Illegal (3 page)

Marisol, the boy's mother, was sometimes mistaken for his older sister. The same smile, the same hair with the sheen of black velvet. But the boy did not inherit his light, bright eyes from her. Set above wide cheekbones, her eyes were the color of hot tar.

Glancing from side to side as if someone might be spying on them, Marisol handed her son a business card. He ran a finger across the embossed lettering and read aloud,
"J. Atticus Payne, Esquire. Van Nuys, California."

"That is Los Angeles. Mr. Payne is a very important man. One of the biggest lawyers in the city."

"So?"

"Put the card in your shoe, Tino."

The shoes were new—Reeboks—purchased that morning for the crossing.

"Why,
Mami
?"

"If anything bad happens and I am not there, go see Mr. Payne. Tell him that you are a friend of Fernando Rodriguez."

"But I am not his friend. I don't even like the
cabrón
."

His mother raised an eyebrow, her way of demanding:
"Do as I say."
The stern look would carry more weight, Tino thought, if she weren't the prettiest woman in Caborca.

He was used to men complimenting his mother on her adorable son. He knew it was their way to get close to her, smiling wicked smiles, panting like overheated dogs.

"Fernando Rodriguez sits on a stool at La Faena, drinking tequila and bragging about things he has never done," Tino said.

"And what were you doing at La Faena, little boy?"

Why did she have to baby him? Maybe that's how it is when you're an only child, and you have no father to toughen you up, often at the end of a leather strap.

Tino decided not to tell his mother that the barman at La Faena was teaching him to mix drinks, and that blindfolded he could already identify several tequilas, both reposados and añejos. They were going to try some
blancos
next week, but then, Tino's life changed in an instant. What his mother called
"nuestro problema."

Even though he caused the problem. It all happened yesterday, as quick as the chisel that drew the blood. Then, last night, they packed everything they could carry and ran for the bus, traveling north from Caborca to Mexicali.

As for Fernando Rodriguez, he was a
campesino
with bad teeth who returned from
El Norte
driving a shiny blue Dodge Ram with spinning wheel covers. Rodriguez claimed he bought the truck, almost new, in Arizona, after working a year in a dog-food processing plant. Tino was sure the
cabrón
stole the Dodge, along with the ostrich-skin cowboy boots he liked to park on a table at the cantina.

Rodriguez boasted of one other thing that happened to be true. He did not die when he was crammed into the back of a sixteen-wheeler with thirty-five other
mojados
who crossed the border two summers earlier.

Tino could remember every detail, as Rodriguez told the story nearly every evening. The truck had stopped somewhere in the California desert, baking in the sun. The people tried to claw their way out of the locked metal doors, leaving patches of scorched skin and trails of blood. Rodriguez swore that he saw a woman's hair burst into flame. No one at the cantina believed that, but one thing was certain: Eleven Mexicans died inside that truck.

Still, Tino could not understand why Rodriguez would be acquainted with one of the most important lawyers in Los Angeles, or why he'd returned to Mexico, passing out the business cards of such an
abogado brillante
.

"When we get inside," his mother told him now, "if the coyote asks why we must cross over tonight, say nothing."

"Ay,
Mami
. I know what to do."

"I will do the talking. You will be quiet."

He let out a long sigh, like air from a balloon. No use arguing with his mother. No way to make her understand that he was the man of the house. Now he wondered if his actions back home—criminal, yet honorable—were somehow intended to prove his manhood to his mother.

Marisol turned toward the street. An army jeep snaked through traffic, a soldier manning a .50 caliber machine gun. The drug wars, which were only stories on television in Caborca, were very real here. Yesterday, a local police station had been attacked with grenades and rocket launchers. When they had arrived after midnight, the army was sealing off the bus station.

Now Marisol placed an arm around her son's shoulders. "Let's go, Tino. Let's get out of this godforsaken country."

Marisol had never met the coyote, but she recognized him immediately.

Shiny, tight black pants, tucked into pointy boots. Wraparound reflecting sunglasses and black felt
Tejano
hat, he looked like a low-life gambler at a cockfight. His black shirt with pearl-colored buttons was open halfway to his waist, and a heavy gold crucifix dangled in front of his hairy chest. His face was pitted with acne scars shaped like tiny fishhooks.

The man called himself
"El Tigre,"
although this tiger had a paunch pouring over his turquoise belt buckle. At the moment, he was using his fingers to dig into a platter of deep-fried anchovies.

When he saw Marisol and Tino approach, El Tigre wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. The other hand was wrapped around a bottle of Tecate. Nodding, he said, "Do you have the money?"

"We have two thousand, three hundred dollars cash," she answered, taking a seat. "All my savings."

He took a swig of the beer. "Not enough. It is three thousand dollars each. And no discount for the little one."

Tino bristled and started to speak, but his mother kicked him under the table.

"We will pay you the rest when we cross over and can borrow the money from my aunt," she said.

El Tigre's mouth creased into a smile, displaying an array of gold-lined teeth that had taken on a greenish hue, as if covered with algae. "Your aunt? Why does everyone have an aunt in
El Norte
? I bet she's a rich woman with a mansion in Phoenix."

"A nice house in Torrance, California. My uncle owns a gasoline station there."

Marisol was weaving her story out of threads plucked from the air. True, she had an aunt, a miserly woman who had married an American and refused to return to Mexico, even for her sister's funeral. The last Marisol knew, her aunt lived in Torrance, where she managed a trailer park. But that was ten years ago, and Marisol had no idea where the old crow lived now.

Marisol did not like to lie. Her father taught her the value of honesty and hard work, and she tried to live up to his standards. As a young girl in Hermosillo, how proud she had been of him. In his crisp, clean jumpsuit with the Ford Motor Company logo, he looked . . . well, like an
Americano
. Proud, too, when he told her how he had refused an Anglo supervisor's request to falsify inspection records on Lincoln Continentals.

"I told him I'll rot in hell before I lie to the company!" her father thundered.

Soon after that, the supervisor arranged for Edgardo Perez to be fired. Her father, Marisol knew, was a courageous and honorable man. And, ultimately, a tragic one.

"I promise I will pay you," she told the fat and sweaty coyote. "I swear on my father's grave." Neglecting to mention that her nonbelieving father never attended church and the only time Edgardo visited Mexico City, he spat curses in front of Catedral Metropolitana. On the other hand, Marisol's mother attended Mass every morning. It made for interesting discussions over dinner. Marisol's beliefs fell somewhere between the two. She knew her Bible but was not blind to the failings of the Church. She sensed a spirit greater than her own and prayed it would protect Tino and her. Especially now.

"I do not give credit," El Tigre said. "But maybe we can work something out."

He placed a plump hand on Marisol's bare arm. She wore a short-sleeve white peasant blouse with two buttons undone. The pig was studying the rise and fall of her breasts. Nothing new. Marisol was used to men pawing her on job sites. She had learned to accept this fact of life. Only when the abuse became intolerable—a hand slipped down her pants—did she retaliate. Her father had taught her how to throw a punch with a turn of the hips and a straight, quick arm. In her experience at construction sites, a balpeen hammer worked even better.

"Why the rush to leave Mexico?" El Tigre asked.

"Family matters." Keeping it vague.

"I cross tonight and come back tomorrow. Why not stay here a few days, and we can get to know each other better."

"We go when we want!" Tino piped up.

El Tigre scowled. "You go when I say."

"Maybe we cross by ourselves," Tino shot back.

"Tino, quiet," his mother ordered.

"
Mami,
I could build a raft, and we could float up the New River."

El Tigre burped a beer-and-anchovy laugh. "The river is full of shit, and so are you,
chico
."

Marisol winced but did not reply. There were times to kick a man in the kneecap and times to appeal to a slightly higher region. She softened her look and let her eyes water. "Your charges are so high."

El Tigre launched into a defense of his prices. He had expenses. Lookouts and guides and vehicles and drivers. Stash houses on both sides of the border. Bribes to the
judicales
and the
federales
. Protection money to the
mafia de los coyotes
because he was a freelancer. Then there were the risks.

Fucking cops everywhere.

Marisol did not appreciate the profanity in front of her son, but for now she must try to get along with this foul and repulsive man.

"If you get caught, they just send you back," El Tigre said. "But for me, it's prison. Or I get shot by bandits. Or vigilantes. The Minutemen. Patriot Patrol. All those
gabachos
with guns. And now, the U.S. Army. The Border Patrol knows what they're doing. But the soldiers! Scared kids who think we're all drug runners."

"Instead of the humanitarians you are," Marisol said, evenly.

He did not catch the sarcasm, rambling on, boasting of his knowledge of the Border Patrol's motion detectors and TV cameras, infrared binoculars, and drone aircraft. How
La Migra
had beefed up patrols. Ford Expeditions, like always. But now on horseback, too, with Indian trackers from Arizona.
Vaqueros y indios.
Cowboys and Indians. Just like in the movies.

"If the wind is right, the Indians can smell your burlap sacks a mile away," he claimed. "You need someone who knows what they're doing. I don't lose people in the mountains or leave them to die in the desert."

Marisol leaned over the table, exposing even more décolletage, showing the line where the darker sun-burnished skin gave way to the softness of her crème de cacao complexion. She put a wistful note in her voice. "But if you are going tonight, and have room for two more, I promise to pay you later."

El Tigre wiped beads of sweat from his forehead, then drained the rest of his beer. He seemed to be weighing the options, using his limited brains and his even more limited morals.

"I won't disappoint you," she said, spicing her words like chiles in hot sauce.

He took a pen out of a shirt pocket and scribbled an address on a paper napkin. "The stash house. We leave at midnight. Bring the money you have. We will work out the rest."

He smiled a gold-capped grin, the contented look of a wolf contemplating a lamb.

Maybe it was the oysters, Payne thought.

From the Chimney Sweep, Payne had moved to the Oyster House, a neighborhood saloon in Studio City.

Sitting at the bar. A dozen oysters, a spicy cioppino stew, two Sam Adams drafts, and the complimentary peach schnapps the regulars receive.

Payne would have liked to have shared dinner with a woman. But who?

Maybe Carol, a former client who loved shopping at Saks on Wilshire, but skipping the inconvenience of paying. Was she out of jail yet?

Or Polly, a kosher caterer in Brentwood who specialized in festive circumcision brunches. Her business, Prelude to a Bris, was booming.

Or that woman who owned the cat condo in Rancho Cucamonga. Hair in a tabby-colored shag, big hoop earrings. Jeez, what was her name? Well, if he couldn't remember, it must not have gone that well. And now that he thought about it, hadn't Cat Lady had a funky smell?

Her scent was warm and sweet. A fresh peach from the tree. And they always had great sex, though it tapered off after she'd shot him. Not that he wasn't willing, once the anesthesia wore off.

Sharon had been aiming her nine millimeter at Lester Koenigsberg when she winged Payne. Unhappy with Payne's handling of his divorce case, Koenigsberg was holding a knife to his lawyer's neck, threatening to slice his jugular. Hardly the reaction Payne expected after disproving Mrs. Koenigsberg's allegations that Lester had a violent temper.

Payne was semi-grateful to Sharon for saving his life. But why a detective in Consumer Frauds even needed a gun was beyond him.

He listened to the paddle fan turn,
clickety-clack
ing.

He adjusted the pillow under his gimpy knee. Ever since the crash on the P.C.H., the leg wouldn't straighten completely.

The bed was just too damn big when you're alone. A cruise ship with one passenger.