Illegal (22 page)

Sharon told Rutledge to help himself to donuts and the latte machine. He smiled at the word "latte," thanked her kindly, saying "Ma'am," sat down, and drew a small silver flask from a buttoned shirt pocket. Jack Daniel's, she guessed, from the aroma.

The Rutledge family had created a dynasty in the San Joaquin Valley. But not without a firestorm of controversy. Simeon Rutledge had been the target of several law enforcement investigations, she knew. Immigration. Taxes. Pollution. Recently, there'd been rumors about a Grand Jury poking around the Rutledge operation. But that was federal, and she didn't know any details.

There were two other men in the Green Room, both members of the Patriot Patrol, the militia group that guarded the border, though no one asked them to. One man, a pudgeball wearing a
"Send 'Em Back"
T-shirt, slouched on the vinyl sofa, snoring, a ball cap pulled down over his eyes. The other man, a wiry, sunburned critter with Willie Nelson pigtails, squinted at a Superman comic book, moving his lips as he read. Both men wore camo fatigues bloused into combat boots.

"You're Rutledge, ain't you?" Pigtails said. He didn't sound like he wanted an autograph.

"Yep," Rutledge allowed. "And you're one of those dumb-ass crackers got nothing better to do than harass poor people looking for work."

"I'm a patriot."

"Pissant is more like it."

Pigtails made a move as if to get up, seemed to think better of it, and dropped down again.

"C'mon, fellow," Rutledge taunted. "Let's see how tough you are."

"All right, boys. Settle down," Sharon ordered. "I'll arrest anyone causing trouble."

Rutledge shot her an inquisitive look.

"
Detective
Sharon Payne," she said.

Rutledge sized her up in her business suit and pumps. "A detective working security?"

"Actually, I'm . . ."

"I'm with Cullen."

Rutledge gave her a sly smile. "Well, Quinn's taste in women can't be faulted, even if he doesn't know diddly about immigration."

"All of you better mind your manners or I'll cuff you right here."

"I don't mean no harm," Pigtails said. "But I got a right to tell Mr. Big Shot that he's taking food out of the mouths of real Americans, giving away all them jobs to the beaners."

"Tell you what, fellow," Rutledge said. "If you want to crawl through the dirt picking artichokes when the thermometer pops a hundred, I got a job for you. But you couldn't do half the work of a
campesina
who's seven months pregnant."

"Them Mexi-cants don't feel the heat the way white people do. Anyhow, I ain't gonna work on my hands and knees, beaners farting in my face."

Rutledge shook his head sadly. No use trying to reason with a mule. "Detective Payne, what do you think?"

"I think there ought to be a civil way for people to discuss their differences."

"I'll drink to that." Rutledge took a hit on his flask, his pale eyes wandering off into the distance. "My old man hired
braceros
back in the sixties. One of their kids is chief of police now. Javier Cardenas. I've known him since we played pitch-and-catch with pomegranates. When I was growing up, my best friends were the wild-ass
pachucos
. The first girl I ever . . . " He paused, as if it might not be chivalrous to continue.

"I wouldn't fuck one of them greasy little tacos," Pigtails said.

"You ought not to talk that way in front of a lady," Rutledge warned.

"That's all right," Sharon said. "I've heard worse."

"I respect the people who work for me. I got Guatemalan women five feet tall who can carry a watermelon in each hand. I got Hondurans who pick peaches so damn gracefully you'd think you were watching a conductor at a symphony. Once, an
Indio
from Chiapas chopped off his toe with a machete. He just tied it off at the knuckle and kept on working. When I found out, I drove him to the hospital myself. I wouldn't trade any one of them for a dozen of these losers, blaming everyone else for their own laziness and stupidity."

Pigtails flushed. "Ain't no wonder white people talk about you the way they do."

"You mean white trash, don't you?"

"Maybe you don't know it, Rutledge, but someone posted a note on our website. Twenty thousand bucks to anyone who'll put a bullet in your big, fat head."

Rutledge slipped the flask back into his shirt pocket. "Only twenty grand? Hell, I'm insulted. But you better tell whoever wants that money to shoot me in the back. 'Cause if I see him first, I'll rip his heart out and feed it to my pigs."

It was going to be a damn long night, Sharon thought.

Payne wondered if Cullen Quinn dyed his hair. The guy was in his mid-forties, and his hair was still blond. Except tonight, on the cheap TV in the motel room, it had taken on the hue of an Orange Crush. All-American looks, a high-paying job, and engaged to the woman Payne still loved. He hated the guy.

Jimmy and Tino had driven north from the border to El Centro, then west on I-8 through the West Mesa Desert. The only traffic was the occasional trailer truck blasting past them, with illustrations of curvaceous women on the mud flaps. The world a velvet black, except for the stars and the Mustang's headlight beams. The tires sang against the pavement, a hypnotic drone. Tino's head fell to his chest, then popped up.

"
Buenos noches,
Himmy," he said, dozing off for good.

Payne had strained to stay alert. He'd driven all last night and hadn't slept in two days. Fearing he'd run off the road and into a ravine, he took the Coyote Wells exit and pulled into the first motel that didn't look like a haven for meth dealers.

A few hours of sleep, and they could find Wanda the Whale's stash house after sunrise. With luck, Marisol Perez would still be there. If not, she would be en route to a job somewhere, and they could pick up the trail.

Payne's thoughts turned to his ex-wife. Was his obsession with finding Marisol a subconscious attempt to win back Sharon? She was the one who sent him on this mission. Would proving himself a
valiente
also prove he was husband material?

Payne had carried Tino to the motel room, stepping around a fat-tailed scorpion scurrying across the sandy parking lot. The room smelled of disinfectants and cigarettes. A place where they changed the sheets every third day, but the cockroaches stayed forever. He eased Tino into one of the twin beds and covered him with a blanket.

Payne splashed water on his face and examined himself in the mirror. He needed a shave. He needed a haircut. He needed a life.

He plopped down on the second bed and turned on the TV. He'd let the drone of the talking box put him to sleep. He clicked through the channels, declining to buy a zirconium ring or send money to a Southern drawling minister. He hit the remote and there was Paul Newman, a down-and-out lawyer, pleading with a jury.
The Verdict,
a personal favorite.

Payne watched until justice was done and Newman redeemed, but it was just a movie. In real life, the rich win and the poor eat shit. Another click of the remote and he stumbled on Cullen Quinn's all-night immigration marathon. Jeez, the bastard was haunting him like Banquo's ghost. Quinn seemed to be in the middle of a debate with an older, craggy-faced cowboy.

"Wake up and smell the tacos," the cowboy was saying. "We need migrant workers, with or without documents."

"The Big Lie," Quinn shot back. "The myth of the indispensable alien."

"Myth? Ask the farmers in Idaho who's gonna pick their potatoes. Or cut the trees in Arkansas. Or slaughter cattle in Wisconsin. You ever been to a meat-packing plant, because I sure as hell know you never worked in one."

"There are American workers who'd be happy to make those wages and pay their taxes, too."

"Got news for you, Quinn. Even Mexicans with phony papers pay taxes when they rent apartments and buy beer and pickup trucks and TV sets. Their employers send Social Security payments to Washington, but the workers never get the benefits. Hell, we're making money off these people."

"Not when they're sending most of their paychecks to Mexico."

"You got something against poor families eating?"

There was a flinty crust to the old cowboy's voice, like the singe of charcoal on steak.

Payne liked this guy. Standing up to Quinn. The cowboy looked so rugged he made Quinn—even with his boxer's jaw—seem effete.

"President Calderón ships us his peasants and his problems," Quinn said. "He plays us for suckers, and you know it, Mr. Rutledge."

Of course. Rutledge Ranch and Farms. Quinn's favorite target.

"Those 'peasants' are the lifeblood of the San Joaquin Valley," Rutledge said.

Quinn turned away from his guest and faced the camera. "As regular viewers know, I've proposed sending young offenders from Los Angeles to Mr. Rutledge's beloved valley. We can get the crops picked and break up the gangs at the same time."

"You gonna put the Crips on one bus and the Bloods on another, or mix them up?"

"It can all be worked out," Quinn said.

"You city people don't have a clue. If I didn't have migrant labor, my citrus and stone fruit would rot on the trees. My lettuce and melons and artichokes and berries would turn to mush."

"Is that why you horsewhip your workers, to make them speed up?"

"That's a damn lie. I treat my people like family. Free medical care and cheap housing. Preschool for their kids."

"Still no excuse for breaking the law. No excuse for turning our nation into a province of Mexico."

Rutledge raised his voice. "What are you afraid of, Quinn? That's really the heart of it. Fear. Just like the nativists a hundred years ago when the Irish and Italians and Jews were coming over."

"You're pretty cavalier about the takeover of our country," Quinn said. "Twelve million illegals now, more pouring in every day."

"Then change the law to accept the reality."

"So you're for open borders?"

"All I'm saying, you can't turn this country into a gated community."

Quinn shook his head, a practiced look Payne had seen many times. Soap opera acting, but effective in TV land.

"And what about simple fairness?" Rutledge continued. "What about all those Cubans who get papers when they wash up on Miami Beach? All because the phony politicians want the Cuban vote in Florida."

On the wall above the television set, Payne watched a brown spider climb toward the ceiling. At least it looked brown from the bed. Maybe it was black. A black widow. The desert was full of them.

"Stay tuned, folks," Quinn said. "Next, I've got two heroes from the Patriot Patrol, real Americans who are manning our border, doing the job the federal government doesn't have the guts to do. Then I'll present my own ten-point plan for stopping the takeover of America."

Quinn's theme music came up, some bugles and drums that made it sound like the bastard was going to charge San Juan Hill. The camera lingered on the two men. A young woman wearing a headset helped Rutledge unclip his microphone.

Payne watched Sharon walk onto the set, hand Quinn a bottle of water, then mop his forehead gently with a towel. Quinn beamed and said something to her. Sharon leaned close and whispered something back. But what? Feeling like a peeper, Payne studied their body language. Familiar but not affectionate. She never touched him. He never touched her. Of course, they were on-air. No way they'd start groping. But what did it all mean?

He wondered again what Quinn had said and what Sharon had replied.

He wondered what she was thinking.

He wondered if she still had feelings for him.

And with those thoughts swirling through the nooks and crannies of his brain, he finally dozed off, dreaming he was tied to stakes, spread-eagled, in the desert. A scorching wind sand-blasted him, scraping his skin raw. An army of scorpions wriggled across his chest, a trail of black widow spiders bringing up the rear. A rattlesnake coiled alongside his head, its tongue flicking. Payne tried to scream for help but couldn't. Without warning, a fusillade of venomous stings, the arrows of a thousand archers, locked his muscles into excruciating spasms. A searing flame blocked all vision, and then his world turned silent and black.

At just past ten the next morning, Jimmy and Tino sat in the Mustang at a railroad crossing on Shell Canyon Road outside Ocotillo. A freight train rumbled past, a seemingly endless procession of cattle cars, stuffed with Herefords and Angus and all manner of bovines. Thousands of animals, millions of dollars on the hoof.

Payne glimpsed the Sugarloaf Lodge blinking through the rushing cars. Once the train had passed, he crossed the tracks and parked in the shade of a billboard for Truly Nolen Pest Control. Dead ahead was a rocky range called the Coyote Mountains. Given the circumstances, Payne thought, an apt name.

A dry wind pelted the windshield with sand. The Sugarloaf was Wanda the Whale's stash house, the place El Tigre dropped off Marisol. There could be armed guards and pit bulls and who knows what. Payne was reasonably certain there would be no doorman and concierge.

"What are we waiting for?" Tino asked.

"I need to plan our assault."

"Why don't we just find the Whale and ask her about
Mami
?"

"Not how it's done." As if he knew.

He scanned the property. Six squat cabins with cedar siding and drooping porches, spread out across a few scrubby acres. No swimming pool, no restaurant, and damn little shade from the desert sun. A cow fence of unpainted logs ran along the perimeter. A few feet inside the row of logs was another fence, this one of barbed wire. A scarlet eucalyptus tree bloomed in the yard of the nearest cabin. A sign read:
Office
and
No Vacancy
. Parked under the tree was an Eldorado convertible, vintage late-sixties. The car had once been red, and now was the rusty orange of a Tequila Sunrise.