They should have never crossed the border. That’s what Junior thought as he escaped. They didn’t know anything about Arizona. Someone had seen them, he was pretty sure. It was probably at the motel outside of Phoenix. They’d probably been made there.
Whatever. It went bad right away. They drove around looking for abandoned houses, but in Arizona, how could you tell? All the yards were dirt, and the nice yards looked to them exactly like the bad yards. What was a weed and what was a xeriscape?
In Casa Grande, they felt like they were getting to it. A whole cul-de-sac had collected trash and a few tumbleweeds. Junior couldn’t believe there were actual tumbleweeds out there. John Wayne–type stuff. They pulled in and actually rang the doorbells and got nothing. So Chango did his thing and went in the back and they were disappointed to find the first house completely vacant except for an abandoned Power Ranger action figure in a bedroom and a melted bar of Dial in a bathroom.
The second house was full of fleas and sad, broken-ass welfare crap. Chango found a bag of lime and chili tortilla chips, and he munched these as he made his way to the third, and last, house. He went in. Score!
“I love the recession!” he shouted.
They drained the waterbed with a hose through the bathroom window. Hey—a TV. These debt monsters really liked their giant screens. Massaging recliners. Mahogany tables and a big fiberglass saguaro cactus. “Arty,” Chango said. Mirrors, clothes, a desktop computer and printer, a new microwave, two nice Dyson floor fans, a sectional couch in cowhide with brown and white color splotches. They even found a sewing machine.
It had taken too long, what with the long search and the three penetrations. After they loaded, pouring sweat except for “Mr. Petrucci,” who sat in his AC so he’d look good in case any rubber neckers came along, it was four in the afternoon, and they were hitting rush hour on I-10.
The truck was a mile ahead. Junior liked to hang back and make believe he was driving on holiday. No crime. He was heading cross-country, doing a Kerouac. He was going back down to National City to find La Minnie, his sweet li’l ruca from the Bay Theater days. He should have never let her go. He hadn’t gone to a single high school reunion, but his homeboy El Rubio told him La Minnie had asked about him. Divorced, of course. Who in America was not divorced? But still slim and cute and fine as hell. Junior knew his life would have been different if he’d done the right thing and stayed on West 20th and courted that gal like she deserved, but he was hungry. Trapped like a wildcat in somebody’s garage, and when the door cracked the slightest bit, he was gone.
These things were on his mind when the police lights and sirens went off behind him.
He had to give it to Chango—the guy played his string out right to the end.
The cops blasted past Junior’s Buick and dogged the white U-Haul. Two cars. Llaves knew better than to try to run—the truck had a governor on the engine that kept it to a maximum speed of fifty-five. He puttered along, Junior back there shouting, “Shit! Shit! Shit!” Then he hit his blinker and slowly pulled over to the shoulder, the police cars insanely flashing and yowling. The associates were climbing out when Junior went by. He could see Chango’s mouth already working.
He didn’t know what to do. Should he keep going? Book and not look back?
He hit the next exit and crossed over the freeway and sped back and crossed over again and rolled up behind the cop cars. He set his tie and pulled on his jacket with its name tag and even picked up his clipboard.
There were two cops—one Anglo and one Hispanic.
The associates stood in a loose group against the side of the truck. The cops turned and stared at Junior.
“Officers,” he called. “I am Mr. Petrucci, from Bowden Federal in Detroit. Is there a problem?”
“Petrucci,” said the Hispanic. “Is that Italian?”
“It is,” said Junior.
“This dude,” Chango announced, “is some kinda Tio Taco!”
“Shut it,” the cop snapped.
A Border Patrol truck pulled up behind the Buick.
“Sir?” said the cop. “I need to ask you to leave. You need to call your bank and have another team sent out to deliver these goods.”
“Fuck!” shouted Chango.
“Is there a problem with … the load?” Junior asked.
“No sir. This is strictly a 1070 stop.”
“1070?”
“SB 1070. Immigration. We have reason to believe these gennermen are illegals.” The BP agent was eyeballing Chango.
Junior almost laughed. “Why, I never!” he said.
Chango called, “He don’t know shit. Fuckin’ Petrucci. He’s just a bean counter. Never did a good day’s work in his life! That asshole don’t even know us.” He was playing to the crowd. “I worked every day! I paid my taxes! I, I, I served in Iraq!” he lied.
The cop held up two licenses in his fingers, as if he were making a tight peace sign or about to smoke a cigarette. Llaves and Chango—Hugo didn’t have a license.
“Do you have citizenship papers?” the BP man asked.
“I don’t need no stinkin’ papers! This is America!”
“Have they been searched?” BP asked.
“What are you, the Gestapo?” Chango smiled a little. He felt he had scored a major point. “I’m down and brown!” he hooted. “Racial profiling!”
