Illegal Page 9

  Pigs.

  "It is a curse to be a pretty woman," she had told Tino many times.

  Warning him not to be like those men. Smelly and foul-mouthed. Beer-swilling and lazy. Working as slowly and as little as possible. Gambling away their money. Brutalizing their women and ignoring their children.

  "Men are a plague."

  "Was my father that way?"

  Her smile was both sweet and sad. She never criticized the man who fled as soon as her belly swelled. She was not angry with him. With his mestizaje blood of Spanish ancestors, Gustavo had bequeathed his bright green eyes to Tino. At the time Tino was conceived, Gustavo was barely more than a boy himself.

  "Your father sang 'Besame Mucho' in a voice that made my knees go soft. But he could not hold a job or make a plan past the next weekend." She let out a long sigh. "At least your father bathed. He did not stink."

  To Tino, it seemed like his mother deserved more than that.

  As she climbed the scaffold the day the trouble started, Xavier, a carpenter with a tattooed neck, squeezed her ass through her jeans. Marisol swatted away the pendejo 's hand. Another two rungs, another worker, Jesus, tried to grab her breasts. She dangled there, one hand looped on the rung above. With her other hand, she pulled the air-powered nail gun from her tool belt.

  "Jesus," she said to the tit grabber, "do you want me to nail your hands and feet to the framing? Should I crucify you like your namesake?"

  "Put one through his pinga, " another worker called out, laughing.

  "Won't need the gun," Marisol replied. "A half-inch staple will do the job."

  The other men coughed and belched and hawked up tobacco. Jesus unleashed a torrent of puta sand cono s and cachapera s as Marisol climbed to the roof.

  Tino watched all this with a mixture of fear and pride. His mother could take care of herself, but wasn't he the man of the household? When he delivered lunch to the men, shouldn't he order them to stay away from his mother? Or should he just punch Jesus in his stupid mouth? Before he could decide, Rafael Obeso, in his knee-high leather boots, strode through the mud to the foot of the scaffold.

  "Leave her alone," Obeso ordered the men. "She's a better carpenter than any of you turds."

  "Si, jefe."

  "Si, patron."

  The men got back to work, picking up their pace.

  Worms, Tino thought. Spineless men. Half-day workers, half-day drinkers. Lacking pride and motivation.

  Tino had learned a phrase from his mother. "Amor propio." Self-esteem.

  He admired American men. The ones he had seen on television. Well dressed and handsome, with good teeth and fast cars. He did not read the Spanish subtitles on the screen in order to learn English. The same with his beloved Los Angeles Dodgers. Although he could listen to Jaime Jarrin broadcast the game in Spanish, he preferred Vin Scully.

  "Pull up a chair and stick around a while. We've got some baseball for you."

  A relaxed, musical voice, smooth as velvet. Sentences that sounded like songs. Someday, he would like to see the Dodgers play in the place Vin Scully called "Chavez Ravine."

  Tino got back to his job, delivering tacos and tortillas and cold drinks to the workers. They were building a new house, three stories tall. A grand home for Rafael Obeso, the richest man in the village.

  Marisol had told Tino that the roof would have a satellite dish six meters across, even though much smaller ones were just as good, maybe even better.

  "Senor Obeso wears boots too big for his feet," she said. "He is very conscious of show. Such men are stupid, no matter how much money they have."

  His mother was right about so much, Tino thought, watching stonemasons build the fountain in the courtyard, complete with pissing cherubs.

  Obeso was a short, stout man made taller by his boots. He wore a black-fringed shirt, and a bolo tie with a slide shaped like a bull and made of solid gold. His brushy mustache was streaked with gray. He told people he owned a doll-making factory in Mexico City, but no one believed him. Obeso was a drug smuggler with two bodyguards in camo gear, AK-47s slung over their shoulders.

  Tino's job was to run errands and feed the chickens in a pen behind the house. Obeso paid in American money. A dollar here, a dollar there, carelessly crumpled and tossed at the boy. When Obeso traveled with his bodyguards, there was no pay. On Fridays, Tino sneaked into the village cantina and drank two beers.

  "When you are old enough," Obeso told him, "I will teach you to slaughter chickens by wringing their necks."

  "I am old enough."

  Obeso turned to nearby workmen. "The boy's not a marica like his father." Calling the father Tino never knew a sissy.

  Then, imitating Gustavo, Obeso strummed an air guitar and shook his hips like a girl, his workers laughing so hard that spittle flew.

  That night, Tino was already in bed when his mother came home to their two-room adobe house. Even in the dim light, he could see the black, curdled blood on her lip and the swelling under one eye. She went to the spigot and washed her face, telling Tino that she was hit by a two-by-four that had dropped from a frame.

  He did not believe her. He asked if Jesus had hit her.

  No.

  The toothless man? Or that truck driver with the huge belly?

  No, no.

  It came to him then. Only one man would have the nerve. Rafael Obeso.

  "Was it el jefe?"

  She didn't answer. Then Tino saw that his mother's blouse was torn, and when she turned around to undress, he saw brambles lodged in her long, dark hair. He heard himself sniffle.

  "Tino, no," his mother said without turning around.

  "No hay tiempo ni espacio para llorar."

  There is neither time nor space to cry.

  The next morning, Obeso sent Tino's mother to the quarry to pick out limestone for the stairs. Jefe called it "women's work," the choosing of colors and grains in the stone. But Tino's mother, bruised and sleepless, was expected to lift dozens of heavy slabs into the bed of a truck.

  There would be no need for her hammers and nail guns, so she left them home. Before Tino headed for the job site, he opened her toolbox and removed a wood chisel, which he taped to a leg under his torn jeans.

  He delivered breakfast to the men, as always, then waited until he saw Obeso. Pretending not to notice the man, Tino walked casually behind the house to the chicken pen. He knew the fat man would follow just to criticize him for one thing or another. The bodyguards would stay at the front of the property, watching the road for approaching cars.

  Tino dropped a handful of feed toward his feet, where a dozen chickens clucked. Just as he thought, Obeso thundered through the gate.

  "Throw the feed and put some muscle into it," he ordered, "or the chickens in back will go hungry."

  Purposely, Tino again dropped the seeds in front of the closest of the squawkers.

  "?Jesucristo! You throw like a maricon. "

  Obeso stomped over, his boots sinking into a river of chickenshit. "Give me the bucket."

  "One more try," Tino pleaded. He wound up like Esteban Loaiza of the Dodgers and threw a handful of seeds straight into the man's fleshy face. Grains flew into Obeso's eyes and his open mouth. He choked and spat and coughed.

  "Sorry, jefe. "

  "?Agilipollao! You stupid fool." Clawing at his eyes.

  Tino reached under his pants and peeled the wood chisel from the tape. With one smooth motion, he slashed at Obeso's forehead, cutting a horizontal line from right to left, just above the man's bushy eyebrows. Blood poured into Obeso's eyes, mixing with the chicken feed, stinging and blinding him. He stumbled forward, screaming for his bodyguards, when Tino kicked as hard as he could. Straight in the cojones.

  A high-pitched squeak came from Obeso, who dropped to his knees, then pitched headfirst, straight into a pile of steaming chickenshit. Tino turned to run and looked back when he heard Obeso call out his name. In a hoarse whisper, the man croaked, "Ay, chilito. I will cut your heart out and give it to
your whore mother."

  Tino sprinted to the quarry and told his mother what had happened. She put a hand to her mouth and bit her lower lip.

  "Oh, Tino. Why? Why?"

  "The cabron stole your honor."

  "No, Tino. No man can take a woman's honor unless she gives it to him."

  "Are you angry at me, Mami?"

  "No. But Rafael Obeso is very dangerous."

  "I'm not scared."

  But Tino was confused. There were things he knew, but other things of which he was unsure.

  A good man must not run from trouble. A valiente will protect his mother from a cabron like Obeso. But what happens when doing the right thing is more dangerous than doing nothing?

  In moments like this, Tino wished he had a father. A man to talk to, someone who could answer questions that a woman might not understand.

  His mother motioned for Tino to follow her. "There is no time to waste."

  They left the slabs at the quarry. Someone else would have to build Obeso's staircase.

  It only took minutes to pack their belongings, for they could only take what they could carry. They left their small home, hitched a ride into Caborca, and caught the last bus north. As they left the city, Tino patted his mother's hand and said, "I will never let anyone hurt you again."

  The bus climbed the hills out of their valley, passing through the dry scrublands and stands of mesquite, hawks soaring in the updrafts. They hurtled past roadside cantinas and country markets, auto junkyards and vulcanizadoras, tire repair shacks, the national business of Mexico. Heading north on Federal Highway 2, Tino fell asleep somewhere between Chijubabi and Rancho San Emeterio.

  When he awoke, they were just outside San Luis Rio Colorado, so close to the American border that Tino glimpsed signs for Yuma, Arizona. He looked at his mother through hooded eyes and saw a tear rolling down her face. Not wanting to embarrass her, he did not move. She whispered to herself, and he strained to hear, picking up words that seemed to be part prayer and part promise.

  "Soy ciudadana del mundo y de una iglesia sin fronteras."

  I am a citizen of the world and a church without borders.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Tino checked their faces. Looking for disapproval, anger, horror.

  But the lady cop looked like she was going to cry. And the lawyer smiled warmly at him. "You're a terrific kid."

  "?Verdad?"

  "You bet. Defending a woman is a high calling. If the woman's your mom, bonus points."

  Tino told them the rest. El Tigre the coyote. The plan to reach a stash house in Calexico. The foul-up at the border, his mother making the crossing at gunpoint. Rey and the other two cabrones forcing him to carry cocaine.

  The cop and the lawyer were quiet when he finished.

  "Holy shit," the lawyer said, finally.

  "My God, what you've been through," the lady cop said.

  Tino finished his coffee, which had gone cold. "Now I can look for Mami."

  "By yourself?" the lady cop asked.

  "I have two hundred dollars now. Is that enough to hire a private eye?"

  "For about forty-five minutes," Payne said.

  "But who else would help me?"

  Sharon had an idea, but before she could work it over, the phone rang. Detective Rigney. He was at Sunset and La Cienega. He'd be up the hill in ten minutes.

  "Atticus, I have a deal for you," Sharon said.

  "What?" Payne was wary.

  "I'll let you go if you promise to help Tino find his mother."

  "Okay!" Tino shouted.

  But Jimmy was shaking his head. "I know what you're doing, Sharon."

  "No time for your bullshit. Yes or no?"

  "No. If you bust me, you figure I'll make bail and skip to Mexico. But you know I won't break a promise to you. If I say I'll help this kid, I'll do it. Bottom line, you're just trying to keep me from going after Garcia."

  "Not everything's about you, Jimmy. Tino needs help. Your law practice is shot. You have no plans, except to commit mayhem. Why not do something positive?"

  "I wouldn't know where to start."

  "Find the stash house in Calexico."

  "How? You think they advertise on cable?"

  "We can do it, Himmy," the boy said. "We can find Mami."

  "Don't bet on it, kid. In fact, don't bet on me."

  "You know what I think, Atticus?" Sharon said. "I think you're scared to do something for someone else."

  "I'm not scared. It's just less of a burden to screw up my own life."

  "Your call. What'll it be? A late-night drive through the desert? Or a cement bunk at the jail?"

  "What about Rigney?"

  "I'll tell him you escaped again."

  "You could get in a real jam, Sharon."

  "I've been in a jam since the day I met you. Now get out of here."

  "I gotta pee first," Tino said.

  Sharon gave the boy directions down the hall to the guest bath, then hurriedly started emptying the refrigerator. Juice. Peaches. Apples. A box of pretzels from under the cupboard. She put everything in brown grocery bags. "Take this for Tino. You know how hungry boys get."

  "He's not going to summer camp." Sounding grumpy.

  "Can I count on you to take care of him?" Those maternal instincts again.

  "He'll probably steal my car when I stop for gas. That kid is a ton of trouble in a hundred-pound body."

  "He likes you. I can tell."

  "When I can't find his mother, how's he gonna feel?"

  "Where's that old confidence? Where's the fearless J. Atticus Payne?"

  "You know damn well where. On a hillside at Forest Lawn."

  That kept her quiet a moment.

  They heard a car pull into the driveway.

  "Shit," Sharon said. "Where'd you park?"

  "A driveway up the hill, behind some jacaranda trees."

  "Go out the back door. I'll get Tino."

  "I'm here," the boy said, popping back into the kitchen.

  Jimmy still hadn't moved.

  "Go!" She brush-kissed him on the lips.

  "What about me, chica?"

  She kissed the boy on the cheek, then smacked his butt.

  The doorbell rang. "Good luck, guys," Sharon said, shooing them out the back door.

  As they crossed the yard at double time, hunched over like commandos, Tino whispered to Jimmy, "You play your cards right, Himmy, that chica caliente will be in your bed soon."

  "Too late for that, kid. Sharon's moved on."

  "Donde fuego hubo, ascuas quedan."

  "Where there was fire… " Jimmy couldn't translate the rest. "Embers remain," Tino helped out.

  "I don't know, kid."

  "I do, Himmy. I could feel the heat."

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Rattlesnake bites.

  Dehydration, exposure, and thirst.

  Robbery, rape, and murder.

  So many ways to die crossing the border.

  Just before dawn, Payne was at the wheel of the Lexus, pondering what could have happened to Tino's mother. He figured she didn't meet a wealthy gringo, fall in love, and elope to Las Vegas.

  The desert was littered with bones of unknown men, women, and children who traveled with one bag of clothing and one jug of water, envisioning the promised land. An achingly sad Freddy Fender song came to Payne. The one about a place with streets of gold, always just across the borderline.

  "You could lose more than you'll ever hope to find."

  Payne shot a look over his shoulder. The boy was curled up in the backseat. He had fallen asleep before they reached San Bernardino. He awakened when they stopped for gas near Indio, a desert town where a drunken Sinatra and Ava Gardner once shot out street-lamps from the front seat of Frank's Caddy convertible.

  By the time the Lexus exited the 10 and headed due south on old State Route 86, Tino was sacked out again. Listening to the tires sing on the pavement, Payne fought to stay awake. He didn't want to be here, hated the responsibilit
y he had taken on. Sharon had convinced him to do something for someone else. As if that would heal him.

  Doesn't she see I've got nothing left to give?

  There were aid agencies for undocumented migrants. Churches. Nonprofits. Do-gooders all. Payne could find a place, drop the kid off in the morning, and head to Mexico after Manuel Garcia.

  No I can't. I just made a promise to Sharon.

  Damn, what is this hold she has on me?

  Payne's thoughts turned to Marisol Perez, the dark-haired beauty in the photo the boy kept next to his heart. The woman had placed her life into the hands of a coyote and simply vanished into the night.

  What if Payne learned she was dead? How could he tell the boy? Not that the experience would be entirely new to him. He once told a mother her boy was dead. His boy, too.

  Even if Marisol was safe somewhere, how could he find her? All the kid knew was that the coyote named El Tigre was supposed to take them to a stash house near Calexico. But that could be a farmhouse in a remote canyon. All those dirt trails leading into the desert. All those ravines halfway to nowhere. The enormity of their task seemed overwhelming.

  Sure, he would do his best to find Marisol Perez. His good deed. Then he would go to Mexico and find Manuel Garcia. His murderous deed.

  He turned on the radio to keep himself awake. Green Day was singing "Boulevard of Broken Dreams."

  "I walk a lonely road."

  Tell me about it, Payne thought.

  They had driven all night. Payne was sleepy and his patched right leg was beginning to stiffen. Every hour, it seemed, another reminder of Adam. Or more precisely, the last moments of Adam's life.

  He pulled off the highway and onto a looping street outside Salton City, a grandiose name for a sun-grilled, scrub-brush town. He needed to stretch and get some coffee. He found North Marina Drive and headed toward the giant lake. At first glance, the stagnant, salty puddle in the middle of the desert would seem to be one of God's grand mistakes. Instead, it was man's malfeasance, hatched when California bigwigs accidentally diverted the Colorado River nearly a century ago. The town was supposed to become a fancy resort, but now most buildings appeared empty, the wood rotted, the air slick with the stench of dead birds and decaying fish. Real estate signs announced waterfront lots for dirt-cheap prices. Great potential, if you wanted to build on the River Styx.