Read Online Do They Know I'm Running? by David Corbett - Free Book Online Page B
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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music made him think of Roque, Tía Lucha’s precious, her favorite, the mother killer. Hand him his due, the kid had chops. But what a truly perfect day it would be, he mused, when that gifted little twerp woke up and had to look life in the
eye: fuego, sonrisas, realidad y dolor
.
Fire, smiles, reality and pain.
Sí señor …
A little after midnight, Happy appeared. All he said was, “Gimme your keys,
manudo
.”
Godo scored the pot on the way out, an ounce to mellow his drift, copped from Puchi, the crowd’s preferred
mariguanero
.
That was what the Brown Town Locos were good for, crank and weed, that and stealing shit. Bumming papers off him too, Godo rolled a number, toking away as Happy drove. The night was cold and still. No moon. The bud turned him philosophical.
He said, “You know,
cabrón
, way you act, women gonna think you’re a
mariquita.”
A faggot. “Gonna think you learned to fuck in jail.”
Happy’s hand sailed across the car, snatching the doob away. “Who are you now, the prince of pussy?”
Godo reached over to grab back his blunt. “Don’t be dissing my girl,
cabrón.”
Happy fended him off.
“Zorra flaca.”
Skinny slut.
“I mean it, fuckface.”
Godo tried again to snag back the joint, Happy dodged the grab. Godo persisted. A blur of hands, then Happy launched a crackback elbow, landing the blow square and hard. A clap of searing white, Godo reached for his nose. A dollop of blood stained his pants. His eyes watered from the pain.
“Hijueputa…
” Son of a whore.
He threw a punch. Happy dodged the blow, pivoting away. The wheel went with him. The car veered across the double line, then whipped into a spin as Happy overcorrected. An oncoming pickup veered to miss them, screech of tires, angry honk. They stalled out straddling the center divide—lucky, for a few seconds anyway. A cop, lurking on a side street maybe three hundred yards down, saw the whole thing. Not that the two of them noticed. They were back at it, wild drunken haymakers landing once in every five tries but coming fast and hard regardless, only stopping when the cop hit his strobe.
They froze. The red light swirled. Happy whispered,
“Estoy chingado.”
I’m screwed.
He bolted, throwing open the door, leaping from the car, charging down the gravel roadside berm through weeds to the riverbank, hunting a way to cross. The cop spotted him, a voicecalling through the squad car’s loudspeaker for him to stop and the headlights now square on Godo, sitting there, too stupid from liquor and weed to toss the ounce stashed under the seat.
It would all play out like a tedious movie from there, the backup units blocking off the road, the chopper with its searchlight, the dogs. Godo would remember the back and forth at the window, the officer with his steel-gray crew cut, very professional, very polite.
“I’d like to know if you’ll agree to a search of the vehicle.”
By that point Godo was a fatalist. What would happen would happen.
“I can get a warrant, just a matter of time. I detect a distinct odor of marijuana, your pupils are dilated, your companion fled the scene. You were observed driving erratically—”
“I wasn’t driving.”
“You have gang tattoos.”
That made Godo laugh. He looked at the backs of his hands: a dragon, a bat. “These?”
The cop leaned closer. “Let me explain something to you, son. Here’s how it will go: I’m a decorated officer with twelve years’ experience working this city, with expertise of particular relevance to the matter at hand, numerous multiagency task forces, narcotics unit, youth gang outreach. Am I getting through?” The two cops behind him grinned like jackals. “I say those are gang tats. Think any judge in this county is going to second-guess me?”
Godo’s eyes burned. Fearing he might cry, he bit his lip, telling himself, Don’t be a bitch. “I don’t care,” he whispered.
The cop accepted this remark with an oddly warm smile.
eye: fuego, sonrisas, realidad y dolor
.
Fire, smiles, reality and pain.
Sí señor …
A little after midnight, Happy appeared. All he said was, “Gimme your keys,
manudo
.”
Godo scored the pot on the way out, an ounce to mellow his drift, copped from Puchi, the crowd’s preferred
mariguanero
.
That was what the Brown Town Locos were good for, crank and weed, that and stealing shit. Bumming papers off him too, Godo rolled a number, toking away as Happy drove. The night was cold and still. No moon. The bud turned him philosophical.
He said, “You know,
cabrón
, way you act, women gonna think you’re a
mariquita.”
A faggot. “Gonna think you learned to fuck in jail.”
Happy’s hand sailed across the car, snatching the doob away. “Who are you now, the prince of pussy?”
Godo reached over to grab back his blunt. “Don’t be dissing my girl,
cabrón.”
Happy fended him off.
“Zorra flaca.”
Skinny slut.
“I mean it, fuckface.”
Godo tried again to snag back the joint, Happy dodged the grab. Godo persisted. A blur of hands, then Happy launched a crackback elbow, landing the blow square and hard. A clap of searing white, Godo reached for his nose. A dollop of blood stained his pants. His eyes watered from the pain.
“Hijueputa…
” Son of a whore.
He threw a punch. Happy dodged the blow, pivoting away. The wheel went with him. The car veered across the double line, then whipped into a spin as Happy overcorrected. An oncoming pickup veered to miss them, screech of tires, angry honk. They stalled out straddling the center divide—lucky, for a few seconds anyway. A cop, lurking on a side street maybe three hundred yards down, saw the whole thing. Not that the two of them noticed. They were back at it, wild drunken haymakers landing once in every five tries but coming fast and hard regardless, only stopping when the cop hit his strobe.
They froze. The red light swirled. Happy whispered,
“Estoy chingado.”
I’m screwed.
He bolted, throwing open the door, leaping from the car, charging down the gravel roadside berm through weeds to the riverbank, hunting a way to cross. The cop spotted him, a voicecalling through the squad car’s loudspeaker for him to stop and the headlights now square on Godo, sitting there, too stupid from liquor and weed to toss the ounce stashed under the seat.
It would all play out like a tedious movie from there, the backup units blocking off the road, the chopper with its searchlight, the dogs. Godo would remember the back and forth at the window, the officer with his steel-gray crew cut, very professional, very polite.
“I’d like to know if you’ll agree to a search of the vehicle.”
By that point Godo was a fatalist. What would happen would happen.
“I can get a warrant, just a matter of time. I detect a distinct odor of marijuana, your pupils are dilated, your companion fled the scene. You were observed driving erratically—”
“I wasn’t driving.”
“You have gang tattoos.”
That made Godo laugh. He looked at the backs of his hands: a dragon, a bat. “These?”
The cop leaned closer. “Let me explain something to you, son. Here’s how it will go: I’m a decorated officer with twelve years’ experience working this city, with expertise of particular relevance to the matter at hand, numerous multiagency task forces, narcotics unit, youth gang outreach. Am I getting through?” The two cops behind him grinned like jackals. “I say those are gang tats. Think any judge in this county is going to second-guess me?”
Godo’s eyes burned. Fearing he might cry, he bit his lip, telling himself, Don’t be a bitch. “I don’t care,” he whispered.
The cop accepted this remark with an oddly warm smile.
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