"Except in battle," Bergen noted.

"The Persians are dogs. I was at the front, I saw with my own eyes what they did. Don't lecture me."

Bergen's smile froze. "So you enlisted-"

"I was put into the infantry just before the offensive in Shalamcheh. I was lucky, my sergeant was a good soldier. The irony? He had been a cop in America. I'm serious. Dearborn, Michigan. He knew how to shoot, something none of the other recruits ever learned. It was criminal how badly trained the army was. Lucky for us, the Iranians were no better. We fought them hand to hand, sometimes just hacking and beating each other with our weapons because we'd run out of ammunition. There is no word in any language for what that is like. I became an animal, the men around me became animals.

"The offensive was our first victory in years. Then the Iranians struck back with incredible ferocity, we lost tens of thousands of men. I was fortunate, my position was not ga.s.sed. But I knew men who were. The Iranians of course said we were the ones who used gas-and who knows, maybe they were right. I would not put it past Saddam to gas his own troops. But we managed to hold out, regroup, and within the week we went on the attack again, recaptured the Majnoon oil fields, then Halabja. Soon the war was over, Iran agreed to peace. I came home a hero. People were so proud we'd actually, at long last, pushed back, regained some of the country's pride."

"But that didn't satisfy the Mukhabarat," Bergen guessed.

"I was back in school maybe two months when they came around again. There were incredible purges going on in the country, people disappearing right and left, not just Shia and Kurds. I was taken to the ministry again, a different room, this one on the second floor, but the same captain came in, sat down.

My file was much larger at this point. They must have been watching me in the army. Just like before, he asked me how my cla.s.ses were going. Honey would have melted on his tongue. I was more scared in that room than I had been at the front.

"Finally I asked, 'What do I have to do to convince you I am no enemy of the regime?' He seemed offended but that lasted only an instant. He said I had to know someone in the Palestinian community who had spoken out against the war, against Saddam. And there it was. My way out. All I had to do was give them a name. I had joined the army for nothing. They wanted to terrorize the whole Palestinian community, remind us that our safety under Saddam was a gift, not a right.

"So I went home, thought about who I would betray. Given what I saw in the war, I was no longer quite so squeamish about doing what I had to do to survive-do you understand? There was a man named Salah Ha.s.san, he had a little business repairing radios and televisions and vacuum sweepers. I knew, when the war was going badly, he had demanded that some of his customers pay him in Saudi riyals-better yet, pounds or dollars if they had them. This was considered a crime in Saddam's Iraq, a kind of money laundering. Worse, subversion. So I told my friend the captain about it. A few nights later, while I lay awake in my bed, I heard the cars pull up outside the repairman's house, I heard them pound on his door. I heard him speak very respectfully, very cordially to the men who took him away. And after that night, my problems with the Mukhabarat ended."

Lupe, head still lolling on her arms, uttered a drowsy, uncomprehending sigh. Samir fussed absently with his hands. Bergen said, "I don't mean to be contrary, but from what I know of intelligence agencies, they don't tend to let go. They keep coming back-"

"You misunderstand." Samir seemed strangely uncoiled, even relaxed. "The Palestinian community in Baghdad had caused no problems during the war. The Mukhabarat just wanted to make a point. We were not beyond their reach."

"You'd told them you had ambitions to work in the foreign ministry."

"I can only a.s.sume the captain saw through that. Regardless, I wanted nothing to do with working for the regime. I got my degree and found work with Al-Zawra with Al-Zawra, the country's main newspaper, translating wire-service pieces for publication."

"Al-Zawra was owned by Uday, Saddam's son." was owned by Uday, Saddam's son."

"Yes, but I had nothing to do with any of that. Let me tell you something, in Iraq you could not work for the media in any form and not have contact with someone who knew someone-you understand? But I was a very small fish. I kept to myself, bothering no one. And no one bothered me. That is the truth. Choose to believe it or not. But if you are worried I am some kind of jihadi of jihadi, let me tell you something. I worked for the coalition as an interpreter, it's how I got to know this one's cousin." A bob of his chin toward Roque. "I did what I could to help America. All I want is to get across the border, make my case for asylum and try as best I can to rebuild my life and help my family. If you do not want to help me, I will find some other way. But I will not be denied. On my honor as a husband and father, I will see this through."

Bergen sat there a moment then pushed up from the table. "Excuse me a sec." He collected the empty chapulin chapulin basket and ambled off toward the kitchen. Samir dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and rubbed. Lupe stirred and stretched, rising from her nap. basket and ambled off toward the kitchen. Samir dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and rubbed. Lupe stirred and stretched, rising from her nap.

Roque said:-You okay?

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled.-What's everybody been blabbering about?

-True confessions. He shrugged apologetically for Samir's sake.-I'll tell you later.

-Okay. The smile lingered.

Samir looked back and forth between them.-What's this?

-What business is it of yours? She nailed him with a stare. She nailed him with a stare.

-You know what business of mine it is.

-He's lost his uncle. Have some pity.

-I'm neither blind nor stupid. Pity?

-Listen, I'll do what I please, feel what I please. What are you going to do-kill me?

Bergen returned, bearing Dolor's tin pitcher and four gla.s.ses. "Figured all this time, flapping our jaws, somebody might be thirsty." He filled each of the four gla.s.ses with water and pa.s.sed them around. "Don't worry," he added. "It's bottled."

Resuming his seat, he regarded Lupe now.-What's this about our Arab friend here killing you? His Spanish was clumsily accented, the same Rocky Mountain tw.a.n.g as his English. His Spanish was clumsily accented, the same Rocky Mountain tw.a.n.g as his English.

Roque explained the situation to him, the expected connection with El Recio in Agua Prieta, Samir's crossing in exchange for Lupe. Bergen's gaze traveled the table.

-And that's acceptable to all concerned?

-Acceptable? Roque acted insulted.- Roque acted insulted.-My uncle hated the idea. I'll do anything to see it doesn't happen.

Samir drained his gla.s.s. "You should hear yourself. Fine. I'm tired of arguing with you. If you think you know some way back home with no money, no connections, just that n.o.ble heart of yours, be my guest. Leave me here. I'll fend for myself. But I wonder what it will be like for you, when you come face-to-face with your cousin Happy again and he learns not only that his father is dead but that you froze like a little boy when it came time to defend him. You needed me to snap you out of it, get you to act like a man, but by then it was too late. And then you left me behind. Will you be n.o.ble enough to tell him the truth?"

He reached out for the pitcher, poured himself more water. Lupe turned to Roque.-What is happening?

Before Roque could answer, Bergen stepped in.-Seems to me you folks have a thing or two to work out. There's no way I'm taking you anywhere with this going on. I don't need the ha.s.sle. You find common cause or I leave now and that's that. And Father Luis can't put you up forever. People are going to come looking for you. Then what? you anywhere with this going on. I don't need the ha.s.sle. You find common cause or I leave now and that's that. And Father Luis can't put you up forever. People are going to come looking for you. Then what?

Samir, finally surrendering, switched to Spanish, letting Lupe in.-I said it before, all we have from you so far is promises, same as we've had from every thief and deadbeat along the way. Why should we trust you? What's the special trick you know that will make our problems vanish?

Bergen considered the question, taking a leisurely sip of water, then lowered his gla.s.s and offered that jolting smile.-You're right, I know a trick. Pretty simple trick, actually. When I drive up to a checkpoint, I flash this happy white face. I show them my Utah license, the Beehive State. Plain old vanilla, that's me. Maybe this trip I'm a teacher on sabbatical indulging my wanderl.u.s.t. Maybe I'm a Mormon, hoping to save your souls. Regardless, far more likely as not-I know this from long experience, my friend-they're going to wave me right on through.

RIDING ALONE IN THE BACKSEAT, LUCHA HAD TO FIGHT BACK the nausea bubbling up in her stomach, fearing she might get sick. She told herself to breathe but the car had a sour smell, like food that had spoiled.

They'd ransacked the trailer, telling her nothing, just handing her a piece of paper that made no sense. She knew not to stand in their way. Armed men, you object, you suffer. Then these two stepped forward through the bedlam, told her they wanted her to come with them.

She knew the handsome one from that day la migra la migra raided the trailer park. He was the one who calmed everyone down, talked sense into G.o.do. Lattimore, his name was. The other one, the driver-Dunn, his card read-was unfamiliar. He was homely and yet full of himself, the kind of man Graciela used to mock with ... what was the phrase? raided the trailer park. He was the one who calmed everyone down, talked sense into G.o.do. Lattimore, his name was. The other one, the driver-Dunn, his card read-was unfamiliar. He was homely and yet full of himself, the kind of man Graciela used to mock with ... what was the phrase? Sapo guapo Sapo guapo. Handsome toad. Every few minutes he hawked up mucus, cranked down his window, spat onto the road. Que grencho Que grencho. What a hick.

Lattimore talked into his cell, confirmed something, slapped the small black phone shut. He turned in his seat to face her, wearing a thoughtful smile that his eyes betrayed.

"Sorry for that interruption. Your nephew, G.o.do, and your son-in-law, Pablo-"

"He is not my son-in-law."

"All right. Excuse me. Pablo, let's just call him that. The last time you saw him was?"

She looked out the window. They'd crossed the bridge spanning the Carquinez Strait and were veering down the first off-ramp, the one for Crockett. It was almost dark now, the bridge's new span lit up like a monument and shrouded with wind-driven mist, the distant house lights glowing against the fogbound hill. Directly below the bridge, the sugar refinery's ma.s.sive neon sign anch.o.r.ed the small downtown with its abandoned railhead and lonely dock and ghostly warehouses. "I told you. I am afraid. I have temporary protected status and my green-card application is pending but nothing is certain these days. I do not want to do anything to harm my chances. I wish to have a lawyer with me when I talk to you."

She kept to herself the fact that her heart was breaking.

"You're not a suspect, Lucha."

"Lucha is what my family calls me. My name is elida."

The man's smile weakened. His eyes remained unchanged. "You're not a suspect, elida."

Dunn cranked down his window again, a burst of cold air, smelling of brackish water and eucalyptus, a hint of the oil refinery over the hill in Rodeo. "You're not a citizen, either." A punctuating spit. The window shuddered back up. "Your right to a lawyer's not absolute."

"I wish," she repeated, "to have a lawyer when I talk to you."

"I understand," Lattimore said, stepping back in. "But this isn't El Salvador, especially the El Salvador you left behind. I mean, sure, we're cops, not dancers. But we're not here to hurt you. We just want the truth."

He thinks I'm stupid, Lucha thought. Like all he has to do is keep chattering away and I will forget about a lawyer. Will they ever stop insulting us?

"The warrant's a little sketchy on what this is all about, so let me explain a few things. Witnesses place Pablo Orantes and your nephew G.o.do at the scene of a home invasion this morning. The thing went pretty badly off the rails. The homeowner's dead. His nine-year-old daughter's in pretty bad shape too, not physically, but her dad was gunned down right in front of her. We're still putting things together but it seems pretty clear that Pablo was the ringleader. G.o.do wasn't just along for the ride, though. He was in deep, especially on the violence end."

She felt like she'd misunderstood. He couldn't have said what she just heard. "Excuse me, I do not-"

"We need to find both these young men. I could lie to you, try to trick you, say we just want to talk to them. But I don't want to do that. They're in very serious trouble. That trouble won't go away. They need to come in, give themselves up, tell us what happened. It could get a great deal worse for both of them if they don't do the right thing now. I can understand how frightened they might be. I would be, in their shoes. I can imagine why they did it, hoping to score enough money to get Pablo's father back from El Salvador. Or maybe somebody else put them up to it, Vasco Ramirez, let's say." He paused, as though to see how she reacted to the name. It meant nothing to her, she just sat there. "They're going to be caught, elida. They won't walk away free. They need to talk to me or Detective Dunn here, tell us everything. I promise, they'll be treated fairly."

She could no longer look at his face. Such a cruel and devious thing to do, take advantage of her grief, play on her conscience, so soon after hearing that Faustino was dead-did they know that? Were they piling one misery on top of the other, just to get her to say something, get her to tell them where G.o.do was, where Pablito was? As if she knew. As if, supposing everything he'd just said had actually taken place, those two would tell her anything about it.

By the time she realized what was happening she couldn't stop it, the vomit churned up into her throat and out of her mouth, sour and hot, showering across the seat and onto the floor mats. Her skin was flushed, she felt repulsive, childish, naked.

"Don't worry, ma'am." It was Dunn, his voice surprisingly gentle. "You're probably the third person this month who's lost his lunch back there. But I bet you figured that out already."

THEY HELPED HER WALK FROM THE CAR, ONE ON EACH ARM, LEADING her up the steep driveway and into the house. Everyone stared as she came through the door; their gazes weren't kind. There were strange markings everywhere, circles drawn on the floor and walls, smudges of soot-like powder. Police officers milled about as though they had nowhere else to go. She wavered, feeling sick again but there was nothing left to bring up. Lattimore, sensing her unsteadiness, tightened his hold on her arm. A midair feeling, about to fall-from where?

Lattimore addressed one of the uniformed officers. "The girl still here?"

The officer glanced offhandedly at Lucha, then shook his head. "She was acting a little loose on deck. Mom pitched a fit, be glad you weren't here. Meds all around, that's what they wanted. Sergeant said screw it, take her to Kaiser in Martinez, patrol car drove them over about an hour ago. Son went with them. He came home from school while you were gone."

Lattimore frowned like he was adding up a sum. "Housekeeper's still here, right?"

"Lourdes? For now. DHS called, they put dibs on her."

Lucha felt Lattimore's grip slacken. "DHS? Christ, what the ... They're going to deport her. Best wit we've got, only one-" He cut himself short, glancing to Lucha and Dunn then back at the officer, looking sheepish, tense. "Never mind. Not your problem."

"She's still in there," he pointed, "you want to talk to her."

"Yeah. Good. Thanks."

Lattimore guided Lucha into a s.p.a.cious, dimly lit kitchen. A greasy black stain coated the wall above the stove, the lingering smell of a grease fire. A mejicana mejicana sat napping at the table. Lucha felt a shudder of contempt. The woman was short like a stump, flabby arms, pudgy hands, dyed hair. She looks like one of those troll dolls, Lucha thought, even as she recognized the scorn for what it was. Fear. What has sat napping at the table. Lucha felt a shudder of contempt. The woman was short like a stump, flabby arms, pudgy hands, dyed hair. She looks like one of those troll dolls, Lucha thought, even as she recognized the scorn for what it was. Fear. What has this puta cochina this puta cochina said, what does she know? said, what does she know?

The woman lifted her head, rubbing her eyes, blinking, then staring at Lucha with the same instant distrust. They were opposites, they were mirrors.

Lattimore said, "elida, this is Lourdes. She was kidnapped yesterday morning by Pablo Orantes and two other young men, Puchi Parada and Chato Lopez, shortly after she finished cleaning this house. They threatened to kill her daughters if she didn't help them rob the family who lives here. She was here when the robbery took place, when Mr. Snell, the owner, was murdered. As if all that wasn't bad enough, she's now in trouble with immigration. She's not lucky like you, temporary protected status, green card in the pipeline. She may get sent away with no chance of ever coming back. I'll do what I can but I don't have much pull. What will happen to her daughters is anybody's guess. In any event, I thought you might like to meet her, or she might like to meet you, seeing as your nephew and stepson-"

"I told you-"

"-were the leaders in the robbery. She picked out-"

"My marido marido is dead." The words escaped before she even had the thought formed. Everyone stared. "Faustino. He was murdered by bandits in Mexico. Yesterday. We were together six years." She looked at Lourdes with an indifference that felt limitless. "I have nothing to say to this woman." is dead." The words escaped before she even had the thought formed. Everyone stared. "Faustino. He was murdered by bandits in Mexico. Yesterday. We were together six years." She looked at Lourdes with an indifference that felt limitless. "I have nothing to say to this woman."

ON THE DRIVE BACK TO THE TRAILER, LATTIMORE TOLD HER THAT HE knew about Roque, how he had been driving north through Mexico with Faustino, intending to bring him back home. He did not say how he'd learned this and she felt too numb to ask, staring out the car window, seeing nothing but blurred lights and hulking shapes. He told her he was sorry about Faustino's death-whatever his sources, she thought, the chivatos chivatos had not filled him in on that-but Roque's involvement made him an accomplice in a conspiracy. She needed to consider that carefully. Everyone would suffer if she did not step forward, tell the truth. had not filled him in on that-but Roque's involvement made him an accomplice in a conspiracy. She needed to consider that carefully. Everyone would suffer if she did not step forward, tell the truth.

"I will get in touch with a lawyer tomorrow," she murmured. "I will see what advice he has to give. He or I will contact you." Or not, she thought.

After they dropped her off at the trailer, she stood for a moment listening to her wind chimes, enjoying them, resenting them. How many little treasures, she wondered, how many fleeting joys slip past as we fail to pay attention?

Inside the trailer, she couldn't get her bearings. She moved from spot to spot as though looking for something but had no idea what it was. The next thing she knew she was standing in the doorway to his bedroom, looking at the freshly made bed, thinking: My lonely funny G.o.do, always the wily one, the character, the demon. Do you remember, m'ijo m'ijo, that time you got so angry when your mother did herself up like a tart and went out, another night at the bar, leaving us alone together like always? How quiet you became, so intense, but I didn't see that for what it was. Then, behind my back, you found the scissors. By the time I realized you were up to something you'd torn her pillow to shreds, stabbing at it, ripping it, like some crazed little fiend. I grabbed the scissors away and slapped you so hard. You did not cry, though. You bit your lip, daring me to hit you again. I shouted, What do you think you're doing? But you said nothing, glaring at me. I slapped you once more, harder still. Tears ran down your face but you refused to wipe them away. I dragged you to the couch, told you to sit. If you move, I said, I will beat you like a mule. Later, when your mother stumbled in with the man she dragged home that night, I was lying in bed and I heard the door to my room open, felt you slip into the bed behind me in the dark. For once, I did not shoo you back to your room. I felt guilty and, yes, alone. We lay there, me on my side, my back to you, you on the edge of the bed, so still, and we listened as your mother and her man went at it. Do you remember what I told you? Your mother is going to get pregnant, I said. You are going to have a little brother, maybe a little sister-how are you going to handle that, m'ijo? m'ijo? Only then did you cry. And I did not turn over to comfort you. I let you cry yourself to sleep, thinking: Now, my little monster, now you will learn what it really means to want what is impossible. Only then did you cry. And I did not turn over to comfort you. I let you cry yourself to sleep, thinking: Now, my little monster, now you will learn what it really means to want what is impossible.

The loneliness became unbearable. Shrugging back into the coat she'd just removed, she went out to the car, drove over to Food 4 Less.

A sense of nakedness swept through her as she marched in, everyone glancing up. Did they know what had happened? How? Maybe they were just surprised, it was her day off after all. Only then did it occur to her that she hadn't put on her makeup. She'd worn her normal face, her dark indigena indigena face. She was the only woman she knew who went to such trouble anymore but only a fool trusts the open-mindedness of strangers. After a moment of stunned silence, Regina the checker broke into an uneasy smile. Alion the bag boy raised a power fist. The others quickly turned back to what they were doing. face. She was the only woman she knew who went to such trouble anymore but only a fool trusts the open-mindedness of strangers. After a moment of stunned silence, Regina the checker broke into an uneasy smile. Alion the bag boy raised a power fist. The others quickly turned back to what they were doing.

The manager's office lay back off the storage room. She climbed the three wood steps to the door and knocked. A m.u.f.fled voice called from within, "It's open."

The manager on duty was named Rafael, a muscular Tongan with a high tight fade, a meticulously groomed Fu Manchu. His necktie was loose at his unb.u.t.toned collar, one of his shirttails had worked itself free. A half-eaten lumpia lumpia laced with brown Chinese mustard and the discarded banana leaf from a laced with brown Chinese mustard and the discarded banana leaf from a patupat patupat, both courtesy of the Filipino bakery next door, sat in a Styrofoam container on his desk. "Lucha, hey-whazzup?" He too stared for a moment at her face, then gestured her into a chair.

Lucha hugged her purse to her belly, taking a second to compose herself. A fly careened about the remains of Rafael's dinner. "I am going to need extra shifts," she said, "if you can." It seemed wise to stop there. No need to explain what the money was for-mention a lawyer, there would be no end to the rumors.

"Shouldn't be a problem." Rafael wiped his lips with a napkin. "Let's take a looky-look at the schedule." He plucked a clipboard from the top of the file cabinet behind him, pushed back the top page. "Gina's been screaming for time off, her kid's got some kinda skin problem. You want her Wednesday ten to six, Friday noon to close?"

Lucha realized at that moment that in just a short while she would be returning to the empty trailer, spending the night there, nothing and no one to distract her from what she was feeling. And what would happen when these people found out what G.o.do and Happy had done-would she still have a job?

"Lucha?"

She snapped to. "I'm sorry. Could you say that again?"

"You okay?"

"Yes. Yes. Tired, maybe."

He repeated the shifts he had to offer. She said, "Starting when?"

"Day after tomorrow. That soon enough?"

"That would be fine." She considered asking for an advance on her paycheck but felt she stood a better chance by asking Monroe, the day-shift manager. He liked her-she reminded him of a babysitter he'd had growing up in Chula Vista, he said-and the extra shifts would serve as a kind of collateral.

"Hey, almost forgot." Rafael picked up his pad of message slips, ripped one free, tossed it across his desk. It fluttered to the floor, he said, "Sorry," and Lucha said, "It's all right," and they both bent to pick it up. Lucha got there first. It contained one word, "Pablo," and a phone number. Rafael said, "That came in through the message center maybe, I dunno, two o'clock?"

She stared at the handwriting as though it came from another world. Leaving his office, she walked though the store waving a curt goodbye to everyone, whether they looked up or not, then went outside to the pay phone in front of the store, opened her pocketbook, took out her change purse and inserted three quarters into the slot. A disposable phone, she thought, that was his style. He picked up on the second ring.

-You lied to me, you son of a b.i.t.c.h. You told me G.o.do wasn't involved in anything and that was a G.o.dd.a.m.n lie. You got him into this and now he can't get out and shut up! Shut up and listen to me! They took me to the house in Crockett, told me about the robbery, the man you killed. I had to face the woman you kidnapped you selfish little s.h.i.t, she may never see her daughters again. And now let me guess, you need my help. Well let me tell you you something-your father is dead too, how's that? Roque called me today, he told me, your father is dead, killed by bandits. Bandits like you. Look what you've done. This whole thing was your idea. You always thought you were smart. You've never been smart. You've always been the stupid one. The worthless one. Don't come back, understand? If I so much as see you I will call the police, if I don't kill you myself something-your father is dead too, how's that? Roque called me today, he told me, your father is dead, killed by bandits. Bandits like you. Look what you've done. This whole thing was your idea. You always thought you were smart. You've never been smart. You've always been the stupid one. The worthless one. Don't come back, understand? If I so much as see you I will call the police, if I don't kill you myself.

She slammed the phone so hard against its chrome-plated stirrup it banged out of her hand. She fumbled for it, got it under control, redoubled her grip, then slammed it home again, over and over, harder, faster, time and time again until the plastic earpiece shattered, exposing the copper coils and tin diaphragm beneath. She threw it down, staring in disgust.

From behind Alion the bag boy said, "f.u.c.k, Lucha. Be trippin'."

She pivoted toward the parking lot, finger-raking her hair to hide her face, chin down, sucking in jolts of air as she stormed to her car.