Six Bad Things_ A Novel - Charlie Huston [35]
THE BUS station at Santa Rosalia is just a counter in a bodega. We pull in well after dark. I stand in line for the bathroom inside, then go out to smoke. Right across the road from the station is a massive concrete breakwater. I walk out onto it a little ways to kill myself a little more. The guy with the joint comes up behind me.
—Hello.
He has a French accent.
—Hi.
—American?
—Yep.
He nods. He’s got another joint, offers it to me.
—Thanks.
Not wanting to be a hero on the next leg of the trip, I take a big hit. He points at the joint.
—I could not do these long rides without it.
—Yeah, I could have used it on that last stretch.
I take one more hit and pass the joint back. He licks the tips of his fingers, pinches the cherry off, and drops the roach into his cigarette box. We start back toward the bus. He inhales the sea air deeply. There is a slight chill. I realize it is December and I am heading north for the first time in years. It will be strange to be cold.
—Do you have something to read on the bus?
I nod.
—Yeah, but I’m still reading it. I saw some books in the bodega.
We walk into the bodega together. The books are next to the cooler, mostly in Spanish, but there are a few tattered second-handers in English on the bottom shelf. I pull out a bottle of water from the cooler, grab a second one, show it to him.
—Want one?
—Yes, thank you.
I turn for the counter, catch something out of the corner of my eye, look again because I’m stoned and this can’t be real. I grab a book from the rack and go pay for everything, my heart pounding. Frenchie was right there when I picked up the book. Did he see it?
He joins me outside and I give him his water. He doesn’t look at me funny, just takes a sip.
—Thanks.
—Sure.
He holds up a beaten copy of The Client.
—The movie was crap, but I have never read any of his books. Maybe they’re good?
—Don’t count on it.
—What did you get?
—Oh, one of those true crime things. I’m a sucker for that shit.
The bus pulls back out. Most of the passengers are starting to settle toward sleep. I click on my overhead light and pull the book from my grocery bag. I hold it close to my body, like a poker hand. It’s by a guy named Robert Cramer and it’s called The Man Who Got Away. It is the unauthorized story of my life and crimes.
AT GUERRO Negro we cross over from Baja Sur to Baja Norte and soldiers come on board the bus. This is particularly bad timing as I’ve spent the last several stoned hours reading about the forces that warped me as a child and the role my parents played in turning me into a killer. By the time I realize what’s going on, it’s too late to hide this book, which features several photos of me, including the three-year-old booking shot on the cover.
One soldier stands at the front of the bus while another walks down the aisle. Behind me, he asks only one person for a passport. When a French accent replies I know what to expect: this will be a passport check for gringos only. There are more soldiers outside, all armed with assault rifles. Are they looking for me or is this normal? Do they control border traffic like this all the time? If I give these guys the Carlyle passport there will be all kinds of questions about how I’ve been living illegally in their country for three years with no visa. If the search for Morales’s and Candito’s murderer has gone far enough the other passport will get me dragged off this bus by my ankles. And shit, which passport is in which pocket, anyway? Why did I get stoned?
The soldier behind me barks something and the French guy starts a stream of denials in Spanish. The soldier at the front of the bus raises his weapon and takes