The Coyote's Bicycle (23 page)

Sensing the moment evaporating, I asked, “Is this ‘El Indio' around? Can I talk to him?”

“You are never going to find that person,” Negro said, dropping the nickname entirely. “That person is probably in jail. We won't see him again.”

15

It seems odd that a story about a gift—the possibility of a new life in a new and prosperous country—begins with a thief, but in some ways this one does. One of the first suppliers was a bicycle thief named El Maneta—the Handle. He believed that vehicles were, possibly, the perfect objects to steal because they were simultaneously the desired item and the means by which to whisk it away. In the latter attribute, bicycles were both nimble and silent. El Maneta liked bikes and enjoyed his work. He stole and stole until there was nothing left to steal and then he sold the machines cheap because they were hot—which is a win if, and only if, like the Handle, you value your time at nothing.

But then there was a kid named Angel who, like a species of condor or cougar, roamed at will through the entire border region. He'd crossed the boundary before he could comprehend what such a designation meant, and he'd gained permanent residency in childhood through no action of his own. Now, however, he frequently crossed the line on weekends to visit his girlfriend in Tijuana. His roots spread north too. He had a cousin who worked for the Los Angeles Police Department. And in the summer of 2006, El Indio smuggled
another of his cousins into California mounted high in the saddle of a bicycle. The instant this cousin from the south arrived at Angel's home and spilled his dangerous little story of crossing, Angel's entrepreneurial spirit sparked on the tale's straightforward surface like a phosphorous match in gasoline.

Angel liked bikes a lot, always had. And because his cousin in the
LAPD
had turned him on to the Southland police auctions—during which departments unloaded merchandise taken into custody for any number of reasons—Angel knew where to get a lot of bikes cheap.

According to the Mexican cousin, this bike coyote's services were in big demand, but in Tijuana at that moment, so were bicycles. For reasons unknown to the migrant, two-wheelers had all but vanished from the streets of Tijuana. The cousin did sense, however, that the high price of his crossing, $4,500, had something to do with the disparity. And, he added, he hadn't even gotten to keep the expensive machine he'd crossed on. He'd had to leave it—a pretty horse set to run wild. In this scenario, Angel saw a perfect little triangle of low risk, solid profit, and supreme pleasure.

He could buy large batches of bicycles in what were called “lots” at auction for peanuts, then ferry them across in his van to be traded to this coyote for some real money. He and his firecracker girlfriend would then take that money down to TJ's nightclubs, and trade it all in on a goddamned good time.

“So on my next trip I went looking for this El Indio,” Angel said. “I just dropped the nickname. At that time, he was not a hard dude to find. We started to talk, I mentioned a cheap price. We came to an agreement, and I started to bring him bicycles every weekend.”

Angel thought that what he was selling to the operation was bikes, but what he really delivered was a method.

Indio's brother Martín also had a friend in the United States who'd acquired residency. But this was no real financial boon to the friend,
as he'd been laid off from a series of low-wage jobs and living expenses were high. What really stressed Jimmy out, however, was the fact that his mother, in Mexico, was battling cancer, and the radiation treatments she required were expensive. The truth was, if Jimmy couldn't pay, his mother wouldn't receive treatment. Working odd jobs, Jimmy was squeaking by, but his financial situation, he believed, was killing his mother. Jimmy confided the intense stress he felt to his close friend Martín.

Martín confessed something to Jimmy as well. “My youngest brother works in the business of crossing people over from Tijuana.” He added, “I also help out with some driving sometimes. The money is good, and my brother really needs people on this side—especially if you have a driver's license.”

“No,” Jimmy said. “No way. Absolutely not. I had to jump through a lot of hoops to get my papers, man, and I don't want to lose them.”

“I understand,
amigo
. The people at home aren't too happy about my decisions either. But everything has a price.”

Jimmy was certain that he wasn't going to work for Martín's coyote brother. He still believed there was a chance to make a decent living in the United States. Should he be deported for trafficking migrants, he knew he'd be hustling just to make Tijuana's minimum wage: fifteen dollars per day.

About a week later, Jimmy received a call from his sister, who was helping to care for his mother in Veracruz. She told him that their mother wasn't doing well, that she wasn't receiving the radiation treatments because of the family's inability to pay for them. “They're not even going to keep her in the hospital,” the sister said. “They're going to leave her out on the steps if we can't pay the balance we owe.”

Jimmy's appetite withered to nothing. He couldn't sleep. He paced. He ransacked his mind for a way to help his mother with the treatments and the bills. Finally he went to see Martín.

“I guess we got no other choice than to get you working,” Martín said, and he withdrew his cell phone to dial Indio. The brothers discussed the open position and Jimmy's qualifications. Martín said, “Yes, he's a really good friend,” and he summarized Jimmy's predicament. Then he handed the cell over.

“Hello,” Jimmy said.

The voice said, “Come down to Tijuana right now.”

“The thing is, I would like to do that. I want to start working with you right away. But I have an immediate expense that I need to find a way to take care of before I go anywhere. I can't get stuck in Mexico without making sure I got this bill paid.”

“How much is it?” Indio asked.

“Fifteen hundred dollars,” Jimmy admitted.

“Give me a name and address for the wire transfer.”

“Excuse me?” Jimmy asked.

“Your sister will receive the money today. You start now. I'll be waiting.”

Before hanging up, Jimmy received an address in Tijuana, a city he didn't know. He put a few things together, drove south, and crossed the border. Asking locals for directions, he found the area and then the seedy row of shacks where Indio “was waiting in a closed room.”

“I knocked. El Indio came out. I introduced myself,” Jimmy said, “and that is how we met.”

That was the interview.

Indio directed Jimmy to an address on Olympic Boulevard in Los Angeles. In an industrial area there, he met a Mexican and a
gavacho
, or foreigner. They were waiting with an eight-ton cab-over truck. It was something like an enlarged U-Haul—and it was already packed to the brim with bicycles. The men handed Jimmy a sheaf of paperwork—a manifest, proofs of purchase, and documentation that
designated these bicycles as donations to Mexican charities. This allowed for an expedited importation process and a duty waiver. The men also instructed Jimmy to drive the truck to a weigh station, where he'd receive another stamped form. He followed their directions; then he pointed the truck south.

“El Indio told me that there would be a Mexican customs agent waiting for me at the border inspection, and that this man knew everything. He would make sure that there weren't any problems,” Jimmy said. “Of course, I was nervous. I didn't really know what was going to happen, or if what I was told was true or not.”

The end of the I-5 freeway at the border funnels the traffic into tight lanes divided by concrete medians. Once in, there was nowhere to go but forward. Any number of cameras captured the entrants. It felt like running a gauntlet. Jimmy understood what it meant to cross that line—he would be subject to the Mexican judicial system, and he'd be deemed guilty before he ever glimpsed the flashing blue lights in the rearview. But before he knew it, Jimmy heard the click-clack of tire grates as he drove over the boundary. A Mexican official immediately waved him over to an inspection area where another armed agent directed him to park in a stall. He waited there, and watched as a panel van loaded with mattresses was rifled through. Drivers paced uneasily outside their vehicles. Eyes darted in the presence of agents. The officials began to pull each of the mattresses out of the van, turn them over, and tear the fabric. An agent of obvious rank appeared at Jimmy's driver-side window.

“Documents,” the man said.

Jimmy handed the sheaf of papers to the agent.

“Please step out and open the rear door.”

He did as he was told and rolled the aluminum slider up. The men beheld a nest of wheels, spokes, cables, reflectors, and frames.

“Okay,” the agent said slowly. “Everything seems in order. Are you nervous? You look nervous.”

“No, I'm not nervous,” Jimmy said. “I'm just trying to donate some bicycles.”

“That's a lot of bicycles to donate.”

“We have big hearts for the children of Mexico.”

“Big hearts? Ha! I'm just messing with you, Jimmy.” Then the agent pointed toward the exit. “Those police cars over there are waiting for you.”

“I don't understand,” Jimmy said.

“Those are your policemen.”

“Mine?”

“Look, get in the truck and pass out of the inspection area. Those policemen are here to provide security and escort you to your destination. It's the only way possible.”

Jimmy felt he had no choice. He stepped into the truck, sparked the engine, backed out, and crept toward the exit. He didn't slow but looked over as he came to the police cars. An officer made sharp and direct eye contact. And as he passed, their vehicles pulled into line behind him. One flashed its lights, sped forward in an adjacent lane, and then merged in front. Jimmy followed this vehicle along the International Road as it paralleled the rusty fence, and then up an incline where they took a turnoff to Russian Hill and the neighborhood of El Soler. The lead car drew the caravan through a middle-class neighborhood and stopped before an unassuming single-story ranch house. There were no neighbors in the streets or in the yards. Only the last shuffles of hastily closed curtains signaled anything other than a vacant suburban street. The front door of the destination house opened, and the
cholo
from the ramshackle room in the Zona Norte walked out.

Jimmy learned that he was not the first to make a trip, that he was a replacement for a driver who'd broken his foot playing soccer. So he felt fortunate to be doing the work. He was paid $1,000 a week, which allowed him to keep up with his mother's treatments. And
because he made only about two trips a month, he had a lot of downtime. But soon Jimmy was directed to destinations farther and farther afield: Phoenix, Albuquerque, Denver, El Paso, San Antonio, and Houston.

“Whenever I'd arrive, there would be two or three people waiting for me with the truck already loaded. I'd be given the paperwork, and we'd look it over. My job was to drive.”

It wasn't until 2007, when Jimmy was assigned to pick up an empty truck in San Diego and drive it to some isolated stretch of highway in the Mojave Desert, that he learned he wasn't alone. At a solitary turnoff boasting an all-night 76 station, Jimmy met a second driver whose truck full of bicycles had broken down. They shook hands and began transferring the load. They joked about how nice it was to be able to roll the product rather than carry it and they marveled at some of the bikes among the mess of them. On the road, underneath the black desert sky, this driver mentioned to Jimmy that there were others, like El Junior and Yony. They'd talk sometimes, on meeting like this, but not much: How was the last trip? Oh I got a flat at such and such. Broke down in Gila Bend. And Jimmy's mind gathered a picture of quiet, unnoticed ghost trucks traversing the great western night, as smooth and silky as drips from a leaky faucet, draining America's bicycles south.

16

The scene is grainy, black-and-white. The crumbling tenements, piazzas, and arches of postwar Rome form the backdrop. A sudden downpour blankets the Porta Portese market as Antonio Ricci and his young son Bruno reach the square. The boy pulls a woolen jacket over his head. Water streams from the brim of Ricci's hat. Wheeled carts laden with bicycle tires and frames for sale are packed and rolling away with vendors. Bent over handlebars, casual shoppers begin to cycle away, too—the whole market a school of fish darting for cover. Ricci's head pivots right then left; he is seemingly the only man with two feet on solid ground. His attempt to examine each of the fleeing bicycles signals his misfortune. The Fides single-speed on which his young family depends has been stolen. There is no money for a replacement. There is no job, no rent money, without the Fides. A fortune-teller advises Ricci, “You'll find the bike quickly, or not at all.” Everyone in Rome knows exactly where stolen bikes end up—in parts at the market. But on Ricci's arrival, bicycles scatter like possibility in the wake of his own personal torrent.

Since its release in 1949,
The Bicycle Thief
has commanded a top-ten position on any serious list of cinema greats. Director Vittorio
De Sica chose nonactors for the leading roles. The man who played Ricci was a factory worker named Lamberto Maggiorani. The son Bruno was played by Enzo Staiola, a little man-like child the director found selling flowers on the street. There is one incidental scene in which Bruno, trying to cross the road on foot, is nearly run over by cars, twice. This was a real clip of Staiola caught by an astute cameraman. These players weren't acting. At poignant moments Maggiorani levels a gaze of utter exposure, evoking a silent survivor of Europe's grinding postwar recession. It feels real because it is. Maggiorani struggled to find work long after the filming wrapped.