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.
