The Breakout Page 5

  Every day he was getting closer, but for now he was here, in the middle of it, deeply involved in what he was—

  The sound of a gunshot shocked him from his thoughts. He watched Paco’s head snap back. Watched blood run down his forehead and face. Watched it drip onto his jersey even as he stumbled backward and fell into the swimming pool. Blood spread in the water.

  “Damn it,” Rocha said. “Now I won’t be able to swim. Gael, get this motherfucker out of my swimming pool.”

  But for a moment Gael remained frozen in place. He only looked at the kid floating dead in the pool, eyes blank as broken television screens. He’d brought Paco here and now he was dead. It was his fault. He told himself again that he had to take part in these things to earn Rocha’s trust, but that didn’t make him feel better about it. This kid had robbed a convenience store, but he’d hurt nobody, and now he was dead. Dead because Gael had brought him here when he could have let him escape.

  “Gael,” Alejandro said.

  “What? Sorry.”

  “Get this motherfucker out of my swimming pool.”

  Gael nodded and butted out his cigarette in an ashtray. He walked to the edge of the pool, got down on his hands and knees, reached out to grab the kid. Got hold of the left foot and pulled him toward the verge. Yanked him up onto the concrete, wet, blood seeping from the hole in his head. Within the hour Gael would be driving the body into the desert for burial.

  Paco’s parents would never know what became of him.

  Gael got to his feet and headed toward the garage to get a roll of plastic sheeting.

  4

  Vincent Cooper was sitting at the counter in a dive bar in El Paso, Texas, shoving the last bite of a mustard-smeared Nathan’s into his mouth, when this girl walked over and sat on the stool next to him. He figured women only sat next to men in bars if they were interested, so he turned to check her out. She was maybe twenty-two, brunette, and pretty enough that she might have been the fifth most popular girl in high school. She tapped the bar’s surface with a blue-polished nail and waited for the guy on the other side to notice her so she could order.

  “I’m Coop,” he said.

  “Good for you.” She glanced at him, and, after hesitating, said: “Patricia.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “If you want to.”

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Whiskey and Coke.”

  “Well whiskey?”

  She nodded.

  He looked toward the bartender, a skinny guy about forty with tattooed sleeves in a black Bukowski T-shirt with pomaded hair and a bushy beard, streaks of gray on either side of his chin. He caught his eye.

  “Another Bud?”

  “Please. And a whiskey and Coke for the lady.”

  Bartender nodded, and less than a minute later, set the drinks down in front of them. Coop paid with a ten spot, got his change, and left a dollar on the counter. He looked toward Patricia, held up his beer, and said, “Cheers.”

  She raised her own glass, tilted it toward him, and took a drink.

  “What do you do, Patricia?”

  She hesitated again, looked at him in silence for a long time, and said, “I’m not gonna sleep with you if that’s what you’re after.”

  “I didn’t realize we’d gotten to the rejection part of the conversation just yet.”

  “I don’t want you to get your hopes up is all.”

  “Is it because I’m black? Don’t date the negroes?”

  “That’s got nothing to do with it.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s because when you go to work on Monday it’ll be at Fort Bliss. I don’t date soldiers.”

  “I’m not a soldier.”

  “You’ve got a military haircut. Military posture. You’re wearing combat boots with your cargo shorts and you got a pack of Newports in your T-shirt pocket. I’ve lived in this town my whole life. I know a soldier when I see one, and I don’t date soldiers. It’s nothing personal.”

  “Soldiers are Army. I’m a Marine.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Why don’t you ask a doctor what’s the difference between him and a paramedic.”

  “Whatever. I just didn’t want you to waste your time hammering at something you couldn’t nail down.”

  “Nice metaphor, but I was only counting on conversation.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then I guess we’re done here.”

  “I guess we are.”

  He picked up her drink, finished it in a single draught, ice clinking, and set the glass back down on the bar. He grabbed his beer and got to his feet. Started to walk away and managed two steps before the girl called him an asshole. He stopped, thought about responding, but decided against it. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough to pick a fight with some chick he didn’t know. Instead he walked to the jukebox while fishing in his pocket for a few loose bills. He was feeding the first dollar into the machine when someone behind him called his name. He looked over his shoulder to see who it was.

  Norman Kassube, short guy with blond hair and blue eyes, was standing with a beer in hand, looking back and forth between the TV above the bar and Coop. He wore cutoff shorts, Emerica skate shoes, and a Slint T-shirt with cutoff sleeves. On his right shin was a tattoo of Johnny Cash. On his left was one of Willie Nelson. He looked upset about something.

  “What is it, Normal?” Nobody called Norman by his given name, not even his parents. Coop had asked him once how he’d gotten the nickname but he’d said he didn’t know. Couldn’t remember a time when he’d been anything but Normal.

  “Get over here, man.”

  Coop walked over and asked the question again.

  “On the TV. It’s coming up.”

  Coop looked toward the TV. A few commercials flashed across the screen, and after the last of them flickered away, a blond newscaster with thick makeup in reds and blues appeared on-screen. She wore a low-cut red blouse. She smiled, and through too-white teeth, said:

  “Welcome back. Tonight we bring you the story of a local Marine Corps sergeant arrested in La Paz, Mexico, a desert town thirty miles west of Ciudad Juarez. James Ian Murphy, twenty-eight, was born in the small town of Bulls Mouth, Texas, and grew up in Austin. With a football scholarship, he received a bachelor’s degree in anthropology at Texas A&M before enlisting in the Marine Corps as a private, despite being eligible to join as a second lieutenant. One month ago he returned home after a year in Afghanistan. He is considered by those who know him to be an all-American hero. But last night it was discovered that he was arrested in Mexico with five kilograms of cocaine in the trunk of his rented car. A later search of his hotel room revealed that he also had illegal arms in his possession. La Paz Police Department intends to indict him on charges of possession with intent to sell, and arms trafficking. According to Mexican law, anyone possessing more than half a gram of cocaine is subject to three to six years in prison, but because of the quantity found in Mr. Murphy’s trunk, he could face as many as eighteen years. With the addition of weapons charges, this could add up to more than thirty years in prison.

  “The United States Embassy’s Consulate Office regularly makes phone calls to police departments throughout Mexico to learn about any U.S. citizens who have faced arrest, and was informed yesterday about the charges filed against Murphy. An arraignment has not yet been scheduled, but we will keep you updated on the progress of the case. The Consulate Office is expected to send a representative to La Paz by next Friday, and we hope to learn more then.”

  Coop looked at Normal. “What the fuck was he even doing in Mexico?”

  “I don’t know, man.”

  “Did you know anything about it?”

  “No,” Normal said. “I thought he was in Austin for his sister’s funeral.”

  “There’s no way he was trafficking drugs.”

  “I know. He’s the most straight-edge dude I know.”

  “Especially not after
what happened with his sister.”

  “I know, man.”

  “It doesn’t make any fucking sense. We have to find out what happened.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?” Normal said.

  “Pilar might know something.”

  “Wasn’t she supposed to go to Austin with him?”

  “He didn’t go to Austin. Let’s go see her.”

  “It’s almost midnight.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what time it is. There’s something wrong about this.”

  Coop set his almost-full beer down on the bar and headed for the door. He pushed out into the warm night air. Normal walked out behind him.

  * * *

  Pilar Gutierrez was rolling around in bed with some guy whose name she’d already forgotten. She’d been drinking at Shamrock’s Irish Pub with a girlfriend when this Army captain started buying her vodka tonics. He was nice enough, but she knew she shouldn’t be doing this. She and James had broken up the day he left for his sister’s funeral, five days ago now, but as mad as she was at the way he’d left it, she knew his sister’s death had made him into something he wasn’t. He’d apologize when he got back and they’d be a couple again. Which meant their breakup was a technicality at best. But she’d been angry when she invited this guy into their apartment. She’d waited for James in North Carolina while he was overseas, dropped everything to be with him in El Paso, and he’d dumped her after being stateside only a month. But now that she was in bed with this stranger—in their bed—all she could think about was how to extricate herself from the situation. She wanted this guy off the bed she shared with James, wanted him off the bed and out of the fucking apartment.

  A knock at the door did it, three hard bangs with the side of a fist.

  She pulled away, relieved, and said, “I better get that.”

  She pushed off the bed and got to her feet. The room spun and she held out her arms, waiting for the dizziness to pass, and after a moment the room stopped moving and tilting around her. She made her way out of the bedroom, down the hall, to the front door. Unlocked it, grabbed the doorknob, and pulled.

  Coop and Normal stood facing her in the darkness. Normal was scraping at the inside of his right nostril with a thumbnail, but when he realized she’d answered the knock, he pulled his thumb from his nose and wiped it on his cutoff shorts.

  “Gross,” she said.

  “I didn’t think you’d answer.”

  “You knocked.”

  “Coop knocked.”

  “Not the point, Normal.”

  “It was hanging like a Christmas ornament.”

  “I don’t care. You don’t knock on someone’s door and then pick your nose.”

  “Coop knocked.”

  “For God’s sake, Normal, that’s not the point. What do you guys want?”

  “What’s James doing in Mexico?” Coop said.

  “James is in Austin.”

  “No, he’s in Mexico, and he just got arrested.”

  “What?”

  Coop nodded. “I know.”

  “Arrested for what?”

  “Possession with intent to sell and arms trafficking. Cops found five kilograms of cocaine in his trunk.”

  “No way.”

  “That’s what I said, but apparently it’s the facts. Any idea what might’ve happened?”

  Pilar looked over her shoulder toward her bedroom, thought about the man in her bed, the man in James’s bed. She didn’t want Coop or Normal to find out he was back there. They’d tell James, and he had enough to worry about. She’d known it was a mistake as soon as they’d come here, and that knowledge was confirmed now by the guilt she felt.

  “Hold on,” she said.

  She closed the door in their faces and made her way to the bedroom. Looked at the man in her bed. He was sitting up, leaning against the headboard, legs crossed at the ankles. When she stepped into the doorway he turned away from the muted TV he’d been watching, looked her in the eyes.

  “Everything all right?”

  “You gotta go.”

  “What’s going on?”

  She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. I just need you to leave.”

  The guy nodded. “Okay.” He sat on the edge of the bed and slipped his socks and sneakers on.

  “Go out the back door.”

  He got to his feet, ran his fingers through his hair. “You have a boyfriend.”

  “Kind of.”

  He nodded. “That answers my question about whether I can call you.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I’m glad it didn’t go further.”

  “Me too,” Pilar said. “You’re a nice guy, but—”

  “It’s fine. I’m used to being the nice guy who doesn’t get laid. I’ll go home and rub one out. See you around.” He walked past her and turned left down the hallway. She watched as he pushed out the back door.

  As soon as it latched behind him she felt relief wash over her, but the relief was short-lived. James was stuck in a Mexican jail and she had no idea what had happened to get him there.

  She walked back to the front door and pulled it open.

  “Come in. Sit down.”

  Coop and Normal stepped inside and sat on the couch. Pilar took a seat in a chair across from them, looked from one to the other. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “We don’t know any more than what we told you,” Coop said. “It was on the news tonight. James was in Mexico and got arrested with cocaine and guns. Normal and I both agree there’s no way he was trying to deal coke or sell weapons. We just don’t know what the hell he was doing or how this might’ve happened.”

  “I don’t either. Unless it’s somehow related to his sister.”

  Pilar and James had been talking about visiting his family for some time, about James introducing her to his parents, and despite the circumstances she’d assumed she would go to the funeral. She wanted to be there for him. He loved his sister and when he learned of her death, he’d cried. It was the only time she’d ever seen him reveal a vulnerable side. But on Monday, as he was packing his duffel bag and preparing to leave, he told her he was going by himself. They fought about it. She said that if he didn’t love her enough to have her there for his sister’s funeral, maybe he didn’t love her at all—maybe they should break up.

  He surprised her by agreeing. “If you’re gonna be a bitch about it, then you’re right. This isn’t about you, Pilar. My fucking sister’s dead.” He snatched his duffel and stormed out the front door, slamming it behind him. She waited for him to call, to apologize, but it never happened. He was just gone.

  Now it turned out, if she was interpreting the situation correctly, he’d been shielding her from what he was really up to. He’d missed his sister’s funeral to go to Mexico, but his trip had to have something to do with her death.

  “How could it be related to Layla?”

  Coop knew less than she did. James didn’t talk about personal matters with friends, didn’t even talk much about personal matters with her, only what she could pry from the back of his clamped teeth. He generally kept himself to himself. So she didn’t know how much to share, didn’t want to betray his trust, but she also believed they might have to do something about James being arrested, which meant Coop and Normal should be given at least some information.

  She exhaled, paused a moment in thought, and said, “Layla was living with a drug dealer in Mexico before she died.”

  “Could James have been working with the drug dealer?”

  Pilar threw Normal a look of contempt, and it must have been withering, because he dropped his gaze to his lap. “I didn’t think it. I was just asking.”

  “Layla’s drug dealer boyfriend must’ve had something to do with the cocaine the cops found.”

  “We should go down there and talk to James,” Normal said.

  Coop agreed: “I was thinking the same thing.”

  They decided they’d all had too much to drink to
head out right away; they’d get some rest and leave in the morning. Wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything tonight anyway.

  Coop and Normal left. Pilar watched them step outside, closed the door behind them, and latched the dead bolt. Stumbled back to her bedroom and lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She asked herself what James had been doing in Mexico, what he’d really done to get himself arrested, but couldn’t begin to guess.

  She rolled onto her side and pulled his pillow close to her. She inhaled its scent and wondered if she’d ever get to hold him again, wondered if there’d always be bars between them. She thought about their last conversation, the angry words between them, and felt a sad regret seep into her heart.

  “What the hell kind of trouble did you get yourself into, James?”

  * * *

  Bogart Thompson woke up to the sound of the living room TV, its muffled vibrations coming in through his thin bedroom wall, Wile E. Coyote getting his ass handed to him yet again as he chased after the Road Runner. He didn’t remember leaving it on, but then he’d been so drunk and high he barely remembered coming home.

  He sat up in bed, rubbed his eyes. His head ached and his mouth tasted like he’d licked the bottom of a hamster cage. He looked at the glass bong sitting on his nightstand, picked it up, sniffed the tea-colored water, and cringed. It needed to be changed, but he wasn’t going to bother right now. He grabbed an orange prescription pill bottle, pulled out a chunk of sour diesel sativa, something to ease him into the day, broke it up, and loaded the bong. Took a big hit, removing the bowl and thumbing the carb once it was filled with thick smoke. Inhaled deeply. Held it in for as long as he could before sending out a chain of throaty coughs. Once the coughing subsided, he took a second hit, finishing what he’d loaded. Tapped out his leavings in a glass ashtray. Got to his feet and stood a moment looking out the window, thinking nothing at all, the morning sun slanting through the dirty glass.

  His lips began to tingle from the sour diesel.

  His thoughts, scattered across the messy floor of his mind, put themselves together, allowing him to find focus.