'When he catches up with Payne, there's gonna be one dead shyster.'
The rumor mill was churning overtime. Payne was into heroin trafficking. Or human trafficking. Or child slavery. The term 'international fugitive' floated around. The F.B.I. and the D.E.A. had formed a task force to go after him. Homeland Security, too. Someone matching Payne's description was spotted in a Tijuana cantina drinking beer with a terror suspect. Another report had Payne catching a flight to Cali, Colombia. Sharon wouldn't be surprised if he turned up on a bin Laden videotape.
Still, she was able to confirm part of the story. The shooting. The fleeing. And Mexico.
Mexico!
Did Jimmy abandon the search for Tino's mother and take off after Manuel Garcia in Oaxaca? Had he lied to her?
Jimmy, what's happened to you? You had such promise.
After Adam's death, Sharon had insisted they attend grief counseling. She remembered their last session. A gentle man in his fifties, the psychologist explained the five stages of coping with loss-denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance-and added one of his own, hope. The more the man talked, the more upset Jimmy became.
'You left out one stage, Doc. Revenge. When a neighbor ran over John Gotti's kid, Gotti had the man killed.'
'Is that what you want to do? Emulate a mobster?'
'I need to do what my gut tells me.'
'Do you think killing that man brought Gotti peace?'
'No. Because he didn't do it himself. He didn't look into the guy's eyes and see the fear.'
'Mr. Payne, may I speak freely?'
'Does that mean you're not charging two hundred bucks today?'
'You are in need of intensive therapy. I fear you are well on the way to self-destruction.'
'Then all this bullshit talk isn't gonna help.'
Jimmy stormed out, and in that moment, Sharon knew her marriage would not survive. She didn't want it to end, but Jimmy was too obsessed to address his own problems, much less their marriage.
Earlier today, she had tried calling his cell phone. No answer. He'd been listed as a fugitive, armed and dangerous. She pictured him squaring off with a SWAT team, dying in a fusillade of gunfire. Maybe he even wanted it to happen. Suicide by cop.
Sharon still had strong feelings for Jimmy, ranging from anger to empathy to a warmth that defied easy description. Mostly anger. The emotional tie was there, but what did it mean?
She turned her attention back to Cullen on the monitor, his broad shoulders filling the screen. Under the hot lights, perched on a bar stool, he looked like a Sequoia planted in a pot. Still talking, he removed his suit coat and loosened his tie. Still another four hours in the marathon. Like a fighter trained to go the distance, Cullen had phenomenal stamina.
She admired many things about him, including his ability to overcome setbacks. He had run for local office as a Republican and been defeated. He'd been a self-help motivational speaker, but his books and tapes never sold. He'd bought television time for get-rich-in-realestate infomericals that didn't pan out. Still, Cullen never lost his optimism. Maybe that's what attracted her to him. He could take a punch. Then there was Jimmy.
'I'm gonna change my life.'
Jimmy's vow, but something Cullen had actually done. He kept reinventing himself and seemed happy with each reincarnation. Sharon disagreed with his political views, but she respected him for never giving up.
There was another side to him, too. Maybe it didn't come through on television. But he was a compassionate man. He had stepped forward at the worst time in her life and comforted her. When she'd told Jimmy that, he barked his cynical laugh.
'Quinn comforted you like a vulture comforts a rabbit. He swooped down when you were at your weakest.'
She shot another glance at the flat-screen monitor. Cullen, his square anchorman's chin tilted toward the camera, was deep into his stock speech about the fall of the Roman Empire.
'Rome opened its gates and let in all those foreigners to do their dirty work. By 100 B.C., the foreigners outnumbered Romans three-to-one, and when the revolt came, the Romans were crushed. Well, folks, we're well on our way to the same fate, the fall of America. California, Texas, Arizona, and New Mexico are all headed toward Hispanic majorities.'
Cullen had been lining up guests for months. A congressman from Colorado opposed to open borders. A spokesman for La Raza, a vocal supporter of immigrants' rights. A professor from Pepperdine with charts and graphs about how Caucasians will soon be the minority in thirty-five of the country's largest cities. A couple of desert rats from the Patriot Patrol, pleading for donations for camo gear, binoculars, flashlights, and probably cases of Budweiser. City and county commissioners, mayors, a Catholic priest, a Border Patrol agent, a spokesman for United Farm Workers, reporters from the Los Angeles and San Diego newspapers, even a couple illegals hanging around a Home Depot, looking for work. Bill O'Reilly and Lou Dobbs would appear by satellite.
Executives at Fox-the suits who could give him a network gig-would be watching. Celebrity guests were the key, Cullen had told her. He was most excited about Simeon Rutledge. The multimillionaire farmer rarely gave interviews. But astonishingly, Rutledge had called Cullen personally, just hours earlier.
'I'd like to have my say on that dog-and-pony show of yours,' Rutledge said.
'I didn't think you had the balls,' Quinn replied.
'Talking into a camera don't take balls. You know what courage is? Crossing deserts and mountains carrying your kids and a jug of water. But you wouldn't know squat about that, would you, candy ass?'
'Anytime you want to step into the ring, Rutledge, I'm there. Eight-ounce gloves. Sixteen-ounce. Headgear or bare head. You name it.'
'Forget the gloves. Just give me a pool cue and a broken beer bottle.'
Quinn laughed. A hearty rumble like distant thunder. 'This is gonna be great TV. We'll go at it toe-to- toe.'
'Ain't gonna be a dance,' Simeon Rutledge said.
FORTY-FOUR
Just before one A.M., Sharon watched the Marlboro Man strut into the Green Room. An aging cowboy. Scuffed boots, faded jeans, a silver belt buckle. Neatly groomed, but she could almost smell straw and horses.
Rutledge had taken off his cowboy hat, as gentlemen do indoors, revealing a forehead half pale and half sunburned. Tall, and thick through the chest, with a leathery face and a brushy mustache. In his cowboy duds, he reminded Sharon of someone. Who was it?
Ah, right. Give him a lariat, trim that brush into a pencil mustache, and he's Clark Gable in The Misfits.
Jimmy had made her watch the damn movie three times, even though she didn't like it. Jimmy, of course, loved everything about it, from the title to Marilyn Monroe's ass. Give Jimmy a story about the struggle for personal freedom and load it with alienation, loneliness, and grief, and he's there. The only part Sharon liked was Thelma Ritter saying that men were as reliable as jackrabbits.
Sharon told Rutledge to help himself to donuts and the latte machine. He smiled at the word 'latte,' thanked her kindly, saying 'Ma'am,' sat down, and drew a small silver flask from a buttoned shirt pocket. Jack Daniel's, she guessed, from the aroma.
The Rutledge family had created a dynasty in the San Joaquin Valley. But not without a firestorm of controversy. Simeon Rutledge had been the target of several law enforcement investigations, she knew. Immigration. Taxes. Pollution. Recently, there'd been rumors about a Grand Jury poking around the Rutledge operation. But that was federal, and she didn't know any details.
There were two other men in the Green Room, both members of the Patriot Patrol, the militia group that guarded the border, though no one asked them to. One man, a pudgeball wearing a 'Send 'Em Back' T-shirt, slouched on the vinyl sofa, snoring, a ball cap pulled down over his eyes. The other man, a wiry, sunburned critter
