The Long Run, page 27
A gas station loomed in the distance. Centavo clicked his turn signal and rolled into the parking lot and parked beside a pump. Agent Dominguez followed and parked in a space in front of the store. The policemen rolled on, not wishing to be obvious. They doubled back and parked out of sight of the dump truck. The cops exited the cruiser and joined Agent Dominguez beside her Blazer. She motioned for them to round the nose of the truck. She would approach first from the rear. A pincer movement in case he ran. Between the three of them and the gas pump, Centavo had no escape path. They agreed and hurried to the truck. She shouldered the bed of the truck, looked at the cops, and nodded.
“Hello, Mr. Ordóñez!” she said, rounding the backside of the truck and striding towards Centavo. He stood beside the truck, his cigarette protruding from his pursed lips as the vibrating gas pump jutted from the gas tank. She lifted her credentials as she spoke, letting him soak in her badge. “Can we talk?”
His eyes scanned first the badge and then her. The cigarette tumbled to the pavement as his jaw slackened. Without a word, he spun, presenting his back to her. But the cops were already there, blocking his escape.
“We just want to talk!” Agent Dominguez said. But Centavo was already moving. He dropped to the cement parking lot with a painful thud and rolled under the truck. The patrolman fell to his knees and grasped at Centavo’s shirt. But he rolled on, inches ahead of the patrolman’s clawing fingers.
“Shit!” the sergeant yelled. He spun and sprinted around the front of the truck. Agent Dominguez ran behind the truck bed and dropped to one knee. Centavo had rolled straight through and emerged from the passenger side. She raced to meet him. He stood and bolted away, perpendicular to the dump truck. The sergeant ran close behind, followed by Agent Dominguez. Somewhere behind them, the patrolman raced to catch up. Their footsteps pounded through the parking lot.
“Centavo! Stop!” Agent Dominguez yelled. His speed surprised her. He was skinny to the point of frail. He looked like his primary nourishment was a steady stream of Marlboros and Bud Lights. But he ran like a gazelle, bounding over an overgrown esplanade with a single leap. Agent Dominguez had dressed for the occasion, wearing black track shoes, stretchy jeans, and her raid jacket. Oncoming traffic blocked one avenue of escape, shunting Centavo towards a drive-through bank across the street. The bank comprised one small building and four empty lanes of drive-up ATMs. Agent Dominguez peeled away from direct pursuit, leaving that to the two policemen, and angled towards the bank’s front door. The door was most likely locked to protect the tellers inside. But she assumed Centavo didn’t know that.
“¡Alto! ¡Policía!” the sergeant yelled. His face was a deep red, accenting his ice blond hair. Centavo scrambled through the drive-up lanes, putting himself between a hulking ATM and the grasping sergeant. They danced around the ATM as Centavo cast about for another escape path. The patrolman caught up to them, missing Centavo as he raced around the corner of the bank. The front door was there, sunk into the wall like an obscure service entrance. He reached for the handle and pulled. But the door remained stubbornly closed. Centavo gave up and turned to flee before colliding with Agent Dominguez. She had the benefit of momentum and drove him into the bank’s red brick wall with her leading shoulder.
“Aye!” Centavo yelled in pain.
They crashed to the sidewalk in unison, with Agent Dominguez smothering him from above. She drove one knee into his left shoulder blade and planted her other knee on the sidewalk, hard against his right side. A handcuffing technique practiced in Quantico and perfected chasing goombahs through the boroughs of Newark. She grabbed his flailing right hand and twisted it behind his back. Despite Centavo’s slight build, he bucked like a wild bronco, lifting her off the ground for a moment before thudding on the sidewalk.
“Stop resisting!” she yelled.
“I got him! I got him!” The sergeant wheeled around the bank’s corner and skidded to his knees next to them.
“Cuff him!” she yelled. The sergeant unhooked his cuffs from his waist and clapped one around Centavo’s restrained right wrist. Together, she and the sergeant wrestled the second cuff onto Centavo’s other hand. The manacles broke what resistance remained. He laid prone on his stomach, puffing hard with his cheek bulging into the concrete.
“¡No estaba haciendo nada!” he yelled.
“¡No te molestes! I know you speak English. I’ve seen your texts,” Agent Dominguez said. It never failed. Bilingual suspects always opted for something besides English upon being arrested. Like the other language was a get-out-of-jail-free card. She and the sergeant lifted Centavo from the sidewalk, with the sergeant taking the lead. She noticed the patrolman standing beside her. “Go back to the gas station. He tossed a lit cigarette beside the pump.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded, and raced back across the street.
“Why’d you run, Lupe?” she said, returning her attention to the handcuffed Centavo. His narrowed eyes peered at her when he heard his name. “I just want to ask a few questions.”
“I got nothing to tell you,” he mumbled.
“No?” She considered threatening him with deportation. But since he was a Mexican national and presumably crossed the border many times, she assumed the threat lacked punch. She chose a different angle. “I guess you’d rather take the fall for your boss? Maybe spend the next twenty years in Huntsville while Hank Carson walks free? You’re one hell of a loyal employee, Centavo.”
He eyed her. His upper lip quivered as untold thoughts coursed through his mind. “You don’t know anything,” he scowled. His response spoke volumes. Had he asked what she was talking about, she might have paused. But his defiance assumed she knew something.
“I know the Carsons have been running dope across the border for the cartels, and I know you’ve been helping them. You can either talk to me or spend the rest of your life in jail. How about that?”
Centavo’s face slackened. His gaze darted from her to the sergeant and then to the ground. “I got nothing to say.”
“Have it your way.” She turned to the sergeant. “Take him to the station and put him in holding, please. I’ll talk to him there. And send someone to impound the truck.”
“Sure thing,” the sergeant replied. He tugged on Centavo’s arm and led him towards the gas station. Centavo offered little resistance to the hulking sergeant. The patrolman met him halfway and took over. Stopped motorists and passing pedestrians gawped at the parade.
Agent Dominguez watched them go. Perhaps a few hours or days in holding would loosen Centavo’s tongue. She presumed he would contact Hank and let him know about his predicament. Hank wouldn’t sit still. It was his ass on the line, too. And that was fine with her.
CHAPTER 48
Chucho
Chucho sat cross-legged on the concrete patio of a local taquería, bathed in harsh morning sunlight. He refused to seek shade, though the light penetrated the thin membranes of his closed eyelids. The sun’s warmth enriched him, strengthened him. And through the sun’s rays, he felt the presence and guidance of the Gods. He lifted his palms skyward and chanted a prayer of thanks.
“You are strong yet kind. Great, yet wise. I honor you. I praise you,” he said. A low moan escaped his lips as he continued his prayers unheard. Then a slow exhale. His meditations could last for hours. Some lasted days. His education in shamanism ended after a two-week long mescaline-fueled waking dream of meditations, songs, and prayers. For Chucho, communing with spirits was more important than breathing. When he finished, he lowered his head and drew in a deep breath.
Behind him, four of his crew rested dusty elbows on melamine tabletops and grazed on carnitas tacos. They guffawed and swapped crude jokes about women’s breasts and Hugo’s inability to get laid. Hugo remained quiet as he rested on his side in a shaded corner, catching up on long neglected sleep. Something Chucho should do as well. But he couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Not while the gringos remained free.
His phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. He squinted through the brilliant sun and pulled the phone out. He didn’t recognize the number. But it included a picture. It showed two people sitting on a train car squinting at the camera. One was a man, young and bald, with his elbows resting on his knees. His companion curled beside him. She was thin and petite. Though a hoodie concealed her hair, he recognized her features. He tapped the message and opened his phone. His fingertips spread apart on the photo to zoom in close. The gringos. Haggard from their long flight. Good. That would slow them down and fog their brains. Make them easier to catch.
Another message bubble popped into existence below the photo. “They go to Coatsakolkos”, the message read, garbling the city’s name.
Chucho forwarded the sender’s number to Hugo, who would arrange payment. Paid spies were dependable spies. He checked the time. Almost 9:30. The train was scheduled to arrive at the nearby train depot in an hour. His work neared completion. Soon, the gringo’s bodies would feed the soil. And then he would sleep happy.
The phone vibrated again. This time he recognized the number. He sneered as he accepted the call. “Buenas días, La Doña.”
“Have you met them?”
Not even a hello. “They’re on a train headed here. I’ll meet them in an hour.”
“You sure?”
Doubt. Disrespect. “Yes,” he sighed. “I just received a photo.”
“Send it to me.”
“Of course. Are you back in your condo?” he asked, inserting a note of sarcasm. He had been living on the road for days while she lounged in her luxury suite and waited for her even more luxurious condo to regain power. Her reply made no hint she caught it.
“No. I’m in Monterrey. Meeting jefe,” she said. Background chatter and a clatter of silverware on dishes sounded like she was in a restaurant. Probably an expensive one.
“Meeting jefe? Anything… I should know?” X didn’t call for meetings often. When he did, they concerned important matters.
“No,” she said flatly. “Just email me that photo. And let me know when you meet them.”
“Muy bien.” The call clicked dead before he finished speaking. Though their conversation had finished, her dismissive tone lingered. He imagined the scene. She sat in a fine restaurant, dining on a thirty-dollar plate of eggs and bacon with a real cloth napkin covering her exposed knees. An American breakfast. Though born in Guanajuato, La Doña was raised in Dallas by her white father. And she underwent air assault training in Ft. Benning, Georgia, alongside the gringo imperialists. She was no better than them. Like the Spanish conquistadors of old, riding roughshod over the poor and indigenous peoples of his land.
He removed his bag of peyote and pulled another button from the open pouch. The button ground into flakes between his molars. Several hours had passed since his last dose and the high was wavering. Most people would lose consciousness or lapse into terrifying delusions on these doses. Besides his high tolerance, Chucho knew to spread out the doses cautiously. For those so gifted, like himself, the mescaline offered more than unnatural endurance. It opened a window into a higher consciousness and possible futures. For Chucho, it meant a direct connection to the Gods.
He resumed his prayerful pose, with his palms pointed to the heavens. “Oh Father,” he said, repeating his prayer to the dark spirits from days earlier, “grant me the power over my enemies. Send them to harm so that I might usurp their station.”
CHAPTER 49
Sofia
“I thought… McAllen was hot,” Sofia said in a ragged breath.
She trudged beside Israel alongside the railroad tracks, miles from where they leaped off the train. Her various injuries had numbed under the sun’s blazing heat lamp. She swiped dappled sweat from her brow and smacked parched lips. Her hoodie was tied around her waist, leaving her in a damp white t-shirt and jeans. They had tried traveling beneath the shady canopy of the jungle. But its wild tangle of underbrush conspired with mahogany, palm, and countless other trees to slow them. The Yucatan was a testament to nature’s will to survive and flourish. And it all seemed determined to hinder their progress.
“We need to find water soon.” Israel plodded forward, his feet brushing aside loose rocks and stumbling on knots of interloping grass.
“Oh, wow… Look.” Sofia pointed to something in the tree line. Several feet ahead, bulbous red and yellow fruit hung from a tree. In Sofia’s famished state, they resembled colorful gifts laid out for Christmas. “Mangos.”
She staggered toward them, plodding tired feet over train tracks radiating heat like stovetop burners. Israel followed behind. Sofia extended a slender arm and snapped a mango off its stem. She studied it for a moment, as if searching for a seal to unwrap. “I’ve only ever had mango already cut.”
“Ain’t no right way,” Israel said as he pulled one of his own. “Just eat.” He lifted the mango to his mouth and sank his incisors through its thin peel and into its flesh.
Sofia followed suit. A chunk of moist fruit flesh ripped free from the peel. She chewed and sucked a breath through her nostrils. Sweet, tangy flavor hammered her neglected flavor receptors as if she had jammed her finger into an electric socket. It flooded her mouth and chilled her heated throat and stomach.
“I never liked mango before,” Israel said as he chewed. “Ay, chingada. This is good.”
They stood under the shade of a blooming dogwood and ripped and chewed and ate until their mangos were gone, save for their hard seeds. Sofia followed that mango with three more. Israel four. When they had eaten their fill, they stuffed another into each of their pockets.
“You ready?” Israel asked as he wiped mango flesh from his cheeks.
“Give me a minute.”
The surprise meal had provided a necessary respite from her relentless hunger and the boiling train tracks. She was in no rush to end it. They sat for a few minutes longer in silence, allowing their heated bodies to cool and their food to digest. Her joints popped and her toe flared in anger when they finally stood. A swirling breeze knocked loose dozens of pink dogwood flowers. They floated to earth around her.
“Like snow,” Israel said. A weary smile curled his lips as he watched them fall. She caught one flower in her hand and inspected it with a delicate finger.
“I’ve never seen snow.”
Israel kneeled and scooped a handful of flowers and balled them in his hand. He grinned at her with a playful twinkle in his eye.
“What are you—” she said before Israel launched the balled flowers at her. They exploded on her chest and cascaded to the ground.
“Snowball fight,” he grinned.
Sofia shook her head and giggled. Of all the unexpected events that happened during her visit to Mexico, this was the most welcome. A release of pent-up anxiety washed out of her with every laugh. “You’re a fool,” she said and stepped towards him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He returned the embrace with a laugh of his own. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She meant it. His arrival not only resulted in her escape from certain death, but it also brought back a missing piece of her childhood. The long-lost friend and confidant.
“So am I.”
She rested her head on his shoulder for a few seconds, allowing the moment to pass. Then she stepped away and exhaled. “But you stink,” she smiled.
“What about you?” Israel feigned indignation.
“Excuse me? Girls don’t stink.”
“I got news for you.”
They walked away from the dogwood and mangoes, laughing and throwing playful punches. For now, Chucho and their precarious situation faded from her mind.
CHAPTER 50
Israel
They followed the railroad tracks an interminable distance before the jungle gave way to a clearing for electric lines to pass through. Beyond the easement, cars streamed along a busy highway. Israel breathed a sigh of relief. His feet and body ached from their long journey. They emerged from the easement and hugged the tree line parallel to the roadway. They were out in the open now, where people could see them. Sofia slipped on the hoodie, despite the heat.
Israel spotted a green Pemex sign further ahead. Eighteen-wheelers—both tankers and paneled delivery trucks—filled its sprawling parking lot. A diner was attached to the gas station. A place for a weary truck driver to stop and unwind after gassing up. They sprinted across the highway and sheltered against the brick wall of a dumpster enclosure. Israel searched the premises, noting its layout. A water fountain grabbed his attention. Beside it, a pay phone hung on the wall. It was an ancient relic to Israel. Something he saw in movies. He assumed it accepted coins.
“Oh!” Sofia said. “I can call my mom.”
The only vehicles in the lot were transport trucks of various sizes. The customers walking in and out the front door wore beaten jeans, t-shirts, and baseball caps. Nothing too remarkable. Israel focused on their shoes. One man wore faded Adidas sneakers. Another, a fresh pair of tan Skechers. No self-respecting narco wore comfortable shoes. Israel dipped his hand into his pocket and fished out the last of their money. A few coins. Maybe enough for a quick call. But that call could be their salvation. He checked the signage around the store. A Western Union sign caught his eye. He handed her the coins and locked eyes with her.
“Ask her to send money.”
“What are you going to do?”
He glanced at the diner. “Lots of truck drivers inside. Maybe one will give us a ride.” Sofia took his hand in hers before he could walk away.
“Be careful. Please,” she said. Her lower lip trembled with worry. They hadn’t been separated since their escape two days earlier.
