Illegal (24 page)

"You're still a greaser to me."

"Eres un basurero humano."
Spitting out the words, calling him a human garbage dump. "I don't like the
pollos
any more than you do, Chitwood. They embarrass me, give my people a bad name. But I do my job and get stoned on my own time. You're a fucking lunatic."

"I don't have to take your shit. I don't work for you."

Chitwood fingered the rifle butt. Marisol felt herself stiffen. She pictured him whipping the gun around, killing Guillermo, then shooting all the migrants, herself included.

"Zaga's in Calexico," Guillermo said. "If I call him, he'll be here in two hours."

"Like I give a shit. Just load your goddamn van and get going."

"Maybe I'll call Mr. Rutledge directly. He'll have your ass."

"Then who'll live out here with no hot water, chickenshit up to their ass? Rutledge can't afford to lose me."

"Rutledge can afford to lose anyone he wants."

Chitwood lifted the rifle and fired a burst into the air. Marisol winced. But Guillermo stood in place, never moving. "I'm taking the
pollos,
you stupid shitkicker. But this isn't over."

Five minutes later, Marisol and the others were herded into the back of a windowless white van. A sign on its side read,
Sweet Valley Raisin Co.
Maybe that was where she would be working. The dark, windowless compartment stank of sweat and dust and urine. Nineteen men, women, and children packed inside, shoulders scrunched against one another, arms across knees.

Packed like animals in a pen, Marisol thought. Like the cattle at the slaughterhouse. As the van pulled out and headed to an unknowable destination, she said yet another prayer, not for herself, but for her son, wherever he might be.

Jimmy and Tino headed east on I-8, then turned north on the 86 at El Centro. Near the lake, they took the Salton Sea Highway west into the desert. By midday, the sun was high, the air blazing hot. Sand blew across the highway and
ping
ed off the Mustang's windshield.

Tino could not stop thinking about what Wanda had told him. So many strange feelings. Pride at how his mother fought back, but shame that he wasn't there to rescue her. His mother, who would do anything for him.

"That
cabrón
at the slaughterhouse," the boy said. "You think he's dead?"

"Wanda didn't seem to know."

"If he isn't, I'll kill him myself."

"Keep your eye on the ball, kid. We're looking for your mom, that's all."

"A
gabacho
wouldn't understand."

"You'd be surprised."

"It's a matter of honor," Tino said.

"Fine. After we find your mom, kill whoever you want. But you're riding with me now, and I set the rules."

"You're not my father!"

Payne clenched his teeth so hard his jaw muscles danced. "No, Tino. I'm not."

They were both silent as the car hurtled past creosote washes and scrub mesquite. Tino tried to figure out what had just happened. Why was Jimmy mad at him? Or was he? No, more like he was hurting.

"I'm sorry, Himmy. You been good to me."

"It's okay."

"We'll do what you say."

"Fine."

Tino was dealing with emotions he couldn't quite fathom. He didn't want to lose his new friend. "Still gonna let me watch
Rocket Files
with you someday?"

"Rockford. Yeah. And if I'm not in jail, I'll take you to a Dodgers game."

"You serious,
vato
?"

Jimmy smiled and punched Tino gently on the shoulder.

An odd feeling overcame the boy. He figured the lawyer must have taken his own son to baseball games. Tino pictured Jimmy clearing a path around their seats, shoving guys to give his son a clean shot at a foul popup, the kid reaching up with a new glove that Jimmy had oiled for him. Wasn't that what fathers did?

Tino wanted to picture Jimmy doing the same thing for him. But he wouldn't let himself paint the image. Because if Jimmy never followed through, if he turned out to be the kind of man his mother always seemed to meet, well, it's better not to get your hopes up. But this American seemed different. Sometimes, he showed a warm heart. Sometimes, the courage of a
valiente
. And other times, when he grew quiet and looked away, just like now, Tino knew he was in pain.

Payne glanced at Tino, wondering just what he was thinking. Was he picturing a reunion with his mother? Or did he fear he'd never see her again?

They drove through the Borrego Badlands, past stands of cottonwoods and jumping cholla cactus with spines like fishhooks. There was little traffic, and Payne pushed the Mustang to 80 on the straightaways.

Just past a rocky wash, three mangy coyotes stood at the side of the road, staring at them, not even twitching, as they roared past. The old Mustang's A/C struggled to keep the car cool, then failed. Payne slowed and put the top down. Speeding up again, a hot dry wind blasted them.

They turned South onto Peg Leg Road, and a white van with darkened windows crossed the center line heading straight at them. Payne swerved and laid on the horn, catching a look at the craggy-faced driver, who shot him the bird.

A sign on the van said
Sweet Valley Raisin Co.

They passed through the hamlet of Borrego Springs, where some joker had erected a street sign showing the intersection of Hollywood and Vine. A blinking traffic light, then onto Montezuma Valley Road, which curled up a mountainside dotted with greasewood. A sign warned of mountain lions. Payne was more concerned about a man named Chitwood who was partial to a Ruger carbine.

"There,
vato
." Tino pointed to an unmarked dirt road, just where Wanda had said it would be. Payne braked and downshifted but still took the turn too fast, the Mustang fishtailing.

"Cool, Himmy."

"Yeah. Way cool."

The dirt road, pocked with holes, continued uphill along the mountain's edge. The air began to cool and carried the hint of moisture. They spotted a bighorn sheep perched on a rocky outcropping as if on guard duty. Water tumbled down a rocky cliff and into a small stream. Along the banks, white flowers with yellow centers looked like fried eggs, gleaming in the sunshine.

They came to another dirt road, this one blocked by a locked gate. Two signs welcomed them:
Private Property
and
Trespassers Will Be Eaten.
Just as Wanda had told them. Payne pulled the Mustang as far off the road as possible without putting it into a ditch. From here, they would walk.

They climbed over the gate and headed up a well-maintained private road, just wide enough for a single car. Or maybe a van. Green ferns lined the road, further evidence they'd left the desert behind. Somewhere in the undergrowth, water burbled over rocks. Above them, two golden hawks glided in the afternoon updrafts.

After about a mile, the dirt road opened into a canyon. Boulders the size of ships lined each side. In front of them was a barn, a ranch house made of stones and logs, and an open-air structure of ten-foot-high wooden poles topped by a corrugated metal roof that provided a rectangle of shade. It looked like a giant carport, but its job was to keep migrants from frying in the sun.

No one there.

"What now, Himmy?"

"Now we look around."

They headed toward the shaded area. A dusty, candy-apple red Harley chopper painted with orange flames sat next to one of the wooden poles. Chickens hunted and pecked at the ground, rooting about for whatever it is chickens hunt and peck for. Security cameras sat atop four metal poles, each about fifteen feet high.

The door to the barn was wide open. Inside were three white panel trucks that looked freshly washed. Not a speck of desert dust.

Payne motioned Tino into the barn for a closer look, a few clucking chickens following them. All three vehicles were Ford cargo vans. No windows on the side panels. The rear windows had been tinted so dark as to resemble black mirrors. You could pack a couple dozen people into the cargo area if they were very good friends.

The barn smelled of straw and chickenshit . . . and fresh paint. A gallon can of black paint sat open on the wooden floor, a set of stencils and a spray gun nearby. Several small brushes soaked in a large glass jar filled with turpentine. The lettering on the panels of each truck appeared fresh.

One truck proudly proclaimed it was owned by Precision Glass Co. of Palm Desert. Another said Valley Plumbing, with an address in Apple Valley. The third was Sand Dunes Electrical, Inc., of Calipatria. Each truck had heavy-duty suspension, useful for throwing off Border Patrol agents looking for low-riding vehicles.

Payne was willing to bet his bowling ball that no glass installers, plumbers, or electricians would ever park their asses in these vehicles. He hurriedly scribbled the company names and license plate numbers.

They headed back into the brilliant sunlight of the yard and neared the poles supporting the sheet metal. A
cra-ack
echoed, a single gunshot splintering a pole and showering Payne with wood chips. He dived toward Tino, knocking him to the ground, shielding the boy with his body.

A second gunshot kicked up dirt near Payne's ear. His mind flashed with only one thought.

Marisol lost all sense of time. Inside the van, the air grew stale and unbearably hot. She felt queasy, forced herself to picture trees, swaying in a breeze. Remembered the Mexicans trapped in the trailer truck the summer before. If she died here, what would become of Tino?

Across from her, an Indio woman struggled to her knees, chanted something Marisol did not understand, and keeled over, facedown onto the filthy floor. Her lips frosted with white foam and her body twitched.

Marisol squeezed past two men, lifted the woman's head to help her breathe. Someone banged on the wall separating them from Guillermo, the driver. Someone else shouted in Spanish to stop, a woman is dying, but the van continued on.

A Honduran man tore apart the matting that covered the taillight assembly, then punched through a plastic casing and tore out the light by its cord. The pavement appeared through the hole.

Marisol helped carry the woman to the back. Two men held her face close to the opening, begging her to suck in the fresh air. Her body twitched then stilled, twisted into unnatural angles.

Women screamed. Men prayed. Others averted their faces, as if shamed to see the woman so exposed in death.

Finally, the van lurched to a stop. The driver's door opened and slammed shut. Angry voices outside. The rear doors popped open. The migrants, minus one, stumbled out, soaking up the air, baking with the scent of horses and manure. Marisol blinked against the sunlight. A red barn, a corral, a riding ring. Cornfields in the distance, the stalks taller than any man.

Several men—Chicanos and Anglos—surrounded the group. Jeans and blue T-shirts with the lettering:
"Rutledge Ranch and Farms."

Guillermo, the driver, demanded to know who damaged the taillight. The Honduran man stepped forward, said something about the dead Indio woman. Guillermo punched him in the stomach, and the man fell to his knees, gagged, and vomited into the dust, spraying the man's boots.

"Fucking peasant!" Guillermo kicked the man.

Maybe not insane like Chitwood, Marisol thought, but just as mean. Just like Carlos at the meat plant, vicious and cruel to his own people.

"Stop that shit!" another man ordered. Big. Older, with a brushy silver mustache. Cowboy boots and jeans.

"Sorry, Mr. Rutledge, but I'm tired of these fuckers messing up my trucks."

"I'm tired of them dying." Watching two workers haul the Indio woman away. "Give her a proper burial."

Mr. Rutledge, Marisol thought. Back at the chicken ranch, Guillermo said that Mr. Rutledge might kill Chit-wood.

This man must be El Patron. There was a tenderness in his manner. He had put a stop to the beating. He treated the dead woman with respect. Maybe this place would not be so bad.

"You're one
pollo
short," Rutledge said.

"Chitwood offed one."

"Shit. Did you tell Zaga to get over there?"

"Yes, sir. Said he'd take care of it."

Guillermo turned back to the migrants and ordered them in Spanish to stand in a line. He asked questions while Rutledge watched. Have you ever picked grapes? Used a backhoe? Anyone here work with wells, irrigation equipment, agricultural limestone?

The men in the Rutledge Farms shirts wrote numbers on the migrants' arms with marking pens. Assignments to the fields where they were to be sent.

"What sweetness do we have here?" Rutledge asked, when he got to Marisol. Looked at her in that way men do. Smiling eyes. Lying eyes. The tenderness seemed to have blown away with the red dust.

"Maybe indoors work, if she can cook," Guillermo said. "If she can't, we're short in the lettuce fields."

"I'm thinking about the club."

"Maybe a bit too old for that, Mr. Rutledge."

"Guillermo, I bet you a hundred bucks she's not a day over twenty-five."

"I'm thirty-one years old," Marisol said in her best English. "And I'm a carpenter, not a field hand."

Both men laughed, El Patron's eyes wrinkling. "I'm sixty-six and still filled with piss and vinegar,
panocha
."

Using the Spanish word for raw sugar, a slang term for vagina. Yes, she had been wrong about El Patron. At first, he had seemed compassionate. But now this disgusting side. And what was this club that she might be too old for?

Rutledge stared hard at her, his lips tightening. He grabbed her blouse with both hands, tore it open, buttons popping. She wore no bra, and her full breasts tumbled free. She made no effort to cover herself, instead glaring back with hatred.