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shit-for-brains
hermanito
turn into a rock star right there before his very eyes. And maybe he was. God help me, Godo thought, then Roque shot a wary glance out the screen door toward the agents, who were listening in. He turned his back to them, lowering his voice.
    The door opened. Lattimore stepped in, the other two humping along behind. Roque cut short the call—“Okay, thank you, I have to go”—then returned the receiver to its cradle and turned back toward the room, tucking his hands in his pockets. It was odd, he still had that same lax grace about him, except the eyes.
    “Let me guess,
señores
. You want to know who that was.”
    The Spanish was meant as ridicule. Godo felt impressed. Meanwhile, to his credit, Lattimore said nothing, just waited. The man had the patience of a wall.
    Roque added, “But you already know what I just found out, I’ll bet.
¿Verdad?”
    Lattimore held pat for another beat, then: “Faustino Orantes.”
    Tía Lucha stiffened, eyes bugging with fright. Godo, snapping his head toward Roque: “What’s he talking about?”
    Using Spanish, to be sure his aunt didn’t misunderstand, Roque said:—
They picked up Tío at the port, some kind of raid. Nobody’s sure where they took him
.
    Tía Lucha lifted her hands from her lap and, folding them asthough for prayer, covered her nose and mouth and closed her eyes. She took three shallow breaths, trembling.
    Lattimore said, “And yes, I’d like to know who that was on the phone just now.”
    Roque ignored him, instead kneeling down in front of his aunt, stroking her arm. Finally: “I don’t have to answer that.”
    Weeks later, Godo would look back on this moment as the point in time when Roque found his backbone. Either that or his terrible angel had come, whispering in his ear: Hey
cabrón
, take heart—you’re already dead.
    IT WAS AFTER NINE BEFORE ROQUE COULD BREAK AWAY. TÍA LUCHA begged off work to spend the day searching for Tío Faustino; Roque sat by the phone in case she called. Come nightfall he put some dinner together from leftovers, made sure Godo got his medicine, watched a little TV with him in his room. Finally, when the first six-pack was history and Godo dropped off, Roque pulled on his sweatshirt, turned off the ringer on the phone, slipped out for Mariko’s. He’ll wake up at some point and find himself alone, Roque thought, and that could go a dozen different ways. But he’s not the only one with needs.
    Jogging up Mariko’s block, he noticed a strange car parked out front, lights on in her living room. He waited outside for the man to leave—graying blond hair, yuppie rugged, North Face vest, Timberland boots, a mere peck on the cheek as he said goodbye—waited ten minutes longer, then walked up and rang the bell.
    “You had company,” he said when the door opened.
    Wineglasses lingered on the living room floor near the futon, one empty, the other half so. The bottle sat uncorked off to the side. Given the sparse furnishings, the bare walls and hardwood floor, the arrangement resembled sculpture.
    She stared, those dark almond eyes. “You’re not going to turn jealous, are you?”
    There was no smell of sex. And she was dressed in a bedraggled pullover and drawstring pants, everything bulky and shapeless, not the stuff of come-hither.
    “Who says I’m jealous?”
    “Because it would be dreadful form, given the age difference.”
    He warned himself: Steady. Don’t get sucked in. “You know, it’s hard to keep up. One minute, I’m so damn mature. The next, when you want to put me in my place—”
    “I have friends, I have clients. Sometimes we meet here. You can’t be part of that world.”
    Roque’s chest clenched; the knot felt cold. “I said I wasn’t jealous.”
    Mariko studied him—not without a hint of longing, he thought. “In my experience, it’s always the ones who tell you they’re not jealous who are.”
    “Maybe that says more about your experience than it does about