The Long Run, page 26
Israel looked at the boy and spread his arms. “Sorry. We’re hungry too.” He offered an apologetic smile. But the boy remained still, quiet, as if his silence could change Israel’s words.
“He’ll give up and leave. Just wait,” the skinny man said. He lifted a cinch sack hidden inside his crossed legs and uncinched the top. A paper bag, packed heavy like a brick, swelled the sack. He dipped one hand inside and removed a fistful of sunflower seeds and tossed them in his mouth. He chewed on the seeds and eyed the boy. The boy watched him eat like a lion studying a grazing gazelle. They watched each other through furrowed brows. One wanting. The other denying. It felt cruel to Israel.
“Have you given him any?” he asked the skinny man.
“No. We need it.”
Israel craned his neck far enough to see the skinny man’s companion. It was a woman, gaunt with sunken cheeks beneath closed eyes, curled beside him. Her black hair tied off in a limp ponytail behind her head. Her skin, like the skinny man’s, was tanned mahogany and weather-beaten. The man followed his gaze and tossed another handful of seeds into his mouth.
“We’re not giving you any either,” he said.
Israel nodded. He wouldn’t ask, anyway. Judging by their appearance, they needed all the nutrition they could get. In their company, Israel felt guilty for his own hunger. His slim, muscular frame looked plump by comparison. Israel glanced at the top of the boxcar, but the boy had disappeared.
“Do you know where we’re going?” Israel asked. In their mad scramble to escape the narcos, he hadn’t given the train’s destination a thought.
“Coatzacoalcos.” The man tucked the sack back into the cinch bag and stowed it between his legs. Then he wiped seed residue from his hands. “They stop to unload and change cars.”
“You’ve ridden this train before?”
The skinny man laughed, revealing a row of snaggled upper teeth. “Sí, sí! A few times. The Americans keep sending me back.”
His eyes narrowed on Israel, traveling from his arms to his face. Israel still wore the black long-sleeve shirt and jeans that he donned when he left the finca. The pipe’s toxic drain water had dried over his elbows and knees in a foamy crust. The faint aroma of the chemical stew lingered on his pants and shirt. He had moved past feeling self-conscious about his appearance and smell since fleeing Chucho’s compound. Freedom was worth it. Anyway, his grimy clothing served a purpose. The shirt covered most of the tattoos patterning his arms and chest. One tattoo poked out from beneath the collar on his neck. It was a fantasma, rendered as half-man, half-skull, laughing maniacally with a cigarette dangling from its exposed teeth. He bought it the weekend of his twentieth birthday while stoned on a mixture of oxy and weed. He’d regretted it ever since. Only the top of the creature’s wild hair was visible. But it was enough to grab Skinny Man’s attention.
“Are you Mexican?” he asked.
“Sí,” Israel said. Never volunteer information. That was one of his first lessons on the street. Just because somebody asked a question, didn’t mean they needed a life story. Life stories put vatos in jail. He’d let this guy believe he was a Mexican national dreaming of a better life in el norte.
“Uh huh.” Skinny Man pursed his lips in thought. Then he leaned forward to see who sat beside Israel. Skinny Man noted Sofia sleeping by his side and nodded. “If you two are going north, you’ll need to switch trains in Coatzacoalcos. Follow me when we get there. I’ll show you.”
“Gracias,” Israel said. Beware strangers offering something for free. Another hard-earned street lesson. He’d follow Skinny Man with a wary eye.
“Ba’ax ku yúuchul?” This was an unfamiliar voice. Soft and frail and feminine. Israel didn’t understand the language, though he guessed it was an indigenous tongue. Skinny Man turned to look at his companion. She had woken from her sleep and sat up beside him, rubbing her eyes. Her eyelids fluttered as she focused on Israel.
“Ma’alo’ob. Chéen táan k t’anik,” Skinny Man said. Then he leaned close and whispered something to her. She blinked and listened before whispering back.
Beware whispering strangers. That wasn’t another street lesson. But it was one Israel was learning fast. A knot of worry formed at the base of his stomach. Movement above him caught his eye. The boy had returned with two friends. A girl and another boy, slightly older than the first. They stared at Israel from the top of the boxcar. All the attention made him uneasy. As if they were zoo animals on display. He knew Chucho had sent out their descriptions to his network of spies. Did that network extend to the trains as well?
“Good morning,” Sofia said in a soft, cracked voice. She stretched and yawned and blinked sleep from her eyes. When she settled, she noticed the children watching her. A wide smile spread across her lips. “Hello.” She waved.
“Careful,” Israel whispered, leaning close. “They’re watching us.” Sofia’s face crinkled in confusion. Understanding quickly arrived. She lifted the wool hoodie over her head and knotted the cord around its neck. But everyone had already gotten a full view. He was the bald, tattooed man of Chucho’s descriptions, and she was his female companion. He hoped her blonde hair sowed doubt.
The oldest of the three children, a teen whose short hair rivaled Sofia’s, lifted a phone eye level and pointed it toward Israel and Sofa. A digital shutter clicked.
“Fuck off! It’s not them!” Skinny Man yelled and waved them off. “They’re from Merida!” The older boy looked at him doubtfully. The girl beside the older boy leaned in and told him something unheard. The older boy nodded, and all three departed. Skinny Man exchanged glances with Israel. “They’re on to you, gringo.”
Israel swallowed hard. The word was out. Their identities revealed. The train trundled over a wooden bridge. The steel wheels click-clacked like a playing card stuck in the spokes of a bicycle wheel. A lake glimmered blue far below them. Jumping off now was suicide.
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell,” Skinny Man said.
“No?” Israel asked, eyeing Skinny Man from across the train car. “Why not?”
Skinny Man shrugged. “Because I don’t have a cell phone. My wife is pregnant. I could use the money. But the kids have your picture. They’ll send it when we reach cell phone service. By the time we reach Coatzacoalcos, you two will be old news. Not worth any money.” He sighed and wiped strands of hair from his face. “Anyway. Fuck the cartel. Those bastards can’t be trusted.”
His wife gazed at Israel and Sofia. Her eyes were vast pools of hazel. Whatever thoughts she held, she offered only to her husband. She tugged Skinny Man’s sleeve and whispered into his ear.
“What do we do?” Sofia said. She had been listening to the conversation. Now she stared at Israel with fear in her eyes. The question froze Israel. His plans ended the minute he stepped outside Antonio’s pawn shop in Cancun. Everything since was ad-libbed.
“We’ll think of something,” Israel said.
“If I were you,” Skinny Man said. “I’d jump off when we get off the bridge.”
“Yeah,” Israel said. No shit. “Then what?”
Skinny Man shrugged. “Run.”
The click-clacking ended as the train car’s steel wheels rolled off the bridge with a grinding thud. Israel and Sofia were on their feet seconds later. Sofia stepped over the steel partition—wincing from her cracked toenail—and gripped the grab bar on the side of the hopper. They would leave the train the same way they arrived. Leaping for their lives. Israel stared at the landscape trundling past them. The train carved a path through a lush jungle whose varied canopy teemed with overgrown trees, bushes, and grass. Mexican trains were notoriously slow. He doubted this one was traveling faster than twenty miles an hour. But jumping from a moving vehicle was always a risky proposition. Tuck and roll. Like the guy said in fire safety videos. Before Skinny Man disappeared from view, he called out to Israel.
“Good luck, gringo!” he said. Skinny Man’s wife extended a nervous hand, fingers curled inside as if unsure whether to wave goodbye. Israel returned the wave and shimmied further down the hopper wall. Sofia angled her body into the ladder, clutching its steel railing and staring at the ground. At Israel’s touch, she jerked her head and stared at him with fear in her eyes. Grabbing onto a moving train had been difficult. But with calculated handholds and care to avoid the wheels, climbing aboard a slow-moving train was safe. There was little strategy to jumping off a train, however. Only a leap of faith.
“I’ll go first!” he said.
She crossed around the ladder and stationed herself on the opposite side. She watched as Israel descended the ladder until his feet rested on the bottom rung. His eyes darted ahead, searching for a soft landing. Below him lay a blanket of ballast, a thin gray bed of smooth pebbles to steady the wooden train ties. Beyond that, the landscape converted to towering weeds and grass that gave way to encroaching trees. Should he drop straight down onto the ballast? Or push towards the grass? The ballast offered a rough, but sure landing. It was also perilously close to the tracks and the wheels that rolled on top of them. A hard bounce could toss a leg or arm into harm’s way. No. It was better to push off towards the tuft of chest high grass approaching him.
He kneeled and took a deep breath. A firm push and he was off the ladder, his body twisting in the onrushing wind. He braced for the impact. But inertia carried him over the tuft of grass towards a pool of ballast as the tracks curved left. His legs stretched for the ground, searching for an anchor. One foot found it. Slippery pebbles. The world inverted. Blue sky, then green grass. He covered his head before plunging into the ballast like a mortally wounded jet plane. Blackness. But still conscious. He coughed and sucked in a breath. One hand clutched thick grass. The other smooth pebbles. The train’s steel wheels grated in the distance.
Sofia.
He kneeled and caught his breath. The landing was harder than expected. But he handled it. What would it do to petite Sofia? She was standing on the ladder, her knees bent, copying his stance. He loped after the train in unsteady pursuit. Their eyes locked before she pushed into the ether. The fall that lasted forever for him ended in the blink of Israel’s eye for her. Unlike him, she caught the tall grass full on and disappeared into its cellulose embrace. He raced now, having recovered his footing. He found her crumpled on her side above a mound of flattened grass. One arm draped over her head. She moaned and twisted.
“Son of a bitch,” she sneered in pain. She clutched at one shoulder as she sat upright. A glance revealed a rip in the hoodie. She spread the tear open with two fingers. Beneath it lay a nasty gash two inches long. Already blood seeped through the split. “Great.” She swiped embedded blades of grass off her face and neck. Her right shoe—which she tied loose to allow her aching toe room to breathe—had popped off in the impact. She found it in the grass and replaced it. He offered a hand and helped her stand. “Ah!” she grimaced. She hopped on one foot and clutched her opposite knee. A sprain or a twist, Israel guessed. She frowned at him like it was all his fault. “What about you?” she said.
That hadn’t occurred to Israel. He lifted his arms and inspected his torso. Then his legs. Nothing. “I think I’m OK.” He felt guilty for his seeming indestructibility. Sofia must feel like she had been hit by the train.
“Of course,” she grunted. “Men.” She flexed her knee up and down before resting her weight on it again. She gritted her teeth through parted lips but managed several steps.
“How is it?” Israel asked.
“I’ll survive.” She raised one hand over her brow to shield her eyes as she scanned the horizon. The train tracks cleaved the endless forest in two. Behind them lay the lake the train had traversed. “Looks like we’re following the tracks for a while.”
“Yeah. Looks like it.”
Her eyes scanned him, shoes to head. “You ready?”
His stomach growled. He’d rather sit for a hearty meal, followed by a marathon sleep. But hiking the tracks was their only option. It was early morning yet. Their path might cross a road at some point. And from there, civilization. He hoped.
“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll figure something out.”
CHAPTER 47
Agent Dominguez
The President and his staff called them bollards. They were vertical steel pickets mitered at the top at forty-five-degree angles, creating a sharp tip. Handy for spearing uninvited guests. Rows of tightly packed bollards formed sections of the President’s border wall. He preferred the term bollard because they made his industrial wall sound fancy. Something no ordinary schlep would have guarding their backyard. Agent Dominguez was surprised they weren’t gilded with gold leaf. They could call it whatever they wanted. It was still a fence.
She sat inside her company car—a Chevy Blazer now—parked in a Whataburger parking lot across the street from the Carson Engineering construction site. She held a pair of binoculars to her eyes. Close to the US-Mexico border, cranes prowled the denuded plain like prehistoric dinosaurs. Heat waves rose from the blacktop between them. Wire rope descending from one crane’s jib shook under the weight of a wall section. The section rose from the ground, tilting from the horizontal to the vertical. It wiggled into place beside the previous section. Workers labored at its base, completing its moorings.
Her background as a second-generation Puerto Rican and an officer of the law caused conflicting emotions about America’s immigration policy. Her parents hadn’t needed to scale a fence to enter the US. Only two airplane tickets followed by years of paperwork, worry, and naturalization tests. They followed the law and were eventually granted citizenship. Clean. Legal. That appealed to her law officer sensibilities.
But her years of experience working with immigrants had exposed her to another truth. Another wall already existed. Built during the three decades since her parent’s arrival, its material was a mixture of congressional inaction and obstruction. A wall of bureaucracy. The resulting mishmash of outdated laws and executive orders did more to prevent legal immigration than streamline its process. And that, she supposed, was the point. She had seen the defeat in the faces of immigrants she encountered in her investigations.
This border wall, a physical manifestation of its bureaucratic equivalent, served chiefly as political theater. A showpiece for pompous politicians to grandstand in front of the cameras. Though it blocked most immigrants traveling by foot, inventive smugglers circumvented it with ease. One ruse devised to evade the border patrol’s watchful eyes involved cutting the base of the bollards with hand saws. Just enough to squeeze cargo through. Then they replaced the cut pieces and painted them to look unmolested. A simple path across the border that they exploited again and again.
Boondoggle. Agent Dominguez had discovered that uniquely American word while studying U.S history. A pointless, expensive enterprise that existed for graft or political patronage. That was the wall.
Regardless of her personal feelings, her oath to the United States was her bond. She swore to uphold its laws, even if she didn’t always agree with them. And today was no different. She shifted her focus to the shipping and receiving trailer across the street. Trucks rolled up to the chain-link gate and checked in with a uniformed guard. She wondered if Hank would give her a copy of the guard house visitor’s list if she asked nicely. Probably not. He was one of the slippery criminals. The ones who feigned innocence with quivering lower lips like Shakespearean actors. Hard to catch. But she had caught him. It was only a matter of time before she held the evidence.
She zoomed her binoculars in to the dump truck’s driver. Though difficult to identify from his side profile, he lacked the requisite biker mustache. Assuming Centavo still sported his trademark facial hair. A careful gangster would lower their profile in the wake of a notorious crime. But given Centavo’s low rank and ignoble rap sheet, she doubted his prudence. She zoomed in on every truck’s arrival and departure. An hour passed with no sign of him. She lowered the binoculars and rubbed her eyes.
“How’s it going in there, agent?” a voice crackled through a handheld walkie laying on the passenger seat. Agent Dominguez lifted it to her ear and clicked the talk button.
“Still looking, sergeant. Hang tight,” she said. She glanced to the back side of the Whataburger building. A police cruiser was parked in one space, its nose facing the street for a quick departure. Two officers occupied its front seats. They were bathed in the morning sun’s rays but hidden from view of the worksite. Her backup in case a chase was necessary. The sergeant eyed her from the passenger seat. She gave him a quick wave and returned her gaze to the trailer.
The front door swung open just as Agent Dominguez returned the binoculars to her face. A thrill shot through her when she saw Centavo exit and step down the front steps. He nodded his head and spoke to someone unseen. She swung her binoculars towards the open door. Hank filled the doorway, shouldering the storm door open. He said something to Centavo with a furrowed brow and tightened lips. Centavo waved him off and pulled on a pair of work gloves as he trudged towards the motor pool. Hank shook his head and returned to the trailer. Agent Dominguez grabbed the walkie.
“I got him. Be ready.”
“Roger that,” the sergeant’s voice squawked in reply.
Agent Dominguez turned the blazer’s ignition over, firing the engine. Minutes later, a dump truck rolled out the front gate with Centavo behind the steering wheel. Clouds of dust billowed in its wake as it clattered onto International Boulevard. Agent Dominguez angled her Blazer out of the parking lot and settled into a spot two cars behind the dump truck. The green roofed plaza leading to the International Bridge was visible in her rear-view mirror. The police cruiser followed after. They formed an invisible convoy known only to her and the policemen. The truck rounded a curve and ambled to a stop at a traffic light. Through the rear window of the dump truck, she watched Centavo bounce his head and move to unheard music. His left hand dangled out of the driver’s window; A lit cigarette scissored between two fingers. He took a puff as the light turned green and drove straight through.
