California Girl (26 page)

NICK STEERED THE RED ROCKET
south on I-5 while Lobdell smoked a cigarette and looked out at the new nuclear power plant at San Onofre.

The Country Squire had two surfboards strapped to the top and food and water and camping gear in the back. Nick and Lobdell had tried to dress more like surfers than cops but Nick figured they just looked like cops in sandals. They couldn’t grow out their hair much in three days. Nick hadn’t shaved and Lobdell said he hadn’t used any Vitalis. Nick almost smiled when he first saw Lucky’s small white feet.

“Look at that,” said Lobdell.

There was a Camp Pendleton Marine Corps helicopter low over the water on exercise, dangling a single soldier by a long rope, sea spray flying, blades flashing in the sun.
Eighteen thousand dead,
thought Nick. Clay killed near a village. Body at Angel’s Lawn now but like he was never here. What bothered Nick wasn’t that people died but that they were forgotten. Made him shudder if he thought about it so he didn’t. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling he’d had during David’s prayer last night.

In San Ysidro they got Oscar Padilla car insurance and lunch. Lobdell wanted Sambo’s for the last American food they’d get for a day or two.
Maybe longer. Couldn’t find one, though, so they settled on Denny’s. Fine with Nick, who looked out the darkened windows at the bustling border town. Kept an eye on the Country Squire. Quite a load of valuables hidden down in it, under all the surf and camp gear. A short man bent by a shoulderload of serapes shuffled across the parking lot.

Once across Nick got into the TJ way of driving. Plenty of horn work and don’t slow down or move over unless you have to. They honked and lurched through downtown, past the shopwindows of dresses and watches and jewelry and drawn chickens hanging with the feet still on. A taxi zoomed by on their right, almost picked off a guy jumping onto the curb. Nick watched an ancient Chevrolet pass with a rooftop loudspeaker blaring out the virtues of Fanta soft drink.

“Even smells different down here,” said Lobdell. Told Nick about this bar named the Blue Fox, had live donkey shows. Never been to one and had no interest but knew some guys who had.

Then up the grade out of Tijuana, past the shantytowns in the hills, past the bullring and the hospitals for cancer cures to the coast road overlooking the brown rock cliffs and the deep roiling sea.

Nick looked out at the trash fires burning and the
“No Basura”
signs. A pack of skinny, big-eared dogs trotted along through the fires. Nick slowed for two Tijuana cop cars off to the right, lights flashing, four tan-uniformed cops standing over a body in the gutter. Around the bend a mountain of worn-out tires exhaled a tornado of black smoke that rose and spread out over the ocean in the faint offshore breeze.

“When the hippies complain about America, I tell ’em to come down here and look at this place,” said Lobdell.

Nick watched a big rig barrel down the highway toward them, hoped the guy’s brakes were decent. Eased the Red Rocket as far to the right as he could but the truck kept drifting over. No shoulder. A cliff to the right. Nick felt the gravel under his right-side tires. His forearms locked and his car was swallowed by shadow, steel rushing past the windows, slam of wind and diesel roar, and Nick could feel how really light the Country Squire was, could feel it skittering on the gravel, wondered if
the surfboards were about to tear off. Then a burst of blue sky and brown cliff as the curve of asphalt carried him into the next pass.

“Close,” said Lobdell.

“Still got my side mirror,” said Nick, hands shaking and stomach rock hard.

“Best country in the world for your car to break down,” said Lobdell. “They can fix anything with anything.”

MEXICO STATE
Highway 1 led south through La Gloria and Costa Azul. Then Rosarito, Popotla, and Punta Descanso. El Morro and Santa Martha. Santini Las Gaviotas and Puerto Nuevo.

“Been there for lobster?” asked Lobdell.

“Katy won’t come down here,” said Nick.

“Two-fifty for a full dinner. Shot of tequila, complimentary. Little place called Chela. You get to pick the lobster you want. Good bugs.”

They pulled over in La Fonda, just a few miles north of Ensenada.

“Cortazar said here, because there’s tourists,” said Lobdell. “But we’re still away from Ensenada. He said park down by the hotel.”

Nick got out and stretched his legs. Imagined that truck bearing down on them again. Cooler here than in Orange County. Stiff breeze and the water crashing below. Vendors with pottery and silver and piñatas. Elvis and Rolling Stones and Beatles posters lacquered onto plywood. A boy selling small shellacked sand sharks on strings. Nick got two for Willie and Stevie. Seashell necklace for Katherine, really nice. Silver butterfly on a chain for Katy. Chiclets for everyone.

“Come on, tourist,” said Lobdell. “Cortazar is here.”

They drove down a dirt road behind a dusty brown Chevy. Then up a hillside. Cortazar was an Ensenada cop Lobdell knew from years ago. They’d met working a car theft ring in fifty-five. It was a two-country operation, real pros, but OCSD and Cortazar’s state police busted the ring on its ass and everybody came out looking good. Lucky and Cortazar stayed in touch. Cortazar moved to Ensenada
policía municipal
and
helped Lucky get a gringo rape fugitive back stateside in nineteen-sixty. Off-the-record kind of thing, because the United States–Mexico extradition treaty was tough to work with. Friends were the only way things got done down here and the Mexicans said the same thing about the
Estados Unidos
. Lucky had reciprocated two years later up in O.C. on a kidnap case. Later helped Cortazar’s boy get a car wash job in Orange County, get good
papeles
and into a junior college. Kid was managing five car washes now, owned a home in Santa Ana.

The Chevy climbed a gentle rise, then took a sandy right turn and stopped. Nick followed and got out. Stood on the bluff top in the middle of the dead brown grass. Ocean across the highway, no clouds in the October sky. Burnt smell in the air.

Cortazar was dark and heavy. Mustache, nice smile, dark dome of head beaded with sweat. Big revolver on a thick belt, pants too big, cuffs dragging in the sand as he followed Lobdell to the back of the Red Rocket. His partner was Marcello. Young and thin and hardly spoke.

Nick swung open the door, flipped up the two small seats Willie and Stevie loved to use. Even with plenty of room up with Katherine, they’d sit back there and make faces at the motorists until Nick made them crawl back over and sit still and act like human beings. He missed the kids extra now, out here in the middle of this eternally burning nowhere.

Nick let Lobdell pull up the first burlap bag. Lobdell lifted it and looked around quickly. Cortazar chuckled but Marcello didn’t. Lobdell untied the top, took the bottom and emptied it onto one of the little red vinyl seats. Two .22 automatic handguns, six .38 revolvers, two .357 magnum revolvers, and four .45 autos.

Cortazar whistled. Marcello stared.

Nick and Lobdell had gotten them out of the property room. It was a verbal transaction, “approved” but deniable. The weapons had been confiscated from criminals. Not material to any pending cases. Not salable. Not useful. These would be listed as destroyed. One hundred seventy-four more where they came from and more coming every week. Most of them ended up in the ocean. Lobdell had said that these
were destined for “undersupplied Mexican law enforcement personnel” in return for “information on an American beauty queen killer now residing out-of-country.” He told the property room sergeant they had enough on the guy to send him to the gas chamber twice. The property room sergeant had helped load them into Nick’s take-home. The truth was the Mexican cops would keep most of them for themselves because the cops in Mexico had trouble getting permits for personal firearms. And they could always use a good throw-down gun. Made Nick think of the Mexico charity runs that David’s church always made.

Nick had felt like a gunrunner bagging the weapons, then transferring the heavy, bulging bags into the family wagon under the bright lights of his garage last night. Katy had helped. And said for heaven’s sake don’t scratch my car and please be careful down there, there’s no way I can raise these kids alone. It was late after the dinner at David and Barb’s. The kids were asleep when Nick and Katy were done loading in the rifles and Katy switched off the garage light and pushed him onto the front seat of the Red Rocket and made love to him. Wouldn’t let him up until she showed him how she felt. Cried when it was over, just a little. Said please be really careful down there ’cause if you don’t come back I’ll wanna die but won’t be able to. Nick still couldn’t figure what had gotten into Katy since the Orange Sunshine extravaganza but he liked it. Miraculous, like they were eighteen again.

The second bag contained ammunition. It was good factory stuff, new and boxed. Courtesy of OCSD, said Lobdell as Cortazar smiled and nodded.

The rifles and shotguns were under the folded backseats. Nick pulled out the cases one at a time and handed them to Lucky. A Remington 12-gauge automatic, a Winchester 12-gauge pump, two Marlin .22 automatics, two old Springfields, and a nice bolt-action .30-06 with a custom stock and a good Weaver scope. And two surplus ammunition boxes, incredibly heavy as Nick yanked them up off the floorboards and carried them to the rear of the wagon.

“For ducks, coyotes, and deer,” said Lobdell.

“But of course,” said Cortazar with a chipper grin.

Marcello smiled slightly and Nick looked down into the rear bed of the Red Rocket and the twenty-one firearms and ammunition that lay there in the bright Baja sun.

“We can use these,” said Cortazar.

“You got them,” said Lobdell.

“We can use Bonnett,” said Nick.

“You’ll get him,” said Cortazar. “He will never remove another head.”

THEY BACKTRACKED
to Rosarito and spent the night at the big hotel. They’d meet Cortazar the next morning and go get Bonnett. Cortazar didn’t say exactly how. But he didn’t want Bonnett’s people making two gringo cops in Ensenada. At the hotel they just looked like a couple of surfers down for the waves.

Kind of, thought Nick. They ate in the hotel dining room. Quiet on a Monday in fall. Nice view of the long flat beach. Horses and riders up and down the sand. Waves small and no surfers out. A gang of vultures and a gang of seagulls battled over a large black lump that had washed up. Seagulls seemed to be winning until the incoming tide rolled it loose and pulled it away.

Lobdell went to his room and Nick stayed in the cantina. He sipped a couple of shots of good tequila recommended by the bartender. Nick thought about Katy and the kids, then Clay, then Sharon. Couldn’t shake the feeling that the family would never be together again like the night before. Worried about David. Pale and quiet and peaceful like someone going into shock.

NEITHER NICK
nor Lobdell could sleep long so they drank coffee, had breakfast, and waited for Cortazar. The Ensenada cop said there was no reason to do this early. In Mexico good things never happen early. No, go late and be relaxed.

Just before noon Cortazar’s beaten Chevy appeared behind the can
tina. Cortazar waved. Marcello sat beside him, thin as a switchblade. Behind the Chevy was a low-slung black Mercury with big rust spots and mismatched wheel covers. Four more men, staring straight ahead like you might overlook them. Nick looked at each face, notched them into memory.

He fell in behind the Mercury and picked up Highway 1 south. Cortazar had explained that Bonnett would talk to him because the men in the Mercury had vouched for him. The men were not cops. They were marijuana businessmen from Nayarit. “Friends” of Bonnett. Actually, they were cops, it was just that Bonnett didn’t know this. The purpose of this meeting was for Cortazar to present himself to Bonnett as an agreeable Ensenada policeman eager to discuss a private airstrip owned by business-minded friends. Marcello was with him to establish Cortazar’s “seriousness.” Cortazar said that the six cops would control the situation and return to Nick and Lobdell with a handcuffed Señor Bonnett. Simple.

When Nick had asked him how many people were inside Bonnett’s compound, Cortazar had shrugged and frowned as if Nick had missed a crucial point.

Cortazar’s Chevy pulled off the highway at a signal, followed by the black Merc. Nick fell in behind and the caravan headed east. The road was dirt and wide and Nick clipped along at forty in a traveling cloud of dust. Saw a rock-pile memorial with plastic flowers faded by the sun. Then the road turned to washboard and Nick saw the camp gear jump into the air in the rearview and heard the shudder of shocks and the chatter of the dashboard like every nut and bolt was coming loose.

“Knock the fillings out of your teeth,” said Lobdell. “But they got good dentists down here. Cheap.”

Nick couldn’t see much through the dust. Just scrub and brown grass hills. Some skinny cattle behind a fence of barbed wire and twisted branches. A post with a hubcap nailed on top to mark someone’s driveway. A heavy old woman with her hair in a bun squinting at them as they went past.

The road got worse. A steep rocky rise. Then a long downslope
carved by ruts left and right where the rain had funneled down over the years. Nick pulled down into first gear, had to get the wagon’s tires to straddle some of the ruts but fit between others. Hit the brakes too hard and you slid and ended up in a ditch. He could barely see the red hood through the brown dust.

“Funny that Cortazar’s boy ended up in the car wash business,” said Lobdell. “Must have had good training, growing up down here.”

A mile. Then two. Cortazar had told them they would stop three kilometers in. There, Nick was to turn left onto another dirt road and proceed five hundred meters, then turn around, pull off to the side, and wait. Turn off the engine. Nobody from Bonnett’s compound would be able to see them. If someone did, they’d figure lost surfers. Nick and Lobdell were to stay in the car.