– Friday.
He looks at the license again.
– From New York?
Fuck me.
– Naw, I lived out there for a while, but I came back after the economy tanked.
– Where’s back?
– Fresno.
– You know this is expired?
– Yeah, dude, but I don’t have a car anyway. I’m living with my folks right now. No work. Took the bus here.
I flash my Greyhound ticket.
– OK, but once it’s expired, a license is no longer valid ID.
– Dude! No! Shit!
– It’s OK, but get it renewed before you come back down.
– Yeah, right. Thanks, man.
He passes it back.
– Anything to declare?
I hold my shopping bag open.
– Some crap for my folks.
– OK. Have a nice day.
– Yeah, you too, dude.
I drop the sunglasses over my eyes, cross over onto American soil for the first time in three years, and see the camoed special forces types with black berets and automatic weapons. Well, that’s new.
ACROSS THE border, I walk past the Greyhound terminal and follow the signs for the trolley to downtown San Diego. It costs two bucks and takes about forty-five minutes. Having just shown that Immigration officer my ticket, I have no intention of getting on another bus. I don’t want to risk flashing the Carlyle ID anymore, so flying is out, and I don’t have any credit cards to rent a car. What I do have is a little over four grand in cash.
As we enter the city we pass through a couple sketchy neighborhoods that look promising. I hop off at 12th and Market and stand on the corner in front of a liquor store. I see a couple coin-operated news racks across the street and step off the curb. I’m in the middle of the crosswalk when I register something I saw back on the corner. I stop, turn, take a step, and almost get sail-frogged by a heavily primered VW Westphalia. The bus swerves around me, missing by inches, and I get to the sidewalk and light up. Three years of Mexico have killed my traffic instincts.
I walk over to the little stucco house behind the liquor store and it’s there in the driveway: a pale yellow 1968 BMW 1600 with a For Sale sign in the window and a sense of desperation in the air. I look back over my shoulder at the newspaper racks. Screw the
– Hey, is your mom or dad home?
She slams the door in my face. I raise my hand to ring again, decide against it, and start for the street. I hear the door open behind me.
– What?
I turn. There’s another girl there, this one about seventeen.
– Yeah, I wanted to know about the car. I asked your sister if your folks were home.
– Daughter.
– Right. She’s a beautiful girl.
– Uh-huh.
– So. The car?
– What about it?
– It’s for sale?
– Yeah.
– Is it yours?
– Yeah.
– How much you want for it?
– Five.
– Does it run?
– Yeah.
– Can we start it up?
She squints at me.
– You a process server?
– Uh, no.
– ’Cause if I come out there and you try to stick some fucking piece of paper in my hand, I’m gonna take it and ram it up your ass.
– I am not a process server.
– I’ll get the keys.
The car starts right up. She switches on the radio to show that it works, tells me the brakes need fluid, and asks if I want to take it around the block. I pop the hood, make sure the oil is full and not too black, quickly eyeball the plugs, fiddle with the carburetor for a second to even out the flow, and shake my head.
– No test drive, I’ll take it as is, four hundred.
She turns the key, switching off the engine, and nods.
– OK, but I need a ride before you take it.
Christ.
– Where?
– ’Bout a mile. I need to drop my daughter at her dad’s place.
Last thing I need is this girl sitting in the car with me for a mile, and getting a good look at my face.
– Look, I’m sorry, but I really need to get rolling.
– C’mon, give us a ride. Otherwise I got to call the son of a bitch to come get her and he’ll take all day coming over and I’ll never get to work on time ’cause I got to take the bus now ’cause I’m selling you the car and I’m knocking a hundred off it for you anyway.
Oh, man.
– OK. I’ll give you a ride, but let’s get going.
– Thanks. My name’s Leslie. Pink slip’s inside.
The daughter is sitting on the floor in front of the tube watching MTV. A girl her mom’s age is shoving her ass into the camera. Leslie points at a chair.
– Wait here.
She goes into a bedroom and I can see her take a box down off a shelf in the closet. I stand next to the chair and watch the girl watch TV. The video ends and she becomes aware of me.
– You like Britney?
– Not really.
– I used to like her, but now she’s all dirty.
– Looks that way.
– You like Christina?
– Not really.
– My mom likes her.
– Who do you like?
– Eminem. Do you like him?
– Sometimes.
Her eyes are locked on the screen as she flips channels. Leslie walks back into the room, a massive black
