The man froze, eyes blank with fear, as if Payne were insane. When he got close, Payne realized it wasn't Garcia. Didn't even look much like him. By this time, several bare-chested, tattooed young men in baggy pants had streamed out of the store. The gang known as K.A.M. Krazy Ass Mexicans. Payne jumped into his car and burned rubber, gunshots peppering his trunk.
Payne figured Garcia had returned home to avoid arrest. He called local police in Oaxaca. No help.
'I'm going to Mexico,' he told Sharon three months after they had buried their son.
'Why?'
'To find Garcia.'
'And then what?'
He didn't answer.
She begged him not to go. She needed him. She sobbed, shoulders heaving, even after there were no more tears. Jimmy stayed.
His grief formed its own universe, created its own gravity. Grief parched him, drained him of blood and filled him with dust. Grief encircled him like leather cinches on a madman, squeezing the breath from him. He was of no use to Sharon. Whatever she needed, he was unable to give.
A lapsed Catholic, Sharon sought peace in the stillness of Our Lady of Angels downtown. For hours, she sat alone in the sanctuary, sunlight streaming over her through alabaster mosaic windows. With its fifty-foothigh cross and its sunbaked concrete walls, the church was built to withstand an earthquake, but did little for heartache.
Sharon asked Payne to accompany her to Mass, just to hold her hand, just to feel his presence beside her. To the extent he believed in God at all, Payne preferred the pissed off curmudgeon of the Old Testament. That bearded sadist who delighted in flood and famine, plague and pestilence. Payne told Sharon that if she really believed the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost routine, maybe she should have prayed before Adam was killed.
It was just one of many thoughtless comments. Was he trying to salve his own pain by worsening hers? He had no idea.
Sharon seethed with anger. Payne wondered if she blamed him for the accident. She never said so, but the silent accusation hung in the air, enveloping them like a poisonous fog. He wanted to scream out:
'Jesus, Sharon. The bastard ran a red light.'
But could Payne have avoided the crash? Was he driving too fast? If only he hadn't looked away-
She'd always told him to slow down, to be more careful. He resented her anger. She resented his resentment. They were divorced six months later.
But now, sitting in his car in the Home Depot lot, his son dead, his marriage over, his career ruined, Payne knew precisely what he had to do. This time there was no one to stop him, and no reason to stay.
He had to go to Mexico. He had to find Manuel Garcia. And he had to kill him.
TWENTY
The huge American woman held a rusty machete, her arm plump as a chicken. 'C'mon. Git inside.'
She pointed the machete at the five women and motioned toward the door of the wooden cabin.
The Americana was the largest woman Marisol had ever seen. Her skin was the bluish white of milk drained of its fat. Her stomach spilled out of purple nylon basketball shorts, and her bleached yellow hair was tied around rollers, like steel cables looped on spools. She must be the owner of the clavo, the stash house, Marisol concluded. The house was actually half-a-dozen dilapidated cabins next to railroad tracks outside the desert town of Ocotillo, a few miles north of the border. A sign out front read Sugarloaf Lodge, but there did not seem to be any lodgers.
'What you waiting for?' the woman bawled at them. 'Git your brown butts inside now.?Vaya!! Vaya! '
Dutifully, the women climbed the three sagging steps and, like cattle, shouldered their way through the open door.
'Not her.' El Tigre blocked Marisol's path.
The woman waved her machete. 'Don't be messing with my wets, dickwad.'
'Yours?'
'Till Ah get paid, you bet your ass.'
El Tigre cursed her in Spanish. She shouted that he owed her money. He yelled that the money was owed by the repartidor, the labor contractor who would take these worthless peasants to the farms and factories waiting for them.
They argued for several minutes, El Tigre boasting that only his brilliance and bravery got them here at all. They were nearly captured at the border. A Border Patrol helicopter missed seeing them on the mountain, as he had cleverly placed the group so the sun would block them from view. Despite great odds, the courageous El Tigre located the trailhead and waited for the driver of the Duster to bring them here.
He grabbed Marisol's arm and tried to pull her to him.
The woman pointed the tip of the machete at El Tigre's groin. 'Ah got no problem chopping your little pecker into chorizo and feeding it to my dog.'
'?Bacalao!' Calling her the filthiest name a man can call a woman.
The woman barked a laugh that made her fleshy arms quiver. 'Listen to the Frito Bandito. Pissy as a skunk.'
El Tigre still had a grip on Marisol's arm. 'This one owes me money.'
'That don't give you the right to lay your hands on her. Ah've known men like you all my life, and Ah've drawn blood from more than a few. All without a god-damn regret.'
She jabbed the machete between El Tigre's thighs. He hopped back a step and released his grip. Cursed once more, then stomped off.
Marisol nodded a thank-you to the large woman and climbed the steps to the cabin. Bare wooden floors, no furniture. An open toilet, one sink. Perforated metal screens sealing the windows. She sat on the floor, cross- legged, the fatigue and terror of the night seeping into her bones.
'Don't know if you gals speak American, but doncha worry,' the huge woman said. 'Wanda's got you covered. Welcome, one and all, to the promised fucking land.'
TWENTY-ONE
Tino took the subway to the wrong station, then landed on the wrong bus. The street signs flew by, a blur of meaningless names.
Hollywood Freeway. Lankershim Boulevard. Sherman Way.
But where is Van Nuys and the office of Mr. J. Atticus Payne?
He asked for directions then changed buses, dozing off as an elderly couple next to him chattered in Chinese. Nine hours after heading for the subway station, the bus driver dropped him at a complex of government buildings and told him to walk the rest of the way.
The sun was setting as Tino passed the Van Nuys Courthouse. Close by, a one-story building had a flashing neon sign, Bail Bonds. Two young black women in very short skirts and very bright wigs walked out of the building. One wore a green stretchy top with letters as gold as melon seeds, spelling out, 'If You Think My T-Shirt Is Tight…'
She spotted Tino and called, 'Hi there, cutie!'
The other one approached and ran a hand over his head. 'What I wouldn't give to have your hair.'
Next door was another small office building. A sign said, P. J. Steele, Private Investigations. The windows were darkened glass, the place mysterious.
Two blocks away, he found Delano Street and a sign stuck into the front yard of a small house with peeling paint. J. Atticus Payne, Esquire. It was not what he had pictured. In the bus, he had passed tall silver buildings, thin as blades, rising to the sky. He thought that Mr. Payne must be in one of those buildings, conducting important business.
