, is you walk or take the bus. Both, actually." Again, using the pencil as pointer: "There are checkpoints along the way. Tapachula, Huixtla, Escuintla, Pijijiapan, Tonala, Arriaga. You have to know where the roadblocks are or you'll still be on the bus when it gets stopped. No doc.u.ments? Too bad. Get sent right back where you came from. prey on the poor f.u.c.kers too. You pay for protection or you just f.u.c.king pay, all right? The way to get through Chiapas, honest to G.o.d, is you walk or take the bus. Both, actually." Again, using the pencil as pointer: "There are checkpoints along the way. Tapachula, Huixtla, Escuintla, Pijijiapan, Tonala, Arriaga. You have to know where the roadblocks are or you'll still be on the bus when it gets stopped. No doc.u.ments? Too bad. Get sent right back where you came from.

"Now, I'll take you overland to Arriaga. We'll get off the bus a little before the checkpoints, walk around, catch the next bus." He glanced up at Roque. "I take it you'll drive the car. Personally, I think that's a ha.s.sle. Perfectly safe on the bus, safer in my opinion, but you made your choice, Lonely got his piece of that too-I envy the c.o.c.ksucker, man, the angles he plays-but fine, you got a car. You realize, they catch you moving migrantes migrantes in it, they can take it away? Deport you and take the car to boot, f.u.c.king American pa.s.sport won't mean d.i.c.k. in it, they can take it away? Deport you and take the car to boot, f.u.c.king American pa.s.sport won't mean d.i.c.k.

"Anyway, me and your uncle, the Arab and the girl, we meet up with you in Arriaga. I call my source, he tells me which routes are clear, which ones got roadblocks right now. We take the clear route, head through Oaxaca, which is the only real rough spot after Chiapas, then it's on to Mexico City where we'll take a rest. You'll need it, trust me.

"From there, things are a snap till you get to the U.S. border. Checkpoints are run by the army, you can buy your way through, fifty bucks, sixty tops, a.s.suming they don't fall for the docs we've got for you." He sat back, closed the notebook, wrapped the rubber band around it and tucked the pencil into place. "That's something to keep in mind, okay? We got voter registration cards for you-not you," he said to Roque, "I mean the other three, you got a pa.s.sport. Big mistake, phonying up a driver's license-how many Mexicans got a car? But they register to vote, get the s.h.i.t knocked out of them by the local jefe jefe they don't. That ID'll cure a lot of headaches, trust me. But you go ahead. You listen to what El Chusquero's man tells you. Let me know if it doesn't sound like crazy talk. It don't, you wanna do it, I wash my hands of you. But don't come back here thinking you can try us twice. This is business, not charity." He rose from his chair, puffing out his chest. "Sunset's a little before eight. I'll be back at nine. If you're here, we go. If not, good f.u.c.king luck, my friends." they don't. That ID'll cure a lot of headaches, trust me. But you go ahead. You listen to what El Chusquero's man tells you. Let me know if it doesn't sound like crazy talk. It don't, you wanna do it, I wash my hands of you. But don't come back here thinking you can try us twice. This is business, not charity." He rose from his chair, puffing out his chest. "Sunset's a little before eight. I'll be back at nine. If you're here, we go. If not, good f.u.c.king luck, my friends."

TiO FAUSTINO STOPPED ON THE NARROW STAIR AS HE AND ROQUE returned to the room. His face looked ashen. "You were very strong down there. You've changed, do you know that?"

Don't tell me, Roque thought. You're so proud. "I'm tired of being screwed with."

Tio Faustino smiled wearily. "A big part of learning you can handle yourself is knowing what it feels like to get your a.s.s kicked."

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 Tio 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 the salvatruchos. Lupe deferred to the group. Tio 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 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 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.

Tio 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 can't- -You have no idea how such things work, Samir told Roque, the kind of men 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 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? 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.- 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 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 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. 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 a.s.s 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 pa.s.sed, 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, cabron." cabron."

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 huecos looking for you figure that's where you gotta end up." 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. Roque folded the money into the old man's hand. "Gracias por todo "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 G.o.d, 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.

The crowds were all but gone, he could gain some actual speed, but a pair of tottering vagabundos vagabundos, holding each other up, blocked the way twenty feet ahead. Roque blared the horn, veering to pa.s.s them on the right, hoping to squeeze between them and the sidewalk. The henchling, running alongside, cursed and kept pounding on the car window, then lifted the guitar over his head like an ax and swung it down hard, smashing it against the roof on his second try. The instrument shattered into kindling with a jangled chord, while the two drunks half lurched, half jigged out of the way, still clasping each other. Roque sped on, braking only for the corner, picking up speed again as he laid on the horn, hammering at it with his fist while he dodged the night's last revelers frozen in the tunnel of his headlights, stony Mayan faces materializing then vanishing in the corner of his eye as he prayed he didn't hit anyone, didn't harm anyone, didn't have to stop as he headed as best he could tell for the bridge into Mexico.

SHEER LUCK THE CLEANING LADY SHOWED UP TODAY, HAPPY thought, sitting in the pa.s.senger seat of the plain white van they'd borrowed from Vasco-Puchi behind the wheel, Chato in the back-the better to blend in here, parked down the block from the house.

Happy's DMV connection had come through with the plate trace: Charles T. Snell, an address in Crockett, half a mile up the hill from the sugar refinery. The house was the largest on the block but like most of the others along the street it looked a little shabby, stucco and brick with flaking trim, chimney mortar gapped in places, mismatched shingles from a roof patch. A general sense the heyday was over, an old company town gone bust.

They were there to scout the place out, reconnoiter, get some ideas about ways in, ways out. In the middle of that, the cleaning lady shows up. What else could she be but a gift?

She was Latina of course, who else cleaned houses in California anymore? He had to hope that would make the whole thing easier. They'd talk la raza la raza, they'd talk la familia la familia. They'd talk mutual interests, like making sure no one got hurt.

She'd been inside two hours and was finally done. Walking out to her car, an ancient Mazda, she dug her keys out of her purse, dropped them on the cracked pavement, scooped them up, opened the door. The engine turned over with a bark of smoke and the car shuddered away from the curb. Happy lifted his hand, signaling for Puchi to wait until she reached the stop sign.

"Easy," he said. "She drives like an abuela abuela." A grandma.

He wished Roque would call, days since he'd heard anything. Buy a d.a.m.n disposable phone, he thought, but how could he say that till the kid got one? It was like a bad joke. And Lattimore, cranking up the heat. They needed to be able to track Samir, he said, they still weren't sure his story checked out. "I tend to get tense when the radar goes blank. I'm not alone." n.o.body knew where they were. The mighty eyes and ears of Uncle Sam, they'd gone blind, gone deaf. And all my wannabe superstar cousin had to do is lose his f.u.c.king cell.

They figured the cleaning lady was heading for the freeway and gave her s.p.a.ce, then closed in once she neared the on-ramp, dropping back again once they knew her direction, trying to keep another car between them-not easy, given what a poke she was-then pulling close again as she took the El Sobrante exit. From there she drove east, weaving her way among the tightly curving streets through low hills. They lost her at one turn, caught her down the block, stopped, backed up, followed, until she parked finally outside a clapboard bungalow with a sprawling honeysuckle out front.

She got out of her car. Happy told Puchi to slow to a stop beside her.

"Buenas, senora," he said, an engaging smile, getting out as Chato opened the van's sliding door. he said, an engaging smile, getting out as Chato opened the van's sliding door.

She was plain, matronly, dimpled cheeks, copper-colored ponytail. She froze in panic as Happy stepped close, grabbed her arm hard at the elbow, dragged her toward the van.

-Make a sound and I'll kill you right here.

He'd never said such a thing before. It scared him a little, hearing how like him it sounded.

Chato popped out and the two of them bundled her into the van. Happy glanced up and down the block, wondering if they'd been spotted, while Chato scrambled in behind the woman, boxing her in while he rammed the sliding door closed. Happy jumped up into the pa.s.senger seat and slammed the door shut, barking at Puchi, "Go!"

As the van sped away Happy turned around, looking the woman square in the eye, trying to muster inside him whatever it would take-menace, sympathy, a little of both-to get her to listen, get her to obey. She sat on the floor in a lump of furniture quilting, clutching her purse to her midriff, eyes like balloons. Happy reached out, took the handbag from her, needing only two gentle tugs to get her to give it up. Checking inside, he found her wallet, flipped it open, dug out her driver's license: Lourdes Trujillo, forty-one years old. He found pictures too, a pair of girls, one twelve or so, homely like her mother, the other closer to eighteen. No baby fat this one, lipstick and eyeliner, almost pretty.

"We don't want to harm you," he said, switching to English now. She'd know it, the only question was how well and the answer was important. "But we will if you don't help us. We'll hurt you, hurt your daughters. Don't make us do that."

Her eyes welled up. "I am n.o.body," she said, voice whispery with fear. "Help you-how? You see my car, my house. I buy food, I pay rent, there's no money left." She clenched her hands together, pointing them at Happy. "Please, whoever you are ..."

Chato, kneeling beside her, dug into his pocket, took out a folding knife and flicked it open. Pressing the blade to her thigh, he began stroking it back and forth, teasing it closer to her crotch with each pa.s.s. "Do what he tells you, abuela you, abuela, it'll be okay. I give you my t.u.r.d of honor."

Happy, continuing his search of the purse, shoveled past her keys then stopped. The car, he thought. It would be sitting there when her daughters came home from school, their mother nowhere to be found. The girls would call the police, the cops would back-walk her day, they'd ask the contractor or his family about her, a tip-off that something was wrong.

"Go back to the house," he said.

"I'm on it." Puchi seemed to be trying to get his bearings back to the freeway.

"No. Her Her house." Happy nodded toward Lourdes. "We can't leave her car back there." He ignored Puchi's stare and took out the wad of keys-it had a plastic piglet for a bob-and tossed them into Chato's lap, thinking: t.u.r.d of honor. What the h.e.l.l was house." Happy nodded toward Lourdes. "We can't leave her car back there." He ignored Puchi's stare and took out the wad of keys-it had a plastic piglet for a bob-and tossed them into Chato's lap, thinking: t.u.r.d of honor. What the h.e.l.l was that that about? "Put the knife away, she gets you're serious. Take her car, follow us out." about? "Put the knife away, she gets you're serious. Take her car, follow us out."

Chato's eyes tightened but then Puchi hit the brakes and the van lurched to a stop. They were back at Lourdes's house.

"Go on," Happy said, gentler now.

Chato sulked his way out of the van, Lourdes staring at his back as the door slid shut, then Happy snapped his fingers to get her attention. "I apologize," he said. "I mean it, we don't want to harm you. We need you. I'll explain as we drive."

G.o.dO AND EFRAIM SPENT THE MORNING ALONE INSIDE THE ABANDONED farmhouse, breaking down the weapons, cleaning them, loading the magazines, every moment or so blowing into their hands for warmth. There was no electricity, no heat. Even the septic was f.u.c.ked up, so they went out behind the barn to p.i.s.s and, once apiece, take a windy dump. Now Efraim was gone, off to grab lunch for the crew-Happy and Puchi and Chato were due soon-while G.o.do stayed behind to wrap up.

There was a time when the slow taking apart and piecing back together, the wiping and swabbing and brushing, the nutty smell of the oil, would have soothed him. All that c.r.a.p about don't get talked into anything, he thought. Now Happy says it has to get done, not just done, done like tomorrow.

He knew about the ransom, knew Vasco stepped up to pay it and that gave him rights, the sly f.u.c.k. But he also felt guilty, wondering what might have been if he'd been the one down there, not Roque. Maybe he'd have gotten them out of whatever spot they'd blundered into. But that was fantasy. You're damaged, he told himself. The damaged get left behind.

He supposed he should count himself lucky he was able to chip in at all. He was the weapon wizard, the gun guru, maybe he should take pride in that. For a while there he'd felt reasonably in control, a lid on the monster, even the nightmares settled down some. Then came the run-in with Chuck. That's when the hinges started working loose again.

Strange, him being the target of this thing. G.o.do found some poetry in that. Serves him right, let him suffer, suffer for all the grief his kind caused, all the mayhem, all the blood. Suffer for Gunny Benedict. Because as the Chevy Blazer with the tinted windows bulled ahead of the rattletrap Cressida with its single headlight and the haji haji family huddled inside, G.o.do stepping forward, blocking the Blazer's path, demanding docs, needing to check them against the names on his BOLO list, he'd spotted in the back, pa.s.senger side, one of the armed men, a face increasingly whole in his memory-this guy, this contractor, this Chuck-just as the searing white flash switched off the world and the explosion ripped it to shreds. family huddled inside, G.o.do stepping forward, blocking the Blazer's path, demanding docs, needing to check them against the names on his BOLO list, he'd spotted in the back, pa.s.senger side, one of the armed men, a face increasingly whole in his memory-this guy, this contractor, this Chuck-just as the searing white flash switched off the world and the explosion ripped it to shreds.

So much for poetry, he thought, rising to his feet, the scent of the gun oil in his nostrils and the slickness on his hands. Looking out the window, he watched a sudden burst of wind thrash the walnut trees and for a second heard the chugging rotors of the little bird chopper hovering over the blast site amid the screams of the wounded, his included, felt in his mouth the grating dust from the rotor wash. Wiping his numb fingers with a rag, he thought: I can't function like this, I'll f.u.c.k this thing up and that's not an option. Using his sleeve he mopped the sweat off his face-check it out, he thought, I'm sweating and it's maybe fifty degrees, tops-then he bent down to the final M16, pushed the takedown pins into position, refitted the handguards into place, slammed home the magazine.

The three sixteens would go to Puchi, Efraim and Happy; G.o.do would use the Kalashnikov. Chato would get the Mossberg.

As he was bagging the brushes and rags and barrel rods he heard not Efraim's pickup but another vehicle he didn't recognize thunder up the drive, churning gravel. He edged toward the front window, peeking out at the white van pulling to a stop. Puchi sat behind the wheel, Happy beside him. As he stood there looking out, a flaring ghost of white light rippled across the backs of his eyes; his mouth went dry and he felt certain he wasn't just imagining it, the taste of dust.

Funny, he thought, how you hear people say: My body has a mind of its own. What am I supposed to do, he wondered, when it's my mind that has a mind of its own?

He wasn't prepared for the woman. Happy dragged her forward from the van, not roughly but not kindly, either.

"This is Lourdes," he said once they were all inside. "She's decided to help us out."

HAPPY PLOPPED DOWN WITH HER ON THE FLOOR IN ONE OF THE smaller rooms. He'd explained to her during the drive why she was so important, speaking to her in English, making her use it with him, practicing their back and forth, figuring if they reverted to Spanish during the robbery the family would suspect she was involved all along. "There's no stopping what's going to happen, Lourdes, one way or another, we're going to do what we need to do. But you can change how how it happens. Without you, people get hurt." It had taken awhile, convincing her there was no escape, but the drive was long and he'd ultimately worn her down. There would be no way to beg or wish or talk her way out of it, except to tell him what he wanted. it happens. Without you, people get hurt." It had taken awhile, convincing her there was no escape, but the drive was long and he'd ultimately worn her down. There would be no way to beg or wish or talk her way out of it, except to tell him what he wanted.

Strange, he thought, how things were lining up. There was reason to breathe easy. Sure, the thing was crazy but you heard stories all the time, snitches working both sides. And the government always looked the other way. They were greedy, like everybody else. They wanted what they wanted, wanted it big, wanted it yesterday.

When it came time to take the stand, he'd tell the jury: I had to do it, they gave me no choice. It was all Vasco's idea. Ladies and gentlemen, the only way to get my father back to the States was to go along with the plan, this stupid home invasion. My father was kidnapped, we needed the ransom, the government wouldn't front the money. What was I supposed to do? But I was afraid that, if I told Mr. Lattimore what I was doing, the government would pull the plug, my father and cousin would get stranded. My father, he's not a young man, he could die down there just waiting, while I'm scrambling around trying to scratch up the money all legit. It was a lot of money, more than my family could put together. And this was the only way to keep the case on track. We don't bring my father and Samir to the States, the thing falls apart. I was doing the prosecution a favor.

I did it for my family. I did it for the government. I did it for this country I love so much.

Remember, he thought, you won't be the one on trial. It will all work out, so long as n.o.body gets hurt.

Efraim returned with tortas tortas for lunch and Happy sent him right back out for paper and pens. They shared a sandwich and a soda, he and Lourdes, while the others ate in another room. The intimacy was intentional on his part and apparently welcome on hers, she seemed to hearten a little. Her nibbles turned to bites, she settled into her body. for lunch and Happy sent him right back out for paper and pens. They shared a sandwich and a soda, he and Lourdes, while the others ate in another room. The intimacy was intentional on his part and apparently welcome on hers, she seemed to hearten a little. Her nibbles turned to bites, she settled into her body.

He asked about her life and in a voice that gradually lost some of its fearful whisper she explained she was from Santa Clara del Cobre in Michoacan, a village known for its copper artisans. Many in her family were in the trade but she had no such skill and so, when she was twenty-one, she traveled north to work. She'd been in California twenty years, wanted to improve her English but could never get to adult school regularly. Both her daughters were born here, their father left five years ago for another woman. He sent money sometimes. "He a weak man, not a bad man," she said. "Senor Snell-he is weak and and bad." bad."

Happy sensed it, the turn. Don't overplay it, he thought. "How you mean?"

She corkscrewed her hips, trying to get comfortable. "This family I work for them three years now maybe. But him I talk no more five, six times, okay? He away at work when I there. But each time him, me talk, he treat me like I am stupid. Treat his wife, Veronica, like that too. Yell at her like she is a child. To myself, I think, how lucky for her if he die in Iraq. But he come back. And he is worse. Veronica, she cry sometimes, talk to me, tell me his business. I not supposed to see them, the guns-they all in the bas.e.m.e.nt, I don't go there-but she show me. She is very strange, Veronica, very lonely. She drink." She picked at a bit of lettuce caught in her teeth. "She crazy a little too, I think."

Happy stopped chewing. "Crazy dangerous?"

"No." Her copper-colored ponytail wagged back and forth. "Crazy scared."

He took a sip of soda, pa.s.sed the bottle to her. The house felt as cold as a cave. "You understand, Lourdes, those guns, the ones in the bas.e.m.e.nt, it's all against the law."

She nodded timidly, took a sip, handed the bottle back.

"He won't complain to the police. He knows he'll have to lie about what we came for, about what we take. He won't risk that. Better to lose the money, the guns, than risk that. They find out what he does, who he sells to, the taxes he doesn't pay? He goes to prison."

Her eyes drilled his face. "He not need the police, a man like that. He come for me, my daughters. He come alone."

"When we tie up the family, Lourdes, we'll tie you up too, make it look-"

"He have this hate, this thing inside him-"

"You'll have to tell him you don't know nothing. You'll have to convince him." A conspiratorial wink. "Don't tell me you haven't lied before."

"He will come, hurt me. Hurt my girls."

"You're going to have to be an actress, Lourdes." He felt a surge of impatience, fueled by guilt, pitying her, resenting her for it. "There's no other way, I'm sorry."

Out in the front room, a sudden spate of goofy laughter: Puchi, Chato. Not G.o.do.

"Why you do this?" Her hand drifted across the s.p.a.ce to touch his hand. Her fingers were ice-cold. "You are different, not like them, out there, those pellejos pellejos, those chusmas." chusmas." Lowlifes. "I can tell you have family, you love somebody, somebody love you-" Lowlifes. "I can tell you have family, you love somebody, somebody love you-"

One of those chusmas chusmas is my cousin, he thought of telling her, though he imagined G.o.do's face had made an impression that wouldn't get undone with words. Then the front door opened and closed-Efraim, back from the store. Happy pulled his hand from under hers. "You're right, I have family. You wonder why I'm doing this? For them." is my cousin, he thought of telling her, though he imagined G.o.do's face had made an impression that wouldn't get undone with words. Then the front door opened and closed-Efraim, back from the store. Happy pulled his hand from under hers. "You're right, I have family. You wonder why I'm doing this? For them."

Efraim appeared in the doorway but Happy realized something else needed saying. He asked for just another moment. Efraim, clutching the bag with Happy's paper and pens inside, glanced curiously at the woman as though trying to determine if she was still their prisoner or something else now, then set the bag on the floor and shuffled down the hall, joining the others just as another spurt of idiot laughter erupted.

Happy turned back to Lourdes. "Once this is done, Snell won't harm you or your daughters. You have my word."