But this?
He walked onto the front porch, floorboards groaning. The door was locked, the windows dark. A driveway led to the back of the house. What must have been a small yard was now pavement with parking for three cars. Empty.
Now what? It was getting dark. Where would he spend the night?
And where is Mami spending this night?
Then he figured that Mr. Payne would be here in the morning.
And so will I.
Tino went to a small side window with three glass louvers in metal slats. Too small for anyone to crawl through. Except maybe a boy.
The window was cracked open two inches. Tino muscled the glass out of the slats and squeezed through, falling onto a tile floor. He found a light switch and looked around. A messy desk. Books. Files. Empty coffee cups, a paper bag greased with French fries. On the floor, cardboard boxes marked Storage.
He had never been in a lawyer's office, but he had seen them on telenovelas. Usually, a television lawyer had a fancy haircut, wore an expensive suit, and had sex with his beautiful secretary on a clean desk of polished wood. Here, the desk was dirty, and there would be no room for any fun.
Tino opened several cabinet doors. More papers and files.
Then, a liquor cabinet. Half a dozen bottles. He sampled the bourbon and made a face. Same with a bottle of Scotch. Found a bottle of Chinaco Blanco tequila. Sipped it. Better than the stuff they served at the cantina at home. He found a coffee cup that was nearly clean and filled it.
Looked around some more. On the desk, a photo of a smiling man and a boy with wheat-colored hair, a little younger than himself. The boy wore a baseball uniform and cap. Baseball glove on his knee. Tino thought of his own baseball glove, taken by those pendejos. If he had a father, someone like the smiling man who must be J. Atticus Payne, no one would take his most valuable possession.
Tino sat in the cushioned chair behind the desk and spun in a circle, like the merry-go-round at the Caborca carnaval. He took another drink of the tequila. And then one more.
Opened the middle desk drawer. Dried-up pens, coins, stamps, a bottle of vitamins, some empty envelopes.
And one envelope that was full. Plump and weighty in the hand. Unsealed.
Filled with hundred-dollar bills!
Tino's breath caught in his throat. He glanced around as if someone might be watching. He felt guilty, like seeing one of the nuns naked.
But I haven't done anything. Yet.
Hastily, he turned off the lights. There was a small refrigerator on the floor behind the desk. Tino dropped to his knees, opened the door, and counted the money in the glow of the tiny light.
Fifty one-hundred-dollar bills.
His mother had taught him never to steal. But this was an emergency. With all that money, maybe he did not need Mr. Payne. From the looks of this office, the lawyer might not be as big and important as his mother had thought.
Tino thought of television shows he had seen. When someone is missing, you hire a private investigator, like the one down the street. P. J. Steele. He liked the name. Strong. American. A private eye could find his mother, Tino thought, especially if he is paid five thousand dollars.
Tino jammed the envelope with the money inside his underwear. He finished the tequila and suddenly felt very warm. He stretched out on the sofa. Maybe just a little nap and then he would leave. He did not need Mr. J. Atticus Payne and his crappy office. In the morning, Tino would be waiting at the front door of Mr. P. J. Steele, Private Investigator. Together, they would find his mother.
TWENTY-TWO
Seconds matter.
In just one second, a red truck flies through a red light and tilts the universe off its keel.
Now the tipping point was sixty seconds. If Payne had left his house one minute later, he would have been arrested. There would have been no road trip. There would be times, later, when he wondered if that wouldn't have been for the best.
On this night, at home, he put on jeans, running shoes, and an orange-and-black Barry Bonds T-shirt. He wasn't a fan of the San Francisco Giants or their former steroid-pumped slugger. He just liked to piss off people.
He threw a change of clothes into a gym bag and copied maps off the Internet. Driving directions to Oaxaca, the home of Manuel Garcia. Adam's old baseball bat was already in the Lexus, but Payne still needed something from his office. The five thousand he'd skimmed from the bribe money.
He left the house and was just pulling up to the stop sign half a block away when he checked his rear-view mirror. An L.A.P.D. black-and-white was pulling into his driveway. Sixty seconds. The difference between custody and freedom.
Two cops in uniform got out and headed for his front door.
No way they're delivering good news. Publishers Clearinghouse doesn't send patrolmen to give you that five- foot-long, million-dollar check. They were there to arrest him for escaping from the holding cell on his contempt charge. Maybe grand larceny, too. The crimes weren't worthy of a segment on Dateline, but who needs the hassle?
Payne hit the gas and headed toward Van Nuys Boulevard. He'd pick up the money and leave town straight from the office. Traffic would be light on the freeways. If all went well, he'd be checking into a motel near the border by dawn.
The neighborhood near the civic center was quiet, the offices dark. A lone clerk sat behind bulletproof glass in the bail bond office, open twenty-four hours. Payne pulled into the driveway of the old bungalow, cutting close to the sign planted in the lawn: J. Atticus Payne, Esquire. Soon it would read, Office for Rent.
Just as he killed the engine, his cell phone rang. Private Number. He answered with a noncommital 'Yeah?'
'Payne, you fucking asshole.'
'That you, Rigney?'
'I saw the inventory from Judge Rollins' house. Forty-five thousand bucks recovered.'
'So?'
'It's one thing to cheat at bowling, Payne. But you don't steal from the government.'
'You take your salary, don't you?'
'There's an arrest warrant out for you.'
'Maybe the judge bought a Rolex between the time I bribed him and he blew his brains out.'
'You took the money, dipshit.'
'You got any evidence, Detective? Maybe you skimmed the five grand and gave me forty-five.'
'Gonna bust you, Payne. And when I do, your ex won't be around to wipe your nose.'
Payne was working on a pithy retort when Rigney hung up. Time to get moving. When the cops couldn't find him at home, they would zip over here. He planned to be in and out of his office in two minutes.
He unlocked the back door, stepped into the darkened corridor where a water cooler hummed next to the photocopy machine. He was fumbling for the light switch when he heard a noise. What the hell?
'Who's there!'
A squeak. Sneakers on tile.
'I got a gun!' Payne shouted with the authority of a practiced liar.
He kept the lights off. He knew the configuration of the office. The intruder wouldn't. In the darkness, Payne navigated the short corridor. He ran his hand along the wall, passing over the door to the rest room, feeling the rounded edge of the five-gallon water jug atop the cooler, then stopping at the beveled corner of the bookshelf.
