The Long Run, page 15
Bang shrugged. “Some of them. Others are on ESPN. I keep it mixed up.”
“Uh, huh. Was he—”
“You think the news came on about Sofia’s kidnapping and Israel saw it?”
“That’s right,” she said, eyeing Bang. “If he saw it, and he cared for Sofia and her family, I could see him cutting his workout short and running out the door. I know I would.”
“So would I.” It made sense to Bang, the family man. But it seemed alien to his concept of Israel. Not that he considered Israel cold. Israel had mentioned his bum father and deceased mother a few times, but nobody else. He realized he knew little about Israel’s world outside the gym. It was his safe space. Israel came her for training, friendship, and maybe some fatherly advice. That relationship ended at the door. A sour pit formed at the base of Bang’s stomach. Like a father not noticing the creeping drug dependency of a child drifting away until too late.
“Is there anything else you can tell me about Israel?”
Bang took a deep breath and locked eyes with Agent Dominguez. “He’s a good kid. All right? He’s worked his ass off to turn his life around. He wouldn’t throw that away to hurt anybody.”
“Why do you say that?” she said, studying his reaction.
“Because I know his heart,” he said, despite the creeping doubt in his mind. “He turned his back on criminal life. And they were his only family. Do you know how hard that is? Turning your back on everything and everyone you know? He did it because he wanted a real family, a home, a career. He wouldn’t burn that all down.”
“You think highly of him. Would you be willing to testify to that in an open trial?”
“You’re goddamn right I would,” Bang said, hoping he wouldn’t have to eat those words later.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, rising from her seat. She reached into her jacket and retrieved a business card from a hidden pocket. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Lopez. If you see Israel, please ask him to call me. Or call me yourself if you hear about his whereabouts.”
He accepted the card and nodded. If Israel showed up at the gym, he would tell him about the FBI agent and show him the card. After that, it was up to Israel. He walked Agent Dominguez out of the office and watched her exit the front door. Manny appeared after, grumbling and glaring at Bang as he attacked the rest of his office.
Bang leaned against the doorframe, watching two men sparring in the boxing ring. That should be him and Israel. It was time for their daily session. He wondered where Israel was and if he could be involved in Sofia’s disappearance. No, of course not. But how could he know for sure? Bang resolved, if Israel returned, to get to know him better outside the gym.
CHAPTER 22
Sofia
Twenty-four hours had passed since Chucho’s stunning deadline announcement. Another twenty-four to go until that deadline’s arrival. Had Mr. Carson cooperated? Were Chucho’s drugs on their way to Dallas? She would know by tomorrow. She’d been agonizing in the cell ever since, sweating her anxiety and counting the hours and minutes to her potential doom. Various escape scenarios played in her mind, but none seemed feasible. Bull rush a guard when they opened the gate? It would require the participation of her meek cell mates. Pry the bars off the open window? With what equipment and brawn? Anyway, it was impossible to do so without being seen.
Her dinner sat uneaten at her feet. She was too nervous to eat. Too nervous to think. Her body ached from the weight of dread. She smacked dry lips and lifted her water jug. Empty. She glanced at the guard station beyond the cell bars. Hugo stood staring outside the window. Sofia approached the cell bars with the empty jug in her hand. Despite his dour personality, Hugo had been a friendly face in a sea of leering men. But since his confrontation with Chucho, he was no longer as sociable.
“Hugo,” she said.
He glanced at her. His right cheek was swollen, and his right eye was pink and puffy. The telltale effects of a blow. Perhaps the result of a fall or car accident. But knowing their surroundings and the people he worked for, she suspected something else. Because they hadn’t yet reconciled, she decided not to mention it.
“What?” he said.
“My bottle is empty. Can I get a refill?”
“Again?” he grumbled and wiped his bleary face.
Sofia cursed herself. She meant to ask the previous guard for a refill before the shift change arrived. But Hugo arrived half an hour early to pull his all-nighter.
“Please,” she said, summoning a pleading smile.
Hugo’s lazy gaze drifted to Sofia’s empty jug. She thought he would ignore her request until he took a shuddering breath and turned. Despite his iciness, she pitied him. Chucho’s tongue lashing clearly hurt his feelings. Now he sported a shiner under his right eye. He was an abused man-child among abusive men. He resisted eye contact as he took the empty jug and trudged towards the water faucet outside.
While he was gone, she surveyed the cell. A few women had departed, leaving only a handful behind. Dominica laid snoozing on her side, with her back against the wall. Distant storm clouds flashed angry blue outside the window. Lightning brightened the night sky and illuminated the swaying trees outside the jail. The ominous scene chilled Sofia. A frightening portent of her fate.
Hugo reappeared, with the jug, now heavy, hanging by his side. Water drops peppered his shirt and pants. He wiped his face and handed her the jug.
“Thanks. Is it raining bad?” she said. The pungent aroma of approaching rainfall filled her nostrils. The storm was rumbling their way.
“Not yet. Looks bad though.” He sat and retrieved a towel laying on the counter and rubbed it on his face and hair. When he removed the towel, their eyes met. She gave him a hopeful grin. He returned it in kind.
“I’m glad to see you smile. You’ve been quiet.” Sofia slid down the iron bars and squatted on the floor. She popped the top off the jug and hefted it to her lips. Tap water cooled her mouth and shuddered her insides. Whether Hugo absorbed or deflected her words, she couldn’t tell.
“I’m OK.” He slumped into his chair. His haggard face belied his youth. Sofia understood the dynamic that led young men to join the cartels. Poverty made criminals like rain made floods. But she wanted to know his story.
“Do you mind me asking? Why do you work here?”
He looked at her with surprise. He thought for a moment in silence. Then he shrugged. “For my mother. And my little brother.”
“You take care of them.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Mama has diabetes. The doctors took one of her feet.” Sofia cringed at the mental image. Diabetes had claimed one of her uncles, a remote man who lived and died in squalor with both legs removed at the knee.
“How old is your brother?”
“Fourteen.”
“That’s a scary age,” she said, remembering her own teenage tribulations. It was the age of discovery. Of her body and boys and the onrushing adulthood barreling towards her. And it was the time of Israel. The lost cousin who became more than family. She pushed the thought away and focused on Hugo.
“Yeah.” He drifted into silence as he slouched in the chair. The heavy burden of responsibility crumpled him in front of Sofia’s eyes. The caretaker son of an ill mother and de facto father of a younger brother. Despite their respective roles, Hugo the captor and she the captive, her heart broke for him. Nobody so young should carry so much weight.
“You’re a good person, Hugo. And a great brother.”
Hugo looked up with heavy eyes. “Thank you.”
“I have two older brothers. They’re protective of me, too.I want to see them again. Hug them and tell them I love them.” Hugo glanced away without replying. “You know what Chucho is planning for me, don’t you?”
“I’m sorry. We’re not supposed to talk about this with—”
“Please!” Sofia said and clutched the iron bars. A sudden urge to know her fate seized her. Tortured fears of an uncertain future often outstripped reality. Perhaps knowing what Chucho planned for her would calm her nerves. Could it be a bluff? A toothless ploy to coerce Henry’s cooperation? That felt like a possibility. If true, she needn’t worry. But she needed that confirmed by someone who knew the truth. “Tell me what you know.”
Hugo swiped a meaty hand through his hair and sighed. He glanced at the exterior door, as if hoping someone would arrive and allow him to avoid her question. But no one came to his rescue. His head swung back around, like a counterbalance drifting towards center, and leveled Sofia with round, pink eyes.
“The other guys… they talk, and I hear them. Nothing has changed. Our product is still sitting in Reynosa. Nobody has picked it up.”
The news hammered Sofia worse than she could have imagined. Mr. Carson knew she faced death. He had the power to save her. And he’d done nothing. Stark reality settled in. Her kidnapping resulted from a business deal gone bad. Cartels weren’t normal businesses. When they didn’t get their way, they got violent.
“So, what happens next?” she asked, her voice cracked and dry.
“I don’t know. That’s up to Chucho. But…” His voice trailed into silence.
“But what? Hugo, please tell me.”
“La Doña is angry. That’s a lot of money sitting there. Millions of dollars. Customers expect deliveries at a certain time. When they don’t get them, they look for other suppliers. She blames Chucho. And Chucho is passing the blame,” he said and rubbed his bruised face.
“Is there another way to move it?”
“We always have mules. But they’re slow. And they get caught at the border a lot. Then we lose the drugs and the money. With Señor Carson, we never had to worry. It all made it to Dallas. Like clockwork.”
“Let me talk to him. Please! Tell Chucho to call him back and let me—” Sofia’s cascade of panicked words halted as Hugo cut her off.
“He doesn’t answer the phone anymore,” Hugo said, shaking his head. Sofia considered all possibilities. If Henry Carson wasn’t accepting phone calls, perhaps the direct approach would work. This mysterious La Doña must have people in Texas. One or two could pay Henry Carson a visit. Nothing violent. A couple of narcos on his doorstep might remind him of his commitments.
“Has anybody visited him? Gone by his business and talked with him?”
“I don’t know about that. Maybe. But you can’t convince somebody to do something by killing him.”
No. You convince them by threatening to kill someone they love. And they tried that already. They took their shot when they attacked Club Bombom. But they missed out on Hank. All they got was her, and she wasn’t a priority to Henry. She remembered sitting in their home, having dinner in their sterile white dining room with Mr. Carson’s fading Barbie wife. Sofia laughed at their bland jokes and bit her tongue at Henry’s conservative politics. It was all for Hank. The man she loved. Or maybe she loved. Had he known about his father’s involvement? Was he involved? She might never know.
Sofia released the cell bars and slid to the floor. The cool cement touched her forehead. She shivered and felt drained. As if an open wound had bled her out. But her life wasn’t over. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to give up the fight. She sat upright and gritted her teeth.
“I’m going to die if I stay here. Let me out Hugo, please! I’d rather take my chances in the jungle than in here.”
“And what would happen to me?”
He glared at her with a cool detachment that chilled Sofia. Chucho would kill him. She couldn’t ask anyone to give up their life for hers. As if anybody would. When she didn’t reply, he swiveled in his seat and stared out of the window. Their conversation, and whatever faint hope she had of escape, were over.
Outside, a crack of thunder announced the storm’s arrival.
CHAPTER 23
Israel
“You awake? Breathe,” a man’s voice said.
Israel’s eyes fluttered. The hazy image of the bearded man swam into focus. He sat beside Israel, still under the window. Outside, dark clouds flashed with lightning. The tin roof above clattered under driving rain. The bearded man ignored the light show and glanced at Israel with grudging concern. Israel realized he was lying on his back, face up to the ceiling. He pushed himself off the rough concrete floor and rubbed his eyes. Dried drool caked his lips and cheek. He tried to remember what happened. He had walked into the cell. Told a guy to move. The guy beside him. There had been a fight. Israel glanced at the man.
The squatter munched on an apple, unaffected by Israel’s return to consciousness. And why would he be affected? He’s the one who knocked Israel out. Though older than Israel, with bands of silver hair tucked behind his ears, he had taut, muscular arms and a flat stomach that didn’t bulge even when squatting on the floor. Like Israel, several tattoos decorated the man’s biceps and forearms. A coat of arms tattoo, with a triangular image in its center and surrounded by blue and white flags, adorned his right bicep. The words Republic De El Salvador encircled the tattoo. The crunch of the man’s apple slowed as he turned to face Israel. His sharp eyes gleamed.
“If you’re thinking of doing something, I wouldn’t,” he said. Chunks of apple puffed one cheek.
Israel nodded. He glanced around, observing the other prisoners seated around the cell. Most were older than him. Some much older. Gray haired and baggy eyes. These weren’t the gangbangers he encountered inside juvie. These were farm workers and immigrants. He didn't want to fight them or anyone else. His only concern now was finding Sofia. He scooted backward until he rested against the wall. The squatter returned his attention to his apple. He reached to his left and retrieved a brown sack and set it in front of Israel.
“They brought dinner.”
Israel picked up the bag. Its dried edges crinkled as he opened it.
“They gave us green apples today,” the squatter said. Beside the apple were two tacos wrapped in cellophane and a bottle of juice. “Bean and cheese tacos. Those are all we ever get. They’re billionaires and they pay pennies to feed us.”
Israel’s stomach growled, regardless. He tore into the contents, almost inhaling the tacos and juice before taking his time with the apple.
“Gracias,” he said, crunching into the apple.
“De nada.”
It wasn’t nothing to Israel. His opponent could have eaten it himself. Instead, he saved it. This even after Israel’s obnoxious entrance. He wiped his hand on his pants and offered it to the man.
“I’m Israel.”
The man glanced at Israel’s hand. For a moment, it appeared he wouldn’t accept it. But he reached around and took Israel’s hand in his. His hand was thin, with long fingers and bulbous knuckles. But it was rough and strong, and it squeezed a message of dominance.
“Fermin,” he said and returned Israel’s gaze.
“I’m sorry… about earlier,” Israel said after the handshake.
“Are you?” Fermin said doubtfully as he bit into the apple.
“Yes. I shouldn’t have acted that way. I… I don’t know why I did that.”
“No? I do,” Fermin chuckled.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re one of them.” Fermin nodded towards the guards clustered on the other side of the iron bars. A portable television sat on the counter. A soccer match occupied the screen and the guards’ full attention. An escape from the rumbling storm outside.
The declaration froze Israel. Fermin’s meaning was clear. He was comparing Israel to the narcos holding them hostage. Israel didn’t appreciate the comparison, though it was easy to see why Fermin made it. Israel swaggered into the cell with a narco’s look and bravado. It explained why the other hostages shrank from him as he walked past. The misperception back home traveled with him to the Yucatan.
“I’m not like them.”
“No? You acted like one when you came in here.”
“I used to be in a gang. But I’m not anymore.”
“Yeah? Then why act like it?” Fermin said.
“Old habit. Gotta survive inside jail.”
“That’s true.”
Israel studied Fermin. Unlike their other cellmates, he looked calm, comfortable even, seated inside the cell. When they talked, he maintained eye contact and spoke slowly, like a teacher to a student. He appeared a sophisticated man under that pile of hair. This situation, this cell, and their cellmates were nothing new to him.
“You’ve been in jail before?” Israel asked.
“Yeah,” he declared. “But not like you. I put gangsters in jail. I know what they look like. Know what they sound like, too.” His eyes narrowed on Israel. “You’re American. Aren’t you?”
Israel learned Spanish on the streets of McAllen. The blend of Spanish and English known as Tex-Mex wouldn’t pass muster in any high school Spanish class. But he knew enough to get by. To a native speaker, his accent must be obvious.
“Yeah,” Israel said.
“Uh, huh. So, what happened? Your boss sent you down here to pick up some drugs, and the deal went bad? Maybe you pissed off the wrong guy? Are you a mule, Israel? Is that why you are here? Hm?”
“No!” Israel said, harsher than he expected. Being caught and tossed in this cell was bad enough. It irritated even more being interrogated by a fellow prisoner. “I told you. I don’t do that anymore.”
“OK. Maybe so. Then why are you here?”
“Why are you here? Huh?” Israel said, turning the tables.
“Same as the rest of us. I crossed paths with narcos while traveling across Mexico. Now they’re holding me for ransom. But you’re American. You don’t have to immigrate. They’ll let you into their country, no problem. So, why are you here?”
“Why do you care?”
“It’s important to know one’s cellmates. Especially when you’re sitting next to someone who might be a gangster. Someone who pushes people around and struts like a rooster. Someone like that might jam a knife between your ribs when you’re asleep. You say you’re not a gangster anymore? Fine. What do you have to hide?”
