The Breakout Page 10

  “You can’t kill yourself.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because no one else can bring your sister…” He paused, blinked, corrected himself. “Your daughter—no one else can bring your daughter justice.”

  The man shook his head. “There is no such thing. If there was, she wouldn’t be dead.”

  James was silent for a long moment before he spoke. Finally he said, “Sometimes you have to create the justice.”

  But the man wasn’t interested in conversation. He turned away, looked toward an empty wall, said, “Leave me be.”

  So James lay in silence, the hands of the clock on the wall making their way slowly around its numbered face. Ten o’clock gave way to eleven, which gave way to twelve and one, the hours dropping off the world like dead leaves.

  Lunch arrived. He ate in silence.

  He looked to his left, to the man who’d stabbed him, as he smeared his rolled tortilla into a scoop of refried beans. He must have felt James watching him because he turned his head and made eye contact. A subtle smile touched his lips.

  “Another day closer to death,” the man said.

  “For both of us.”

  “Perhaps. But you can be certain it will find you first.”

  The doctor came to check on him at around five o’clock. He was a haggard-looking man in his late fifties, hair turning gray, mustache a reddish color that, from a distance, made him look as though he had a rash on his upper lip. Wore blue scrubs and red Crocs with white tube socks. Name badge clipped to his shirt.

  The doctor had a guard take the handcuffs off James and checked him thoroughly, heart rate, blood pressure, and so on. Leaned in close and said James was okay to go back to his cell if he wanted to, but he’d recommend staying out of the general population if he didn’t want to face another attack.

  But the infirmary had no windows and one door, which only led deeper into the jail; if he wanted to find a way out of this place he couldn’t do it from here.

  “Thanks, but I’d just as soon leave.”

  Doc looked concerned, unhappy with the decision James had made, but after a sigh he nodded. “Okay. I’ll put in the order.”

  It was another four hours before two guards came to collect him. They took the handcuffs off his wrists, unshackled his ankles, and walked him through the jailhouse corridors to his cell. He stepped into the small room. The barred door clanked shut behind him. He walked to the window at the back of the cell and inhaled the cool night air of the desert. Looked up at the stars and the bone moon in the bruise-purple sky.

  He wondered if maybe his sister was looking down on him.

  He walked to his cot and sat down. Tomorrow was Monday. Alejandro Rocha had told him he would die on Wednesday unless he talked. He had two days to figure a way out of this mess. But the more he thought about it the more impossible it seemed.

  But still, that hope. He couldn’t let it go.

  10

  Coop woke up Monday morning with a knot in his stomach. At first he didn’t know why, head too cloudy with sleep to make sense of what he was feeling. Then he remembered. This was the first time in twelve years as a Marine he wasn’t reporting for duty. His first unauthorized absence. He told himself his superiors would understand he was neglecting one duty in order to fulfill a higher one, but he didn’t believe it. If you were a Marine, you were a cog and expected always to function as a cog. Your real life didn’t matter. Obligations outside the Marine Corps didn’t matter. Your feelings didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but showing up on time and doing what you were told to do. This was why it was called duty, and it was what he’d signed up for.

  But though the corps might not recognize it, this was more important.

  Marines didn’t abandon their brothers.

  He sat up on the edge of his bed and stared a moment at the wall. He looked at the digital clock on the nightstand even though he already knew the approximate time. This was when he awoke almost every morning whether he had an alarm set or not. The clock’s red numbers told him it was 5:59. He blinked. Now it was 6:00. The alarm sounded. He reached out and slapped the bar on the top of the clock, silencing it. Grabbed a pack of Newports from beside the clock, flipped the top of the box, brought it to his mouth, pinched a filter between his teeth, and dragged a cigarette out of the pack. Lit it and inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs. Exhaled through his nostrils, watching the smoke swirl on the still air, watching it twist in a beam of light coming in between the panels of the drab yellow curtain.

  He sat doing nothing but smoking for five minutes, allowing his mind to catch up to reality, to absorb his surroundings.

  Once he’d smoked the cigarette down to his fingertips he dropped it into a Pepsi can on the nightstand. The liquid within killed the ember with a hiss and a small ribbon of smoke drifted out. He got to his feet and padded across the brown carpet to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and waited for the water to get hot. Took a leak while he waited, then kicked his underwear away. Stepped into the tub and let the water splash against his chest.

  When he was done in the bathroom—showered and shaved—he tossed his duffel bag onto his unmade bed, opened it, and pulled out clothes. He got dressed, putting on cargo shorts and a New York Knicks shirt before he slipped his Nikes on. He smoked a second cigarette and looked at the clock. It was a quarter to seven.

  They wouldn’t be able to see James for hours, but there was no way he could sit in this room and wait. He got to his feet, put his cigarettes, wallet, and keys into his pockets, walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the empty corridor.

  * * *

  Normal woke to the sound of someone banging on his door. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the pillow his face was smashed into. He rolled onto his back and looked at the cracked ceiling. His eyes stung and his head felt as though it’d been stuffed with newspaper.

  After the others had gone to bed last night, he’d headed out to Los Parados, a dive bar just across the street. He’d only had three beers and a Johnnie Walker Black, but for some reason the drinks hit him hard. He’d stumbled back to the hotel and stripped off his clothes as he walked to bed, leaving a trail of fabric on the stained carpet. He’d fallen atop the comforter, and lying on his side with the room spinning around him, passed out.

  He sat up now, neck aching, and scratched at his right bicep. A few years ago, while home on leave in Louisville, he’d gotten a tattoo of an eagle in black and gray, USMC above the bird and SEMPER FI below it, and anytime he got even a mild sunburn, the tattoo would itch like a motherfucker. As it did now. He’d tried to get in with his regular tattooist, Rodney at Twisted Images, but the guy was booked out a month, so he’d found another street shop near Fern Creek, which he now regretted. His skin didn’t react well to the cheap ink they’d used.

  More banging at the door.

  “Hold on—Jesus fuck.”

  He stood up, wearing nothing but white briefs, and stumbled to the door. He unlatched the chain and twisted the dead bolt out of its socket. Pulled open the door. Blinked at Coop, who stood on the other side of the doorway, looking at him.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost seven.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Get dressed, we’re going to breakfast.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “You and me. I couldn’t sit around in my room all morning.”

  “I was sleeping.”

  “Well, now you’re not. Get dressed.”

  “Hold on.”

  Normal turned around, leaving the door open, and followed the trail of clothes that led to his bed, picking them up and putting them on as he went: black Bonnie “Prince” Billy T-shirt he’d cut the sleeves off of, paint-stained cutoff shorts, black socks, Emericas. He sat on the mattress to tie his shoelaces and found himself sitting there, staring at his feet, spacing out. Thinking nothing at all.

  “Dude.”

  “What? Oh.”

  Normal got to hi
s feet, grabbed his wallet and his cell phone, and headed for the door. Stepped through and closed it behind him.

  “Where we going?”

  “I don’t know. Figured we’d find something.”

  They made their way outside, pushing into the warm desert morning—sun glaring down at them, the sky a sheet of bright blue with not a cloud in it—and started walking. Normal had a headache, a mild hangover throbbing behind his eyes.

  He remembered going to Mag Bar when he lived in Louisville, back in his early twenties, chatting with Beenee Overstreet, who was usually tending bar when he strolled in, and easily consuming twice what he’d had last night. He’d wake up the next morning to get ready for work—he was a short order cook at his dad’s diner on Baxter Avenue—and be fine. Getting older was no fun. He was thirty-one but felt the same as he had when he was thirteen and seeing his first girlfriend. Kids looked at him and saw a man, sometimes called him sir, but he was still that boy inside. Still confused by sex, women, and the world. It was strange to him. He wanted to skateboard, drink Red Stripe beer, and sleep in on weekends, like he’d done when growing up, but somehow he’d become a man without realizing it, and he had responsibilities to both the government and people, and a bad right knee, and bills he needed to pay.

  Despite the fact he loved it, he’d only skateboarded twice in the last five years. Last time he went home, he took one of his boards out to Louisville Extreme Park, but after an hour he drove home, his knee throbbing, sat on the couch, and watched golf with his dad.

  He hawked up a loogie and spat into the street. Coop lit a cigarette and smoked while they walked. They didn’t talk.

  A few blocks north of Hotel Amigo they found a McDonald’s, and after Coop had finished his Newport and dropped his butt into an ashtray by the door, they stepped inside.

  Normal knew people who would never go into a fast-food place while in a foreign country. They wanted to eat how the locals ate, they said, without ever considering that locals might eat at McDonald’s. He thought fast-food joints were where you really saw the differences between cultures.

  He and Coop walked to the counter and scanned the menu. After a couple minutes, they ordered their food.

  When their order was ready, Normal grabbed the tray. He and Coop walked to a table by a window. They sat down across from one another, grabbed what food they’d ordered. Normal forked scrambled eggs into his mouth.

  He glanced up at Coop. “Do you think we’ll get to see James today?”

  “I hope so.”

  “We all hope so. What do you think?”

  “I think we’ll get to see him. I’m worried what we’ll find out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m afraid he did it.”

  “You told Pilar—”

  “I know what I told her, and I believed it at the time. I still don’t think it’s something he would normally do, but we don’t know why he was here. If he thought it was something he had to do, if Layla got herself into debt before she died, put her family in danger … I don’t know. I’m just saying, I’ve had time to think and been able to imagine scenarios in which he might do something he normally wouldn’t do. So I’m worried he did it. Even if he didn’t have the drugs, even if those were planted, I’m almost certain the guns were his. I know he owns a SIG.”

  “What if he did do it—what if those five kilograms of cocaine were his?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t change the situation much.”

  “Then don’t worry about it.”

  “Might change the way I think about it him.”

  “After what we all did in Afghanistan, who gives a fuck about a little cocaine?”

  “We were in a war, Normal, regular rules of civilization don’t apply.”

  Normal ate his breakfast, but noticed that Coop didn’t touch his. He only sipped his coffee until it was cold and then pushed it aside.

  * * *

  James was sitting in the jailhouse cafeteria eating his own breakfast. He was alone at the table, back to the wall, watching others go through the service line and find places to sit. Watching them eat. Food was slopped onto their trays with ice cream scoops by other dull-eyed prisoners; tattoo-knuckled fingers wrapping around plastic utensils; feet shuffling across the dirty floor; gold teeth chewing on food. The man who’d attacked him in the yard sat down three tables over, forked egg into a tortilla, folded the tortilla in half, and took a bite. Looked at James while he ate, face expressionless.

  While he was watching the guy, another man sat across from James. His wrists were bandaged: the man whose daughter was killed in the schoolhouse, the man he’d spoken to in the infirmary.

  “I never told you my name,” the man said.

  “I never told you mine.”

  “Pedro.”

  “James.”

  “Who did you lose?”

  For a moment James didn’t reply. Didn’t know if he wanted to. But looking across the table at the man—his wide brown eyes so filled with empathy—he decided he might as well.

  “My sister.”

  “I’m sorry. Were you close?”

  “Not close enough.”

  “You plan to seek vengeance.” It wasn’t a question.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The things you said in the infirmary.”

  “I do—if I can.”

  “Why would you be unable to?”

  “I may be killed before I have the chance.”

  Pedro thought about this. His eyes had a faraway look, briefly, before shifting toward James again. There was kindness in them. “Someone here wishes to kill you?”

  “Someone here works for someone who wishes me dead. Which is about the same.”

  “Who?”

  James nodded in the direction of the man who’d attacked him.

  Pedro glanced over his shoulder. Quickly, subtly.

  “The man with no name,” he said. “Is he the one who put you in the infirmary?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You put him in the infirmary too.”

  “I read the bible.”

  Pedro smiled subtly. “An eye for an eye.”

  “That’s the verse I was thinking of.”

  “Will you tell me who he works for?”

  “Alejandro Rocha.”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “Many people have—yet he avoids prison.”

  “He knows who to pay. His heroin has hurt many people in Chiapas. Is he the one you wish to kill?”

  James nodded.

  “I will help you to stay alive.”

  “I don’t think you want to get involved in—”

  “What else do I have to live for?”

  James didn’t have an answer to this. The man had tried to kill himself, so he wasn’t only not afraid to die but welcomed death. That didn’t mean, however, that James wanted the man to die for him. He had his own battles to fight. After a long silence he said as much.

  Pedro waved away the comment. “I’m far from home and don’t know if I’ll ever return. I might never be able to find justice for my daughter, but I can help you find justice for your sister by helping you to stay alive.”

  James opened his mouth to protest.

  “You cannot talk me out of this.”

  * * *

  They were on the road by nine thirty. It was early—the gates wouldn’t open for almost two and a half hours—but Coop figured the sooner they got there, the better their chances of seeing James. He wanted them at or near the front of the line. So they drove west through the desert, toward the jail and the crescent of low gray hills that surrounded it.

  Pilar didn’t normally smoke, but asked Coop for one of his Newports. He handed her his pack and she slipped out a cigarette, lit it, and stared out the window taking long drags. The cigarette shook between her fingers. She didn’t say so—she didn’t say much of anything—but he knew she was thinking about James, worrying over his situation.

 
They were the fourth car to arrive. Coop pulled up behind a green Pinto sedan, shoved the transmission into park, turned up the radio. They listened to The Fall’s Grotesque while waiting, running through the disc more than once.

  Though they waited for a long time, there was almost no talk. They sat in silence, everyone in his or her own world, thinking about James and what might follow their conversation with him, if they got to talk.

  Coop smoked cigarette after cigarette, looking through the windshield, listening to the music thumping through the speakers.

  Pilar gazed out the passenger window to the desert and the jail growing from its sands like some sort of tumor. When inmates were in the yard, she scanned the faces, but because of her silence, Coop assumed she didn’t see James. He didn’t see James either.

  Bogart pulled a deck of cards from his right hip pocket and began practicing silently, without patter. Double lifts, triple lifts, snap changes, swivel cut flourishes, and so on. During his time in Afghanistan, because he’d wanted to fill the empty hours, he’d gotten into close-up card magic, and seemed to practice it whenever he had a few empty minutes. He’d done some tricks for Coop, maybe two dozen in total, and it was impressive how good he’d gotten.

  Bogart’s manner made the tricks even more impressive than they were. He moved and talked slowly, had a stoner’s laugh—people thought he was a pothead long before he ever touched weed—so you assumed he’d be incapable of the sort of sleight of hand and misdirection that good card tricks required. That was ridiculous, of course. The man could hit a target from a thousand yards, which meant he knew both subtle movement and precision, but he seemed incapable of such things. He also seemed astounded by how the tricks came out, part of the audience despite the fact he was performing, which made the card tricks feel like something more than they were.

  Normal watched Bogart, popped his knuckles, looked out the window, shifted in his seat, scratched the Willie Nelson tattoo on his leg, popped his neck, rolled a quarter over the back of his knuckles, hummed to the songs he liked, sang to “New Face in Hell” and “The Container Drivers,” opened his window, closed his window, and generally acted like an impatient child.