Kilometer 99 (26 page)

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.

 

25

During last year's Holy Week, Ben convinced me to take a few days off from the water project. La Lib tends to fill up with drunken merrymakers from the capital at Easter time. All the forecasts called for surf. The timing was good for me, as Cara Sucia's workers also expected a break.

We rode a slow bus to Usulután, in the east of the country, then hitchhiked to a remote part of the coast meant to have great waves. Ben had been there once before, with a traveling surfer from Australia.

At this time of year, all of the stones were still painted with the colors and initials of political campaigns. Most bore the red, white, and blue of ARENA—the U.S. client party that's held the presidency for years. The reds and yellows of the former guerilla party were well represented. Third parties gained some ground, including one that deftly usurped a green-and-gold look from the Brazilian soccer team.

Our final ride came from a pickup truck selling melons. The vendor let us ride in the back, along with our surfboards, backpacks, and tent. Melons rolled from side to side with each hill and bump. The driver often stopped to bargain with local merchants.

Ben tapped on the cab once we reached the tiny coastal town of El Cuco. It was smaller and less conspicuous than I'd expected, no sign of hotels or other tourist infrastructure. It looked to be little more than a sandy street shaded by tall palms. Humble restaurants and stores lined either side.

“This way,” Ben said.

We walked down to the coast. In the shore break, unrideable tubes—hollow and sandy—stood up tall and then collapsed upon the steep beach. There was swell.

“It's a bit of a walk,” Ben said.

We made our way west, packs on our backs and boards under our arms. The town gave way to tall bluffs above the black sand. They said this area was littered with uncrowded breaks, but where would we sleep?

Soon, I saw a point in the distance. Not made up of round boulders like Punta Roca or K 99, this was a jagged outcropping of land. One small whitewashed building stood atop its far end.

“That's the spot.” Ben pointed. “It's not quite as long or hollow as La Lib, but we'll have it to ourselves. Mostly sand bottom.”

For the rest of the walk, I stared at the distant foam taking shape until I could make out the takeoff spot and some workable sections.

“Don Goyo!” Ben hollered.

“What says the man?” a big-bellied Salvadoran called back.

We'd come upon a family's home and compound at the base of the point. A small adobe house stood against the bluffs, along with a separate kitchen and composting latrine. A woman washed dishes at a cistern. Two shirtless boys turned to stare. Dwarf coconut trees sheltered the packed sand of their patio. The man with the belly came to greet us.

Ben shook his hand. “Do you remember me?”

“Of course.” Don Goyo's face was dark and deeply lined by the sun. His grin was wide, his teeth white and straight.

“This is Malia.” Ben put a hand on my back.

“
Mucho gusto.
” I shook Don Goyo's hand.

“Chinese?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Hawaiian.” It seemed the simplest explanation.

“Hawaiian!” He was impressed. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Do you have space for us?” Ben asked. “We brought a tent.”

“Of course,” Don Goyo said. “Over there, in the shade.” He pointed to a spot under the tree at the edge of his compound's perimeter.

“Perfect.” Ben nodded.

“Meals?” Goyo asked.

“Please.”

“Beer? Bottled water? I'll send the boys to town.”

“Yes and yes.” Ben took some bills from his pocket and passed them to Don Goyo. “Keep the change.”

“Very good.” Don Goyo crumpled the money inside his fist. “This is your home now. Relax.” He smiled again.

We thanked him and went off to the spot he'd indicated underneath the tree. Don Goyo walked toward his house, calling out for his two sons.

“He seems nice,” I said.

“He's great. Here's the deal: He enjoys the occasional beer and cigarette, but the wife won't let him waste money on vice. Long as we offer him booze or smokes, we'll stay on his good side.”

“Got it,” I said.

“She's a good cook, too. Little heavy on the salt. Let's get camp set up and paddle out.”

We raised Ben's tent and stowed our backpacks inside. I changed while he waxed up the boards. As I went to leave the tent, I stopped at the flap and took in the view. A set hit the point break and threw a small barrel at the takeoff section, then formed a fun wall the rest of the way in. The wave was perfectly framed by the rainfly, the water a stone's throw away. In my native city, this kind of view would have been worth several million dollars.

“Did you see that?” Ben said. “Let's get out there.”

*   *   *

For the next three days, we traded fun waves at our own personal point break. We rose at sunrise and surfed the morning glass until we were starving for breakfast. In the shade, with the tent fully unzipped, it was possible to nap briefly before breaking out in a sweat. We often walked to town for lunch or Popsicles or simply to kill time. Once the wind died down in the evenings, we'd paddle out for our sunset session and surf until dark. Don Goyo's wife stacked our dinner plates with beans and fried fish. His sons were thrilled to carry boxes of beer and ice back and forth from the store for a few extra coins. In the middle of the night, Ben and I made love, with the sound of the sea so strong inside our ears, I half-expected our tent to wash away.

One afternoon, Don Goyo lowered a cluster of dwarf coconuts from one of his palm trees. He gave lessons on opening them with a machete. I was lucky not to lose any fingers. The six of us spent the afternoon drinking the milk and eating the nutty flesh.

Each night after dinner, Don Goyo joined us at our tent. Ben would roll him a cigarette and offer him a beer. He asked questions about our country, confirming rumors and truths that he'd heard from returned Salvadorans. Did one really need a license to catch fish? Was it truly legal to carry a gun down the street but not an open beer bottle? Were there hospitals for dogs? We all agreed that he was lucky to live where he did. That was perhaps my favorite thing about Don Goyo: the contentment and peace he felt toward his home, his half acre of paradise.

*   *   *

On our final morning, I woke and saw Ben seated just outside the tent. The rising sun had not yet broken over the bluffs opposite the ocean. On the sand in front of us, a herd of cattle walked in the direction of town. A dozen bony beige cows, driven by two teenagers with short sticks, ambled along the tide line, their steps muffled by the sand, their long shadows stretching out toward the sea. They studied our tent and the ocean in turn, unimpressed by either. Behind them, the waves at the point waned in size, but they were still clean and perfectly shaped.

“Morning.” I sat down beside Ben and put my arm around his back, felt that manta ray–shaped muscle below his shoulder.

“You sure you want to go back?” he asked.

I grinned. “The water project needs me.”

He sighed. “I'm ready for this. I'm ready to do this full-time for a while.”

“How do you mean?” I asked. “Uncrowded waves? Sleeping on the beach?”

He turned to face me. “That and being with you.”

Blood rushed to my cheeks.

Ben looked back to the ocean, the cows now gone. “We should travel once we're done,” he said. “Buy some wheels, hit the road for a while before real life catches up.”