24

The night is still and warm. Once outside of town, we pass no other cars. For once, I’m happy to ride in the back, lying on the plywood shelf. It makes me feel hidden somehow, safer. Ben drives slowly and cautiously. Pelo doesn’t light a joint.

From the back, I’m able to make out only the odd painted rock along the side of the road. By the rising and winding of the Jeep, I can tell that we’ve left town.

“Simple,” Pelo says in a gentle voice.

Ben grunts.

“We’re like Peseta now,” I say from the shelf. “Runners. Legs.”

Neither of them responds.

After what feels like hours of driving, Ben slows and says, “This is it, right?”

“This is it,” Pelo replies.

Ben shifts into four-wheel drive. He turns left and we bump our way down a rutted dirt road toward the beach. My hips and shoulders slide and bounce on the plywood.

“Try to get the car into those bushes,” Pelo says. “Might as well be subtle.”

Ben shifts in and out of reverse. We jolt forward and back a few times. Leaves brush up against my back window like the rollers in a car wash. The thin limbs scratch and groan against the Jeep. Ben cuts the engine.

“All right.” Pelo exhales and cracks open his door. “Now we do the waiting thing.”

A second of silence passes. Pings sound from the motor.

“Could somebody let me out of here, please,” I say from the back.

Ben comes around and opens the hatch. The two of us sit on the tailgate. It’s still a beautiful spot—or seems so at night. The cove is narrow and rugged, full of palms and small bushes. Two tall shoulders of land reach out on either side of us. The sea laps gently against shore. The full moon turns the landscape as bright and gray as a marble statue.

Pelo walks down to the water’s edge. Ben makes a cigarette at my side, the rolling papers crinkling against his fingers. I can tell from his jerky movements and shallow breaths that he’s nervous. For whatever reason, I’ve turned calm. It’s like paddling into big surf: Once you’re out there, anxiety doesn’t do you any good. My problem was always deciding whether to go out in the first place.

“It’s nice out here,” I say.

Ben sparks up the smoke. I can hear that he’s packed the tobacco too tight by the way he sucks on the tip. “It’s not bad,” he admits, a chattering quiver in his voice.

Pelo paces along the shore, staring out at the horizon.

I reach over and take the cigarette from Ben’s hand. “Relax,” I say. “We’re here now. Might as well be cool.”

“Right.” He breathes in through his nose, then out through his mouth, and straight away becomes more composed.

“I think I hear something.” Pelo sings the words like a children’s song.

We go quiet. The tiny, distant buzz of an engine slowly becomes audible. It sounds like one of the lawn mowers my father used to bring home to repair. The three of us turn still and stiff. For a long span of minutes, we do nothing but listen to the buzz. It grows louder and closer, and for a moment I wonder if it might be a tiny airplane.

At last, a small craft turns the corner and becomes visible inside the cove. Ben and I rise from off the tailgate. I squint my eyes. It’s impossibly small, a Zodiac, and so loaded down with cargo that it appears to be dragging below the ocean’s surface rather than floating atop it.

“Take these.” Ben holds up the keys to the Jeep. “Wait behind the wheel. If anything happens, start it up and bail.”

I accept the keys from him but don’t move. My feet feel planted to the ground. “Who are those guys?”

Two men pilot the Zodiac. Both wear handkerchiefs over their faces, like gunslingers from the Old West. Apart from that, they appear to be dressed in dirty collared shirts and baseball caps—not unlike the local campesinos.

“Colombians, I suppose,” Ben says. “Or guys that work for them.”

“Did they come up from Colombia in that thing?”

Ben stifles a laugh. “They must have a bigger boat out there somewhere.”

“What’s with the handkerchiefs?”

He shrugs. “Frankly, I’d just as soon not see anybody’s face tonight.”

Pelo waves his arms above his head to signal them, as if they can’t see him standing there.

“Get behind the wheel,” Ben says again.

This time, I do as he says.

From the driver’s seat, I hear the chatter down by the water’s edge. The Zodiac’s engine shuts off. Feet shuffle hard against the sand. Soon, I look into the rearview mirror and see Ben and Pelo carrying a rectangular package wrapped in a grain sack and tied up with twine. They drop the first one in through the Jeep’s rear door, onto the plywood deck. For a second, I fear that it won’t fit inside and we’ll have to find a way to disassemble that wooden shelf. But they’re able to hoist it a little higher and slide it in.

“Do we need to check and see if it’s real or something?” I ask as they push the bale flush against my seat back.

Pelo laughs. “You’ve seen too many movies, Chinita. Try trusting people once in a while.”

Ben claps dust from his hands. “I’d rather we get this over with and get the fuck out of here, to be honest.”

The two men from the Zodiac carry the next one. They speak Spanish to each other in an accent I can’t place. One of them meets my stare through the rearview mirror and I hear him mutter the word muchacha. I turn my eyes away.

All four men head back to the water’s edge. My mind slips into paranoia. This is the moment, I think to myself, this would be the time for them to kill both Ben and Pelo, then come back for me. Were I a Colombian thug hoping to make off with both the money and the product, to take advantage of some amateurs, now would be the time to shoot. Sweat comes coursing through the palms of my hands. Be cool, I order myself; you’ve seen too many movies.

Instead, the four men make one more trip and fill the Jeep. Ben and Pelo accompany the Colombians back to their boat. Once I hear their motor start, I turn the key in the ignition. Ben groans as he climbs into the back and squeezes himself around the bales. The hatch slams shut and Pelo jumps in beside me. I put the Jeep in reverse and pull out from behind the bushes. My heart throws jabs along the inside of my rib cage. We bounce our way inland up the dirt road.

“Well, that was fucking easy!” Pelo takes his one-hitter from the glove compartment.

Once on the paved road, I drive fast toward La Lib. Ben and Pelo whoop and cheer for a few minutes, passing the one-hitter back and forth like a victory cigar. Soon enough, they realize that we’re not finished with our work tonight and the enthusiasm gives way to a tense and pregnant silence.

As we cross the final bridge into town, I feel my palms go sweaty once again; the taste of dirty coins rises from the back of my throat.

I drive toward the crack house and come to a stop kitty-corner from it.

I keep my eyes on the house. “So, where’s the service entrance to this place?”

“Not here,” Pelo says.

“Excuse me?” I turn to him.

“This run, it’s not for these guys. It’s not their shit.”

Ben speaks from the back. “What the fuck are you talking about, Pelo?”

“The deal I made, for this stuff, it’s with some other guys. Don’t worry; it’s only a couple blocks away.”

“You made a deal with some other drug dealers?” My voice rises and my breath grows short.

“So what?” Pelo shrugs. “What’s wrong with a little competition? That’s good for any market.”

“This isn’t some business-school exercise, Pelo.” I can’t believe what is happening. “It’s a monopoly. A hostile one.”

“Malia.” Ben reaches forward and touches my shoulder. “Maybe we shouldn’t sit here discussing this.”

Across the intersection, the red door to the crack house opens a hair. A head sticks halfway out. I put the car in gear and drive around the corner.

“I don’t know what you guys are freaking out about. It’s not like it’s any of their business.”

“All cocaine in this town is their business,” Ben says. “This is fucked.”

“Look. Let’s just make this drop and get paid,” Pelo says. “If anybody gives us any trouble, we’ll go to the police. We won’t be the ones holding all the shit. It’s not like we’ll have anything to worry about.”

I let out a heavy sigh.

“Pelo,” Ben says. “Those guys from the crack house run the police.”

That shuts everybody up for a second.

“Ben.” I find his face in the rearview mirror. “What are we going to do? We can’t drive around all night with a car full of coke.”

“I know.” He sighs, then pauses for a few seconds. “Maybe we ought to go ahead and drop the load with Pelo’s people. Then pray that the shit storm falls on them, not us.”

“Where is this place?” I can’t even look at Pelo’s face. The anger I feel for him is hot and blinding, like my own personal sun.

“Take a left,” he says sheepishly.

After a couple more directions, we come to a blue house, where a couple of guys are sitting on the front stoop. They both stand as we approach.

I shift into neutral, then turn to Pelo. “Get out and get our money. If they don’t kill you, then they can come for the product. The engine stays on. I stay behind the wheel.”

“Right.” Pelo opens his door. “What’s the Spanish word for engine again? Never mind.” He gets out and goes to talk to the two men.

“This is bad, isn’t it?” I ask Ben.

He crawls a few inches forward in the back. “It’s stupid. Maybe we’ll get by without it turning out too bad. Hey!” His body twitches against the bales. “Do you see that?” Ben points to an alley up the block. It’s a thin passage between houses, too narrow for cars.

“What?” I say.

“Nothing, I guess.” He continues to stare. “I thought I saw somebody over there. Probably just paranoid.”

The Jeep’s back door swings open. Ben climbs out. The two Salvadoran strangers scoot the first bale outward.

Pelo comes to my window. “Hold this, Chinita.” He drops a paper wad into my hands. “We’ll split it up back at the ranch.”

The bills are wrapped up in newsprint and rubber bands. I rip the bundle open on one side. The bills are all American hundreds. I lift my hips and shove the wad down the front pocket of my baggy work jeans.

The men from the house carry the first bale inside. Pelo stands between the car and the front door and supervises.

Ben comes around to my window. “Does the money look okay?”

“Looks green,” I say.

The men come back for the second bale. Looking in the rearview mirror, I study their faces. They look bored by this, perhaps annoyed that I keep the motor running. Whatever quality possessed them to start a rival business to this town’s true crack house isn’t showing in their eyes. They don’t look ambitious, reckless, or cold-blooded. Perhaps they’re like Pelo: a bit of greed and a bit of stupidity mixed together in dangerous proportions.

Ben turns back to the tiny alley up the block. He takes a few steps down it, then comes back.

“See anybody?” I ask.

“No.” He shakes his head, then turns and gives it one more glance. “I must be losing my mind.”

The men come back for the third bale.

“Vamos,” Ben tells them. “We’re not getting paid by the hour.”

“Ben,” I say. “Would you mind driving home?” My hands are sweating so hard that they hurt. Plus, I’m not quite sure what corner of La Libertad we’ve ended up in, or how to get back to the hotel.

“Not a problem,” he says.

I pull up the emergency brake and climb out. The two Salvadorans step toward the front door of the house. Pelo paces on the pavement, holding his elbows with his hands. Ben takes a step toward the car and grabs the door handle. He stops and says, “What’s that sound?”

All five of us pause to listen. The piercing whine of a police siren cuts through the night air. One of the Salvadorans mutters “¡Hijo de puta!” Both of them dash back inside the house and slam the door.

“What the fuck?” Pelo says.

“Get that bale out of the car!” Ben yells at him.

Pelo nods and goes for the trunk.

“Malia.” Ben turns and grabs me by the elbows. “Run. Use the alleys. Get back to La Posada and wait.”

I can barely hear him now as the sirens approach. By the twine, Pelo tosses the last bale at the blue house. Thousands of dollars’ worth of cocaine bounce off their front door.

“Go!” Ben shouts to me again, and hops into the driver’s seat. Pelo climbs in on the other side.

I take off sprinting. The Jeep’s tires squeal on the concrete. Red and blue lights briefly illuminate the walls on either side of me. My flip-flops pull hard at the spaces between my toes.

Moonlight drips down into the alley and spreads a thick glow, like frosting, to the tops of all the windows and doorways. A dog barks, and I pray it won’t bite me. My torso slams into somebody. I mutter a string of apologies, then feel for that wad of dollars along my hip bone.

I cross a carless street and continue into another segment of alley. This one is more crowded. Lights are on inside a few of the buildings. Others have cook fires outside. Smoke from burning wood and plastic bags rises and winds through the walls and over rooftops. Several sets of eyes turn toward me as I pass. Voices call out to me: “Muchachita,” “Mamasita,” “Ven aca, mi amor.” I keep on running, more lost now than when I started. I run faster, my rubber soles slapping the rutted cobblestones, wanting out of this concrete ravine.

The next section of alley is even darker. Two bodies sit crumpled in corners. I make out their hands and faces in the moonlight. A plastic lighter sparks up and burns at the end of a short glass stem. A sound like a bubbling hiss. I jump over their feet and run on.

The alley ends and a burst of salt air fills my sinuses. My eyes take a second to adjust to the open spaces. I’m staring at the sea.

The lights from the pier tell me that La Posada is to the east. Along the shorefront street, I walk slowly, trying not to attract attention. Some fishermen sit on the seawall, already preparing their nets for the next morning. Closer to the pier, a group of drunks blasts cumbia music and clangs bottles together.

La Posada is locked. I wonder if anyone bothered to tell Kristy what we were up to tonight. Without hesitation, I climb the tree alongside the wall, half-expecting to cross paths with some petty thieves. Once inside, I put the money underneath our mattress and lock the room. In the hammock outside our door, I wait for Ben to return. As the hours tick by with no sign of Ben, Pelo, or the Jeep, I come to realize that I’m doing more hoping than waiting.