He grabbed his knapsack, shouldered it, patted his pockets for what seemed the thousandth time, checking to be sure he had his pa.s.sport, then followed Sisco across the street to a squat tin-roof house. At the door Sisco knocked twice, waited until the plate at the judas hole slid back, then presented himself to the disembodied eye peering out. "C'mon, Slobnoxious, abierto abierto." A clatter of bolts and chains, then the door edged open, revealing a short broad shovel-nosed guanaco guanaco Roque's age, maybe a year younger, wearing no shirt, baggy d.i.c.kies tugged down below his boxers, a Yankees cap kicked left atop his head. Roque's age, maybe a year younger, wearing no shirt, baggy d.i.c.kies tugged down below his boxers, a Yankees cap kicked left atop his head.

The kid eyed Roque up and down, then stepped aside, gesturing them into a low-ceilinged room, empty except for two wood chairs and a haphazard array of car-seat cushions. A smell of stale grease and cheap weed lingered. A spray-paint roll call of the local clica clica, Los Putos Bravos, covered one whole wall: Bug, Chega, Lonely ... Pepon, Snorky, Budu ... Timo, Malote, Slick ...

Suddenly Sisco's eyes lit up. "Wait-your last name's Montalvo, right?" He cast a quick glance at Roque, then the doorman's Yankee's cap. "Roque Montalvo." Montalvo."

It sounded like a trick question. Roque nodded uneasily.

"Come on, you know what I'm talking about. Salvadoran dude. Same name. Plays center field for the Red Sox?"

He waited, checking Roque's face, then the doorman's, like the coincidence wasn't just curious, it was meaningful-he expected the two strangers to square off, share a little heat, some New YorkBoston bulls.h.i.t. Then Roque realized it was the colors: blue, red. A gang thing. Seconds pa.s.sed. Everybody gaped at everybody else.

Finally Sis...o...b..oke the spell, slapping Roque's arm. "Just messing with you, homes. Ain't no Roque Montalvo plays for the Red Sox."

Turning away, he chested his thumbs, tenting his Cardinals T-shirt. "And the Steelers won the Super Bowl. Welcome to f.u.c.king El Salvador."

AT THE END OF THE LONG HALL AN OPEN DOORWAY LED INTO WHAT appeared to be a makeshift recording studio, the walls of the room stapled with cheap acoustic foam. That was when Roque saw her for the first time.

She was seated on a milk crate in the far corner, knees clenched tight, fists tucked beneath her arms. She had the slinky build of a dancer, a graceful neck, two dark moles dotting the hollow of her throat. Her lips were ripe and womanly but real, not plumped by a needle. She wore a white cotton top, jeans, sandals, her long black hair parted on one side and tied into a ponytail-a simple look, Roque thought, but this was no simple girl. She was a pichona pichona, a stone beauty, and yet beneath the c.o.c.ky edge he sensed damage, her face almost feral in its blankness, the mark of some thug's backhand darkening her cheek.

Roque guessed the thug in question was one of the two sitting at the desk backed up against the wall, the pair of them watching a video track on a twenty-four-inch wide-screen iMac G5.

It wasn't the only big-ticket toy in the room. He noticed as well a Sony camcorder, a b.u.t.terscotch Blonde Stratocaster with a Vibrolux Reverb amp, a Martin Marquis acoustic, a Korg Triton keyboard, a Digidesign 003 control surface, JBL monitors, Bluebird microphones. He realized now why so much had been made of his being musical. He was here to work.

Sisco caught a glance at what the other two were watching and drifted in behind, leaning toward the monitor. A snarling vocal track-just voices, the usual ga.s.sy bl.u.s.tering bulls.h.i.t, half-a.s.sed hip-hop-droned from the JBLs. Roque let his knapsack slip from his shoulder and traded a quick glance with the girl, who regarded him with the same cold fear and barely disguised hate she directed toward the others. I'm not one of them, he wanted to tell her. Given what he'd come to El Salvador to do, though, and who he'd have to deal with to get it done, he wasn't quite sure how true that was.

Finally, one of the two mareros mareros at the table c.o.c.ked his head around to take in Roque. He was somewhere in his twenties, wearing a pale blue polo shirt with tan slacks, as though on break from the sales floor at Circuit City. His face told another story, though: narrow, almost Jesuitical, a pampered goatee, intelligent eyes. at the table c.o.c.ked his head around to take in Roque. He was somewhere in his twenties, wearing a pale blue polo shirt with tan slacks, as though on break from the sales floor at Circuit City. His face told another story, though: narrow, almost Jesuitical, a pampered goatee, intelligent eyes.

The other cat was huge, shaved head, weight-lifter pop to his muscles, shirtless like the doorman, all that skin ribboned with freak-show ink from his skull down to his waist. To his credit, it wasn't the usual garish chaos. The designs seemed to cohere, with a theme involving dark towers, billowing flames, redemptive lilies.

Glancing at the monitor, Roque realized much of the video had been shot in the front room and featured the tattooed giant, with Sisco and the doorman and the Jesuit popping up here and there among nameless others, all of them vamping in poses of cliched menace, posturing wildly, throwing placas placas-inverting the devil's horn hand sign to form an M M for Mara Salvatrucha-brandishing chrome .45s and ivory-handled nunchuks, a wicked collection of knives, a sawed-off pistol-grip shotgun, a.s.sault rifles, even a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. Roque glanced around the room for the weapons, saw none. He had no clue what to make of that. for Mara Salvatrucha-brandishing chrome .45s and ivory-handled nunchuks, a wicked collection of knives, a sawed-off pistol-grip shotgun, a.s.sault rifles, even a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher. Roque glanced around the room for the weapons, saw none. He had no clue what to make of that.

As for the video, he'd seen dozens like it, the Web was crawling with them. Surprising, he thought, given what he knew of guys like this, that they hadn't added a shot of the girl's jacked-up face. Maybe they were saving that for a later take.

The Jesuit offered a nod in greeting but did not extend a hand. "Ever hear of a guy named Piocha?" His English lacked accent, the voice raspy and deep.

"Yeah," Roque said. Piocha was the stage name of Jorge Manuel, El Salvador's most famous guitarist.

"We got him slotted to do the music track for this video. But Sisco here, he talked to your uncle. He says you know your way around a studio."

Bulls.h.i.t, Roque thought, Piocha wouldn't come near these guys. "Not sure how my uncle would know that," he said, not wanting to seem overly agreeable. He knew this sort, not so different from G.o.do or Happy, really. Avoid confrontation, they saw you as weak. "But yeah, I've spent some time at a board."

It wasn't a total lie. He'd sat with Lalo during his recording sessions, paid decent enough attention. He could muddle his way through. The Jesuit invited him to sit and Roque called up the program, noticing a lack of manuals, at which point it dawned on him the stuff was stolen.

It took him ten minutes to figure out their settings, plug everything into the right ports, check to be sure their version of Pro Tools and their Mac OS were compatible, test the Digi 003 for gremlins. Beyond that, without a MIDI to complicate things, it was basically just a digital tape deck.

"Okay, before I start-I'm Roque, by the way?"

The tattooed hulk and the Jesuit traded glances. "Chiqui," the big one said. Short for Chiquitin, Roque guessed: Tiny. The Jesuit followed, "You call me Lonely," said with a pinpoint stare. Roque remembered the name from the wall. a.s.suming it answered to the same reverse logic as Tiny, he figured it meant the guy was never at a loss for company, female company in particular, clarifying finally who the girl in the corner belonged to.

"Okay," he began again, "I guess I need some idea of what it is you guys are after."

Chiqui began to say something but Lonely cut him short. "How about you show us what you got, put something together for us to judge, then we'll see who needs what."

Roque got that it wasn't a suggestion. "Right."

He replayed the vocal track, got a feel for the beat, a standard rap rhythm, apparently kept with nothing but an inner metronome. The good news, they could hold a beat. That permitted him to lay down a click track for reference.

"Okay," he said to no one in particular, "I'm gonna add a drum bit on the Korg. See what you think." He trolled through the samples on the keyboard, chose one heavy on the backbeat with a Bo Diddley shuffle, fashioned a four-minute loop and played it through the monitor. The wave patterns jagged hypnotically on the computer screen and the Digi dials self-adjusted like a ghost was working the panel. A little theater, he thought, amp my cred. With just the drum track the video instantly seemed bolder, more polished. He glanced around the room. "Sounds like money to me, what you guys think?" The answer was in their faces.

Lonely pointed to the corner. "What about the zorra zorra, man?"

Up until that moment, Roque had no inkling the girl was anything but window dressing. "What about her?"

"The b.i.t.c.h is here to sing." Lonely gestured for her to get up, come over. "She knows it."

Roque hadn't felt truly dirty until that moment. He reminded himself this was all for Tio Faustino. He had no choice who to rely on, who to deal with, but the girl's eyes made no distinctions. She rose, arms crossed, and edged up to the pop filter on the microphone.

Roque asked, "What, exactly, is she singing?"

"You figure it out, culero culero. 'Take Me Out to the f.u.c.king Ball Game' for all I care."

If these two are lovers, Roque thought, it was one of those f.u.c.ked-up death-do-we-part situations, where you can't tell the love from the hate, the pain you suffer-or inflict-only deepens what you feel. But the girl's body told him different: no catty arched spine, no c.o.c.ked hip, no pout. And the light in her eyes was cold with fright.

"Let me get a few instrumental tracks down first," he said, hoping to buy some time. "And I have to move a few things around, get situated." He turned to her then. Hoping to sound kind but not arouse any jealousy, he said, "You can sit down for now."

"She don't speak English," Lonely said. Accusing. Mocking.

Roque, trying again: "Puedes sentarte por ahora." "Puedes sentarte por ahora."

For the merest instant, her glance settled on him with something other than hate. Please, he thought, don't. Almost instantly the fear returned and she pivoted around, walked back to the milk carton, sat.

He tuned the Stratocaster and the Martin using the keyboard, adjusted the tone and volume dials for the cobalt pickups on the Strat, striving for the spooky hollowed-out bite the guitar was known for, then fiddled briefly with the Digi's volume levels, making sure the waveforms were full and set as high as possible without peaking into distortion. He could feel his heart pounding and once or twice snuck a chance to wipe his damp palms on his jeans. He ran the video twice more to make sure the rhythm track was properly synched, then dubbed in a ba.s.s track, again using the Korg, choosing a fat round punchy tone. On top of that he laid down an organ effect, a churchy thrum, with a Hammond B-3 sample.

As he worked, he felt the mood turn in the room. Everyone got quiet, calm, almost reverential. Then a boy appeared in the doorway.

Roque pegged him at ten years old, but kids grow up small down here, he thought. The boy had a cloth bag in one hand, a bottle of Champan in the other, the local variety of cream soda. Lonely gestured him forward. The kid stole a glance at Roque first, then did as he was told.

Lonely s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag from him, peered inside. "Cuanto?" "Cuanto?" How much? How much?

The kid, tottering foot to foot, reached behind to scratch his back beneath his shirt. "Dos cientos, mas o menos." "Dos cientos, mas o menos." Two hundred, more or less. Two hundred, more or less.

Lonely glanced up, met the boy's eyes. "Mas o menos?" "Mas o menos?" He lashed out, slapped the kid's face, then launched into what felt like a full five minutes of insulting venom, accusing the boy of stealing, skimming off the protection take that had been collected by other He lashed out, slapped the kid's face, then launched into what felt like a full five minutes of insulting venom, accusing the boy of stealing, skimming off the protection take that had been collected by other mareros mareros in shakedowns of the city's bus drivers. The boy stood there and took it, valiant in his way, verging on tears but never giving in. Lonely made to slap him twice more, but settled for just watching him cringe. He asked three times, shouting finally, how much did he steal? The boy answered, in shakedowns of the city's bus drivers. The boy stood there and took it, valiant in his way, verging on tears but never giving in. Lonely made to slap him twice more, but settled for just watching him cringe. He asked three times, shouting finally, how much did he steal? The boy answered, "Goma," "Goma," nothing, his voice a little weaker, a little less convincing, each time. nothing, his voice a little weaker, a little less convincing, each time.

Finally, Lonely ended with: "Te gusta hacerte el suizo. Consigo mi dinero, lelito." "Te gusta hacerte el suizo. Consigo mi dinero, lelito." You like to play dumb. I get my money, you little fool. You like to play dumb. I get my money, you little fool.

He waved the boy out with disgust. Once he was gone, Lonely turned back to Roque. "What the f.u.c.k you looking at?"

Roque collected the Martin, switched to an open D tuning, adjusted the mike down to chair level. His hands were shaking. Get it together, he told himself as he recued the video. Figuring Lonely and his boys for secret sentimentalists, like most punks, he laid on the schmaltzy rubato as he strummed a flamenco-style rhythm track, complete with backhand flourishes and syncopated thumb slaps on the guitar's spruce top. Gradually, the pulse in his neck stopped throbbing.

He followed up with a muted arpeggio pattern on the Strat, echoing the ba.s.s line but elaborating on it too, giving it an edge, a little extra momentum. When it came time to solo he built it in Dorian mode like Santana in "Evil Ways," the off-kilter minor jarring at first then jelling, almost medieval in its eerie drift, but full of bite and heat. After one particularly aching lick he could sense it, the gravitational turn, every eye and ear in the room drawn to him and him alone, and he finished with a series of slowly ascending arpeggios ending in a scream.

Finally, he gestured the girl over again and readjusted the mike-stand height. He wanted to ask her name but knew better. Using the Strat, he played the vocal line he wanted her to follow, no words, just nonsense syllables or open vowels. The thing had enough verbiage as is. He let the girl know it would be okay if she improvised a little, even though he'd be echoing her on the guitar. Using the effects pedal, he bought himself a little distortion, a touch of phase delay, some sustain, then recued the track and said, "Listo?" "Listo?"

She nodded. He counted it off.

By now the track seemed full and solid, all that was lacking was the haunting high notes, the skin-tingling wail of the bruja bruja. The girl obliged, getting it instinctively, her voice throaty but pure. He was impressed. The only problem was, at the high end of her range, she trended flat. He tried to get her pitch to lift by echoing her notes on the guitar, a howling whisper tracking her vocal line, but either she'd never had to blend before, meaning she'd never sung harmony, or she was too scared to hear him.

Once the track was over she glanced at him shyly, fingers twined. He bit back a grin at her girlishness and again caught himself staring at her face, the two punctuating moles on her throat. He told her how much he liked her voice, how rich the tone was, how gutty the timbre, but he wanted to run through the thing again.

-This time, he said, visualize the notes in the air, like balloons visualize the notes in the air, like balloons, aim for the top, let your voice skim along the upper surface. Understand? aim for the top, let your voice skim along the upper surface. Understand?

She swallowed nervously. Nodded.

He recued the track, met her eye, counted off.

They ended up doing four more takes before she nailed it, pitch and all, at which point Roque couldn't hold back his smile anymore, if only from relief. It had been fear after all, tightening her voice. Each time, he followed her improvisations, the same harsh keening whisper in echo, riding the sustain, occasionally jumping a fifth or an octave, then settling back in, note for note. The melody spoke of longing, heartbreak, cold regret, which brought a wistful gravitas to the c.o.c.ksure gangster bulls.h.i.t. It made the mareros mareros look like men, something they'd botched ridiculously on their own. look like men, something they'd botched ridiculously on their own.

But the really marvelous thing was watching her face change as she sang. She winced on anything above an A, clearly still limited by the bruise and gash on her cheek, maybe other wounds he couldn't see, but her voice turned that pain into something clean and nameless. She knew what it meant to suffer, and not just a crack across the jaw. Her face surrendered to it.

When the last take was over, Sisco let go with an almost lovelorn sigh: "Que vergon." "Que vergon." f.u.c.king great. Chiqui's rubbery tattooed face twisted into a garish smile. Only Lonely held back. He got up, tugged his d.i.c.kies straight, adjusted the sag. "Let's take a break, light up a blunt. Maybe a couple more run-throughs after that." f.u.c.king great. Chiqui's rubbery tattooed face twisted into a garish smile. Only Lonely held back. He got up, tugged his d.i.c.kies straight, adjusted the sag. "Let's take a break, light up a blunt. Maybe a couple more run-throughs after that."

Roque set the Strat back gently in its chrome stand. "I've come a long way. I'd like to see my uncle."

The room went still. Lonely offered a scornful smile. "Yeah, we'll get to that."

Roque thought about the boy, the beating he had coming. "Look, you do another take, it'll just be different, not better. Right now, it's the best it's gonna get. Trust me." He knew not to come on too strong, naysay the guy with his boys right there, not to mention the girl. But he couldn't afford to let himself get conned into wasting more time. He tried to sound obliging but not cowed. Let the s.a.d.i.s.tic p.r.i.c.k be the good guy, he told himself, a trick perfected growing up with G.o.do. He picked up his knapsack, making a point not to glance toward the girl.

"Believe me, I've been there when it got to be take after take, till everybody's beat and confused and bored. Once in a while, maybe, you can make decent music that way. You're so exhausted you're almost dreaming your way through it. But, you know, it's luck if that happens. As it stands? You're gonna blow people away, no joke. Now-I know my uncle's gonna be worried, okay?"

THEY REACHED SUCHITOTO AT TWILIGHT. AFTER THE SQUALOR OF LA CHACRA, Roque was unprepared for the cobblestone streets, the sleepy architecture, the colonial-era buildings with their eye-slamming colors, a shock of red here, a soothing turquoise there, warm fat yellows in between. A statue of Don Quixote fashioned from sc.r.a.p metal jousted with a chalk-white cathedral. Plump sirvientas sirvientas in pale blue livery, their hair pinned up, cradled infants and glanced down from wrought-iron balconies. in pale blue livery, their hair pinned up, cradled infants and glanced down from wrought-iron balconies.

In the distance, Roque could see Lago de Suchitlan, the lake nestled among rolling hills bronzed by sunset. At the edge of the city they took a ferry-in truth, little more than a small tented barge-crossing to a village called San Pedro Lempa.

Sisco drove down a street of tidy but nondescript shops and houses, past a high foundry wall of arched red brick, then turned left onto a dirt lane that curved up a wooded hill, stopping in front of a yard surrounded by a tall th.o.r.n.y hedge, shaded by mango trees. Beyond the pa.s.sageway into the yard, the house resembled virtually every other Roque had seen, cinder-block walls, tin roof, but it seemed larger than most, almost palatial, even though the guttering light beyond the curtains suggested kerosene lamps or candle flame.

As Roque prepared to get out, Sisco made his first remark of the trip. "In case you're curious-the mamita? mamita? Her name's Lupe. Girl is f.u.c.king fly, no?" Her name's Lupe. Girl is f.u.c.king fly, no?"

It couldn't be a good thing, Roque thought, knowing any more about her. He forced a shrug. "Pop the trunk, I'll get my bag."

As he grabbed his knapsack Sisco sidled alongside. A flip smile played across his face, made all the more unnerving by the red glow of the taillights. "Mejor un bombon para dos," "Mejor un bombon para dos," he said, he said, "que una mierda para uno." "que una mierda para uno."

It was the first time he'd spoken more than a word or two of Spanish: Better a candy for two than a piece of s.h.i.t for one. Roque felt his mouth go dry. No matter what he responded, it would get back and that could only harm the girl. Lupe.

"It's not my concern," he said finally. "I've got enough on my hands as is."

Sisco drove off in a spume of exhaust and Roque stood there, watching the taillights disappear beyond the first hill. Rewinding the whole miserable situation in his head, he wondered how badly he'd misjudged things.

Turning back toward the fenced-in yard, he called out, "Tio?"

The stillness didn't feel threatening, just empty. He wondered if he hadn't been stranded, no one around, a little revenge, courtesy of Lonely, who'd seen right through his feigned indifference for the girl. Then a rustling stirred from deep within the house. Shortly a tiny woman appeared in the doorway, Indian braids, a simple white blouse that matched her ap.r.o.n, a long dark skirt. She carried a flickering kerosene lamp.

Roque had no idea what to say to her.

Thankfully, Tio Faustino appeared, edging his way past with a murmured word, then hurrying across the packed dirt yard.

Roque dropped his knapsack and prepared for the embrace, a fierce homesick hug, and soon he felt the trickle of dampness on his uncle's rough cheek.

"Roque, Roque, Roque. Mi hijo. Al fin. Estas aqui." Mi hijo. Al fin. Estas aqui."

My son. Finally. You're here.

HAPPY SHOOK OFF THE COLD RAIN AND CHOSE A TABLE NEAR THE back, a midweek lunch crowd, banter and body heat and the raucous aromas of a Vietnamese kitchen. Almost instantly the waiter appeared-three chins, ratty sweater, Asian comb-over. Happy, picking a number at random, ordered a bowl of pho, a ginger-laced soup with noodles and grilled meat, served with mung-bean sprouts, sliced hot chilies, sprigs of fresh cilantro. What he found himself craving, though, was a cigarette. As always his stomach roiled. The diarrhea was back.

He'd never know, he supposed, the cause, whether it was what happened in the Salvadoran prison that night or the skunky untreated water he and all the other foreign workers got for bathing and laundry in Iraq, day in, day out, seeping in through the eyes, the skin, the mouth, courtesy of a private company awarded the contract for on-base services by the Pentagon, a no-bid deal worth billions. If the latter, he could count himself lucky in some regards, all he'd lost was his appet.i.te. He knew other men with incurable rashes, seeping abscesses, whole limbs flaring red with infection. He could conjure a bad itch just thinking about them.

He turned the card over in his hands, obtained from Tia Lucha: Special Agent James Lattimore, Federal Bureau of Investigation. The embossing on the card felt oddly rea.s.suring. A straight cop, according to Roque, not that the kid knew just how bent cops could get. Regardless, Happy didn't have much choice; he couldn't just walk in to the FBI vestibule, ask for the most honest guy they had.

He studied the restaurant's clientele: government workers, library patrons, museum day-trippers, law students, tattooed punks, flaming gays, Tenderloin trannies, even a few Vietnamese. He tried to imagine who the spy might be. The freckled plump brunette two tables over, picking at her split ends and reading a paperback t.i.tled Dead Dead-Ex? Or the buff preppy in the Men's Wearhouse suit, thumbing away on his BlackBerry. Maybe the throwback Italian with his shameless gut and the Philly hair, racing form spread across his table as he jawed into his cell. Don't rule out the scruffier sorts, he thought. One in particular caught his eye, a pierced waif in ta.s.seled leathers with goth eye shadow and a stubbled head, hunched over her food like she was still in juvie, a snitch maybe, recruited, bribed, coerced by Lattimore to serve as his scout. And don't ignore the couples, either, though by and large they seemed far too preoccupied with each other to eavesdrop on anybody else.

Suddenly, there he was, standing in the restaurant doorway, impossible to miss, ducking a little so as not to smack his head. He made eye contact with no one and no one with him, then his gaze found the back of the room.

Happy felt his throat clench shut, thinking: He wants, he can slip the cuffs on right here, reentry after deportation, anywhere from two to twenty years in federal stir. Everything crumbles into dust then. But he'd felt the man out, half a dozen phone calls already, letting him know who he was, reminding him of the standoff at the trailer, his cousin the crazy jarhead with the f.u.c.ked-up face, all as prelude to a discussion of what he, Pablo "Happy" Orantes, had to offer.

He recognized the type from Iraq, the square but savvy American, lanky build, steady gaze, easy gait, smile of a troop master, heart of a killer. He wore a trench coat over a sport jacket and tie, and his hair had wisps of gray at the temple. Shaking out his umbrella first, he ambled over to Happy's table, pulled out the available chair, extended his hand.

"Pablo? Jim Lattimore."

The offered palm was cold from the walk outdoors, the handshake firm and quick, the voice like whiskey. He draped his coat on the back of his chair and sat.

"You can call me Happy."

An impa.s.sive smile. "Okay." The waiter approached with a menu, Lattimore waved him off, ordering from memory, round steak and brisket, plus hot green tea. Nodding toward Happy's soup, he said, "That's going to get cold."

Happy couldn't help himself, he chuckled-nerves, suspicion, relief-glancing down at the rainbow skim of cooling fat, then back up at the scarily smart face. "You could play yourself in a movie, know that?"

It took a second for Lattimore to process the observation. "The opportunity's never arisen." He paused, leaning back in his chair as the waiter set down his tea. "That could probably be said about a lot of people. You, for instance. Not to say I pictured you perfectly from your voice on the phone, but even if you hadn't been the only Hispanic in here, I think I would have figured you for my guy."

Happy's craving for a cigarette intensified. My guy? "What you see, what you get." Shivering from a sudden brisk chill, he glanced around for the source of the draft, found none.

"Few people can really hide who they are. I get lied to every day, every cop does. A mask is harder to come by than most people think."

Okay, Happy thought. Got to that quick. "I'm not lying."

"I hope not."