Mexicans killing one another. It was not a happy history. One mural, labeled 'La Frontera,' portrayed U.S. Border Patrol agents machine-gunning migrants as they swam across the Rio Grande. Okay, so the artist took some liberties.
The print shop was on the way to Bola, so it made sense to stop there before the meeting with El Tigre. A printer of Chinese descent, a man in his sixties with a bemused smile, said it would cost Payne $1,500 for an Illinois driver's license. Easier to forge than a California license, and harder to check out by a highway patrolman or sheriff's deputy. He would throw in a matching passport for free.
Payne got to choose a new name. California cops would be looking for a James Payne of Van Nuys. Jimmy chose 'Alexander Hamilton' of Evanston. He liked sharing the name of a man killed in a duel.
Papers for Tino weren't so simple. Border agents would examine them much more closely. A temporary work permit didn't suit a twelve-year-old. And a green card was out of the question because the border station had scanners that could pick up a phony. The printer had a selection of legitimate visas, some stolen, some lost. His equipment could alter names and photos. He suggested using a visa intended for a transfer student, a Mexican boy attending Temple Emanuel Academy Day School in Beverly Hills.
'Shalom,' Payne said.
'Twenty-two hundred dollars,' the printer announced happily.
Payne exhaled a whistle. He'd be nearly broke again.
'Guaranteed to work,' the printer chuckled, eyes twinkling, 'or your money back when you get out of prison.'
He snapped digital photos of both of them and said the documents would be ready by eleven that night. Moments later, Payne's cell phone rang. The man who called himself 'Stingray,' asking about the Lexus Payne wanted to trade.
Stingray claimed to have several cars that wouldn't set off alarms going through the border checkpoints. Payne said they were headed to a bowling alley named 'Bola.' Why not meet there?
Jimmy and Tino found Bola without getting lost. They were an hour early for the meeting with El Tigre and right on time for Stingray.
The place was ninety percent bar and ten percent bowling alley. Just two warped lanes that looked as if they'd suffered water damage when the Colorado River flooded a hundred years ago. Four men bowled on one lane, waving fistfuls of pesos over their heads, shouting insults at one another as they bet on each frame. Their balls rattled down the lane like cars with bad shocks, clattering into faded yellow pins that showed nicks and hairline fractures from stem to stern.
And then there were the pin-boys.
Payne had never seen a bowling alley with real, live boys working the pit, hand-dropping pins into the setter and rolling the ball down a wooden track that looked like a split-log sluice at an old gold mine.
There were no molded plastic chairs, no video scoreboards, no rock music, no pulsating strobes for 'rock 'n bowl.' There was a single rack of house balls and a cardboard box of smelly shoes of indeterminate size.
Stingray wasn't hard to find. He sat at the bar wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with a red Corvette Stingray. He was a stocky man in his forties with a thick nose, coppery skin, and black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Cradling a chilled Negra Modelo, he said, 'I got a couple things in my inventory you might like. A three-yearold Mini Cooper, very clean.'
'My Lexus is worth two Mini Coopers,' Payne replied.
Stingray shrugged. 'Maybe the Mini's not for you, anyway. A real pussy car. You want wheels with machismo, eh?'
'Something that'll blend in but can outrun a cop if we have to.'
Stingray grinned. He'd lost a front tooth and never found it. 'How about something with a Cobra V-8 on a big block, 428 cubic inches, throws out 335 horsepower?'
'Holy shit. What is it?'
'Mustang convertible, 1969. Acapulco blue.'
'That'll be inconspicuous.'
'A real classic. Original paint job.'
'What about the engine? That original, too?'
'Reconditioned in the nineties. Goes like hell. I had it up to 135 before it started to shimmy. But watch the steering. It pulls right.'
'That's all you've got?'
'Special orders take a week.'
Payne was beaten. 'Bring the Mustang around.'
'What license plate you want? I got most of the states, plus Puerto Rico. New Mexico's nice. 'Land of Enchantment.' '
'It should match my new driver's license. Make it Illinois.'
' 'Land of Lincoln.' You got it.'
Stingray asked for the keys to the Lexus, saying he'd bring the Mustang back within an hour. He promised to transfer their belongings, including the metal baseball bat in the backseat. They would meet later in the alley behind the bowling alley.
It had scam written all over it, Payne thought. But he shot a look at Tino, who nodded his approval. The kid was supposed to know the territory. Payne tossed the keys to someone he knew virtually nothing about. Not even his real name. All Payne knew was the man's occupation: car thief.
'What do we do while we wait for El Tigre?' Tino asked.
Not knowing whether Stingray would return with the Mustang or the police, or even if he would return at all, Payne sighed and said, 'We bowl.'
THIRTY-EIGHT
Payne checked out Bola's rack of balls, all cratered moonscapes. He chose a black sixteen-pounder, whose brand name had worn off over time. Trying not to inhale, he picked up a couple of mismatched bowling shoes that nearly fit. Tino grabbed an orange eleven-pound ball, and decided to bowl in his socks.
The lane was impossible, the ball hooking on the dry spots and skidding on the oil. Ignoring the scoring, Payne worked with Tino on his form. No one had ever taught the boy the four-step approach or the proper follow- through. But he was a natural. Within a few minutes, he was starting to look smooth, even if the ball hopscotched over the warped boards on the way to the pins.
As he bowled, Payne planned what he would say to El Tigre. It shouldn't be difficult, right? All he needed was a scrap of information.
Where did you take Marisol Perez, you bastard?
If Marisol was okay, there would be nothing to hide.
In the adjacent lane, a man who'd been winning his bets called over to Payne. 'Ey, gringo. You want to bowl against me? Twenty dollars a frame.'
An image of the Paul Newman movie The Hustler flashed through Payne's mind. Local thugs breaking his thumbs after he took their money.
'Sure,' Payne said. 'Let's roll.'
'Himmy. Not such a good idea.' Tino shook his head hard, as if trying to get water out of his ears.
The man, in a T-shirt advertising a local strip club, belly protruding over his jeans, carried his ball to their lane. Payne rolled first. If it had been a tee shot in golf, it would have hooked into the woods. The ball lunged toward the left gutter, hitting only the seven pin. The pin-boy rolled Payne's ball back, and this time he released underhanded and hard, rolling it straight for the pocket. Pins clattered, but the six skipped around the ten, leaving it standing.
'Nine pins,' his opponent said. He took a strange three-step approach, threw off the wrong foot, and sent a bouncing ball on the Brooklyn side of the headpin. After a decent mix, the two-seven baby split was left standing… until the pin-boy swept out a leg and knocked them both over.
