Illegal (29 page)

"Gracias, señorita,"
Tino said, with as much humility as he could muster. He stepped into an air-conditioned corridor and began exploring.

***

"I don't know what you mean." Mrs. Antrim shifted her weight from one leg to the other. "How would I know you were coming, Mr. Payne?"

"Because that little bastard in the black Escalade called you. Enrique Zaga."

"I'll thank you to watch your tongue. We don't tolerate profanity here."

"What do you tolerate? Kidnapping?"

"Please lower your voice, Mr. Payne."

"And where's Zaga? I want to talk to him."

"Our director of security has nothing to do with this."

"He's a human trafficker! He stashes Mexicans down in Hellhole Canyon. Unless you're grinding them into dog food, you're hiring them. You know it. I know it. I'll bet half the Legislature knows it."

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

Payne watched the receptionist hit another button on her desk phone.

Tino moved briskly down the corridor as if he knew where he was going. Carrying the tray of drinks, he passed several offices with open doors. Men in short-sleeve shirts and women in summer outfits worked at computers. Some doors had little placards. Accounting. Marketing. Purchasing. Transportation. Legal.

Legal, Tino thought. What he needed was an office named "Illegal."

A man with a ponytail and a blond soul patch came around a corner. Tino smiled at him.

The man seemed as wide as he was tall. Thick neck, thighs bulging through gray pants, a blue sport jacket that bunched tight at his shoulders. He had his eyes on the icy drinks. "Hey,
chico
. Those for Harry and the girls?"

"
Sí.
Harry and the girls."

"Second floor. Room 207."

Tino headed toward a stairwell, the man watching him go.

On the second floor, Tino continued snooping. More doors, more offices. Shipping. Security. Human Resources.

He checked out Human Resources. No one there. Two desks and several file cabinets running the length of the room. He ducked inside and placed the drinks on one of the desks. The file cabinets were labeled with what seemed to be the names of different companies. Rutledge Ranch and Farms. Kings County Excavation. Rutledge Tool Company.

Way more, Tino quickly found out.

Rutledge Trucking. Valley Paving. Rutledge Realty.

Tino opened one of the file drawers. Hundreds of folders. Thousands in total. He could spend a week in here.

He picked several folders at random from a folder labeled:
San Joaquin Irrigation
. Each employee seemed to have a file with name, photo, salary, and comments by supervisors.

More companies. Weedpatch Pest Control. Rutledge Aviation. Hot Springs Gentleman's Club.

Tino was about to open the Gentleman's Club drawer when he sensed movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Soul Patch, his legs spread, his shoulders filling the doorway. "Ain't no Harry working here,
chico,
" the man said.

"If you don't give me access to Marisol Perez," Payne said, "I can get a court order."

Mrs. Antrim let the corners of her mouth curl into a tiny smile. "The courthouse is three blocks from here. I believe Judge Rutledge is in most afternoons."

"
Judge
Rutledge?"

"Simeon's cousin."

"You folks dish out home cooking like two-dollar hash browns."

The interior door opened. A burly man hustled into the reception area without appearing to hurry. An African-American with a shaved head and a thick neck, he wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. The uniform of a classy security guard. In his thirties, Shaved Head had the look of an ex-linebacker who stayed in shape.

"There a problem here, Mrs. Antrim?" Shaved Head said.

"Not if this gentleman leaves the premises."
Gentleman
with a tone you might use to describe a pus-filled wound.

The interior door opened again, and a ponytailed, soul-patched man dressed identically to Shaved Head tromped out, carrying Tino under one arm. The boy kicking and wriggling.

"Asswipe! Cocksucker! Dipshit!" Tino practicing English words Jimmy had taught him.

"Put him down," Payne said.

"You don't give the orders here, lawyer," Soul Patch said.

Everybody seemed to know he was a lawyer, Payne thought. Maybe he should open an office in town.

"I'll kill you!" Tino cried out, trying to pry the man's fingers from his waist.

"Let him go, Clyde," Shaved Head ordered.

Soul Patch dropped Tino to the floor.

"Pendejo!"
Tino had returned to his native tongue.

Shaved Head looked at Payne with an air of placid indifference. "We can do it pretty or we can do it ugly."

"We're leaving," Payne said. "But I gotta ask you two something."

They waited, staring Payne down.

"Is it true that steroids shrink your testicles?"

Soul Patch and Shaved Head were remarkably gentle. They swept Payne up by the arms, carried him through the doorway, and deposited him on the sidewalk without mussing his shirt. He admired their proficiency.

Exhausted by an endless day that began at Wanda the Whale's stash house in the desert, continued with gunfire in Hellhole Canyon, and concluded in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, Jimmy and Tino checked into the Rutledge Arms Hotel.

Jimmy ordered from room service. Pork chops for Tino with mashed potatoes, onion rings, applesauce, and a chocolate milk shake. Payne crashed, leaving a burger half-uneaten. He fell asleep watching the news on a Sacramento station, then awoke at three a.m. to find the kid engrossed in porn on the pay channel. Jimmy gave him hell, then watched a few minutes of action between a pizza delivery boy and a bored housewife. He dozed off again just as Tino said, "
Buenos noches,
Himmy."

They slept until nearly noon.

"Where we going?" Tino asked as Jimmy got out of the shower.

"
I'm
going to the police station. You're going to the Rialto to see
Indiana Jones and his Kingdom of Goofy Plots
."

"No way, José. We're a team."

Payne tried to give the kid a stern look. Tino responded the way a sixth grader treats a substitute teacher who demands quiet. He laughed.

"C'mon, Himmy. You know I'll just show up at the police station, anyway."

Payne had expected an old-fashioned courthouse in the town square, something built of sturdy limestone by the Civil Works Administration in the 1930s. The police station and coroner's office would be a block away in nondescript brick buildings.

Instead, the Municipal Center stood on the edge of town, a series of modern one-story buildings with brown shingle roofs. Courtyards bloomed with roses and rhododendrons. A fountain generated a stream that meandered from the Zoning Department past the City Commission Chambers, toward the Police Department.

Jimmy and Tino crossed a wooden footbridge that arched gracefully over the stream. They followed flagstone steps through a rock garden planted with bonsai trees. It looked like a dandy place for afternoon tea.

They found Police Chief Javier Cardenas sitting on a redwood bench along the stream, chewing a sandwich. A handsome man in his mid-thirties, he had a cocoa complexion so smooth it appeared he'd just shaved and slapped on cologne. Dark hair fashionably cut. Black trousers and a crisply pressed white shirt with epaulets and a gold badge.

"I hear you two caused a stir over at the Rutledge office yesterday," the chief said, even before Payne introduced himself.

"Not our fault," Payne replied. "They treat strangers like weevils in a cotton field."

"Next time that
cabrón
with the fuzzy lip grabs me, I'll kick him in the
cojones,
" Tino said.

"Quiet, Tino," Payne said. "Chief, don't you think it's suspicious they guard the place like it's the Pentagon?"

"Nothing suspicious about it," Cardenas said. "The Patriot Patrol put a price on Simeon's head, so the company beefed up security." Cardenas took a bite of his sandwich. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato on whole wheat. "Now, why don't you tell me what you need, Mr. Payne? It is Mr. J. Atticus Payne of Van Nuys, correct?"

"Ay, he's messing with you, Himmy," Tino said.

"Yeah, I'm Jimmy Payne. And I'm trying to help this boy find his mother." He summarized the story of Marisol becoming sepa rated from her son and as much as he knew of her harrowing crossing and the two stash houses she'd passed through.

"So you want to file a missing persons report?" the chief asked.

"She's not exactly missing. More like she's working for Simeon Rutledge but his people won't let me get to her."

"Working for my
tío
Sim?"

Payne felt as if he'd been sucker-punched. "You're shitting me. Rutledge is your uncle?"

An easy smile. The guy had a politician's set of teeth.

"Not a blood uncle," Cardenas said. "More like my godfather. It's a long story."

Tino nudged Payne in the ribs. "And you
gabachos
say Mexico is all dirty politics."

"Why do I feel like I'm playing a road game?" Payne said to the chief.

"More like you're the Washington Generals and you're playing the Harlem Globetrotters," Cardenas said.

"So how the hell can you investigate Rutledge's business?"

"Didn't know it needed investigating. Did I mention
Tío
Sim bought me my first gun and my first car?"

"What about your badge? He buy that, too?"

Cardenas let out a soft train whistle of a sigh. "You work hard to get under people's skin, don't you, Mr. Payne?"

"Nah. It just comes naturally."

The chief was silent a moment. He seemed to be figuring out what to do with his unwelcome visitors. Then he gestured with his sandwich. "You want a B.L.T., Mr. Payne? And what about you, young man? Donna over in Planning and Zoning made a bunch today."

"No thanks," Payne said.

"Me, neither," Tino said.

It was the first time Payne ever saw the boy turn down food.

"Suit yourselves. But it's mighty good. Rutledge lettuce. Rutledge tomatoes. Bacon from Rutledge hogs. All courtesy of
Tío
Sim."

"All Rutledge, all the time," Payne said. "You're sending a message, right?"

The chief's smile gleamed like the blade of a knife. "If that's what I wanted, I'd lock you up right now on all those outstanding warrants."

That stopped Payne, who took a moment to think it through. Once Rutledge learned about the cluster fuck in Hellhole Canyon, he would have wanted a dossier on J. Atticus Payne, Esquire. Enter Cardenas, who had to do something to earn his bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes.

"You're a one-man crime wave, Mr. Payne. Grand larceny in L.A. County. Resisting arrest and assaulting an officer in Imperial County. Importing drugs from Mexico into San Diego County."

"The drug rap's bogus," Payne said.

"And that cop," Tino said. "
I'm
the one who resisted and assaulted."

"So why aren't you gonna arrest me?" Payne demanded.

"And deal with all that paperwork?" Cardenas said. "Three different jurisdictions fighting over your sorry butt." The chief let his eyes twinkle. "I'd miss the County Fair over in Hanford."

"But if Rutledge told you to do it, you'd throw my sorry butt in jail."

The chief laughed, showing those good teeth. "Mr. Payne, you and Sim are more alike than you realize. You both overlook the fine print of the law. Hell, you overlook the large print. And you both go out of your way to help people."

"No, I don't. And I doubt he does."

"Don't be modest. Sim respects what you're doing for the boy. So do I."

"But you refuse to help."

"What makes you say that? I arranged lunch for you tomorrow with Sim."

"No way."

"He might try to poison you, Himmy," Tino said.

"Happens on
telenovelas
all the time."

"Sim said he'll have his people do everything they can to find the boy's mother. He'll have a report for you by lunchtime tomorrow."

"Great," Payne said, not sure he believed the chief. "Sorry about what I said before."

"Not a problem. There's one more thing Sim said. What was it, now?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh, I remember." The chief's smile turned sly. "He said, 'Javie, ask that persistent little pissant if he likes sheep balls in coyote gravy.' "

It was dark outside the window when Marisol tried her door again.

Locked from the outside.

Dizzy, she returned to the bed.

They must have put something in her food. An older black woman, a uniformed housekeeper, had delivered a tray. Grilled vegetables, a green salad, and rice pudding.

Now, lying on her back, looking at the mirrored ceiling, Marisol heard voices in the corridor. Laughing men, voices fueled by liquor. Giggling women, teasing talk. Grunts and yells through the wall next to her bed. A man brayed like a goat. A woman fired off words like bullets from a machine gun. "
¡Sí! ¡Sí! ¡Sí!
No! No! No! Don't stop!"

Marisol wondered if that room was like her own. Dim lights. Mirrors. No telephone. A television that played only filthy movies. A tiny bathroom with a shower and toilet and a dozen hand towels.