Read Online Do They Know I'm Running? by David Corbett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Corbett
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Thrillers, Suspense fiction, Fiction - Espionage, Immigrants, American Contemporary Fiction - Individual Authors +, Human Trafficking, Salvadorans - United States, Border crossing, Salvadorans
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from the trailer. Were they driving back a different route? “I watch a lot of TV,” he added sheepishly.
Puchi said, “We were hoping for work, man. Whole town was. Lay some brick, pound some nails, whatever. Then the buzzards showed up. Everybody gotta have their slice of the pie. And if they don’t? Nobody gets nothing.”
“Nobody,” Chato chimed in solemnly.
Godo, still staring out the window, said, “So what is it you two do? For work I mean.”
Puchi said, “Happy didn’t tell you?”
“Happy?”
“You seen him, right?”
“This morning, yeah. First time, actually. Why?”
Puchi and Chato traded glances up front.
Godo said, “What’s the big secret?”
“We’re in the moving business,” Puchi said.
Chato laughed, a snide little wheeze.
“Great punch line.” Godo felt his temper inching toward red. “Guess I missed the joke.”
“It’s a trip, man,” Chato said, unaware. “Check this out: We got no license, the trucking company, I mean. It’s so fucked up, it’s like, backwards, you know? Like permission to steal. Yuppies never see it coming.”
“See what coming?”
“Here we are, man.” Puchi slowed to a stop and dropped the tranny into park, the Impala’s 427 throbbing in neutral. They were out in front of the trailer park. How, Godo wondered, did we get here so quick?
Puchi turned around in his seat. “Good to see you, my man. Maybe now, with Happy back, we’ll see a little more of you.”
Chato added, “He talk to you about that?” He seemed eager, too much so. The kid was
pasmado
, all tics and quirks.
Puchi cut him off with a glare. “Come on, let the man out. Got someplace I need to be.”
Just as suddenly as he’d found himself inside the car, Godo now found himself standing on the gravel roadbed. A gust of wind off the river blew grit in his eyes. Chato cocked his hand into a pistol and winked. “Later, masturbator.”
The black Impala rumbled off. Godo watched the six tail-lights recede, remembering another car, another time, another two
vatos
up front. Him and Happy.
The car was Tía Lucha’s, the weed under the seat Godo’s. They were coming back from a house party in Vallejo, this girl he had a moon-howl crush on, name of Ramona Sánchez. A fly
morena
, long straight hair, heartbreaker eyes, smart but not stuck up, little cue-ball titties but an ass that said Step Right Up. Godo stood there in the kitchen, nursing the same beer for almost an hour, slick but not too, cracking jokes, teasing, asking about her people. If she was bored she hid it well, leaning back against the wall, smile to knock you over.
Meanwhile, Happy sulked, too bashful to chat up a girl of his own, too angry to just hang, enjoy himself. He stood there chain-smoking, clutching the neck on a fifth of Jack, scaring the lipstick off the pigs, never mind any girl worth looking at. Finally he went out back to chill with Puchi and the boys. Godo checked in on him now and again, made sure he didn’t get into it with anybody he couldn’t handle.
As the night idled away, Godo drifted in and out of the house, keeping track of Ramona, see if anyone else was hitting on her, not too obvious, slipping into the bathroom for a rail with Enrique, Cap’n Crank, catching a bump later on, just enough to keep the edge on his cool.
When he caught her gathering her things off the couch, he strolled on up, helped her with her jacket, asked if he could walk her out. Her girlfriend was there but that was fine, Godo had a knack with chaperones. At the curb he asked for her number, wrote it on his palm with her eyebrow pencil. She shot him that knock-down smile as they drove away, and he told himself: Wait a couple days, then call her.
No more romance on the agenda, he got tanked. Tequila shots, chased with beer, a few more bumps of crank. Sprawled on the couch, he rocked out to the music in hammered bliss: Zurdok, “Abre los Ojos.” Molotov, “Karmara.” Control Machete, “Sí Señor.” The
Puchi said, “We were hoping for work, man. Whole town was. Lay some brick, pound some nails, whatever. Then the buzzards showed up. Everybody gotta have their slice of the pie. And if they don’t? Nobody gets nothing.”
“Nobody,” Chato chimed in solemnly.
Godo, still staring out the window, said, “So what is it you two do? For work I mean.”
Puchi said, “Happy didn’t tell you?”
“Happy?”
“You seen him, right?”
“This morning, yeah. First time, actually. Why?”
Puchi and Chato traded glances up front.
Godo said, “What’s the big secret?”
“We’re in the moving business,” Puchi said.
Chato laughed, a snide little wheeze.
“Great punch line.” Godo felt his temper inching toward red. “Guess I missed the joke.”
“It’s a trip, man,” Chato said, unaware. “Check this out: We got no license, the trucking company, I mean. It’s so fucked up, it’s like, backwards, you know? Like permission to steal. Yuppies never see it coming.”
“See what coming?”
“Here we are, man.” Puchi slowed to a stop and dropped the tranny into park, the Impala’s 427 throbbing in neutral. They were out in front of the trailer park. How, Godo wondered, did we get here so quick?
Puchi turned around in his seat. “Good to see you, my man. Maybe now, with Happy back, we’ll see a little more of you.”
Chato added, “He talk to you about that?” He seemed eager, too much so. The kid was
pasmado
, all tics and quirks.
Puchi cut him off with a glare. “Come on, let the man out. Got someplace I need to be.”
Just as suddenly as he’d found himself inside the car, Godo now found himself standing on the gravel roadbed. A gust of wind off the river blew grit in his eyes. Chato cocked his hand into a pistol and winked. “Later, masturbator.”
The black Impala rumbled off. Godo watched the six tail-lights recede, remembering another car, another time, another two
vatos
up front. Him and Happy.
The car was Tía Lucha’s, the weed under the seat Godo’s. They were coming back from a house party in Vallejo, this girl he had a moon-howl crush on, name of Ramona Sánchez. A fly
morena
, long straight hair, heartbreaker eyes, smart but not stuck up, little cue-ball titties but an ass that said Step Right Up. Godo stood there in the kitchen, nursing the same beer for almost an hour, slick but not too, cracking jokes, teasing, asking about her people. If she was bored she hid it well, leaning back against the wall, smile to knock you over.
Meanwhile, Happy sulked, too bashful to chat up a girl of his own, too angry to just hang, enjoy himself. He stood there chain-smoking, clutching the neck on a fifth of Jack, scaring the lipstick off the pigs, never mind any girl worth looking at. Finally he went out back to chill with Puchi and the boys. Godo checked in on him now and again, made sure he didn’t get into it with anybody he couldn’t handle.
As the night idled away, Godo drifted in and out of the house, keeping track of Ramona, see if anyone else was hitting on her, not too obvious, slipping into the bathroom for a rail with Enrique, Cap’n Crank, catching a bump later on, just enough to keep the edge on his cool.
When he caught her gathering her things off the couch, he strolled on up, helped her with her jacket, asked if he could walk her out. Her girlfriend was there but that was fine, Godo had a knack with chaperones. At the curb he asked for her number, wrote it on his palm with her eyebrow pencil. She shot him that knock-down smile as they drove away, and he told himself: Wait a couple days, then call her.
No more romance on the agenda, he got tanked. Tequila shots, chased with beer, a few more bumps of crank. Sprawled on the couch, he rocked out to the music in hammered bliss: Zurdok, “Abre los Ojos.” Molotov, “Karmara.” Control Machete, “Sí Señor.” The
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