with Willie Nelson pigtails, squinted at a Superman comic book, moving his lips as he read. Both men wore camo fatigues bloused into combat boots.
'You're Rutledge, ain't you?' Pigtails said. He didn't sound like he wanted an autograph.
'Yep,' Rutledge allowed. 'And you're one of those dumb-ass crackers got nothing better to do than harass poor people looking for work.'
'I'm a patriot.'
'Pissant is more like it.'
Pigtails made a move as if to get up, seemed to think better of it, and dropped down again.
'C'mon, fellow,' Rutledge taunted. 'Let's see how tough you are.'
'All right, boys. Settle down,' Sharon ordered. 'I'll arrest anyone causing trouble.'
Rutledge shot her an inquisitive look.
' Detective Sharon Payne,' she said.
Rutledge sized her up in her business suit and pumps. 'A detective working security?'
'Actually, I'm…'
Just what am I, anyway?
'I'm with Cullen.'
Rutledge gave her a sly smile. 'Well, Quinn's taste in women can't be faulted, even if he doesn't know diddly about immigration.'
'All of you better mind your manners or I'll cuff you right here.'
'I don't mean no harm,' Pigtails said. 'But I got a right to tell Mr. Big Shot that he's taking food out of the mouths of real Americans, giving away all them jobs to the beaners.'
'Tell you what, fellow,' Rutledge said. 'If you want to crawl through the dirt picking artichokes when the thermometer pops a hundred, I got a job for you. But you couldn't do half the work of a campesina who's seven months pregnant.'
'Them Mexi-cants don't feel the heat the way white people do. Anyhow, I ain't gonna work on my hands and knees, beaners farting in my face.'
Rutledge shook his head sadly. No use trying to reason with a mule. 'Detective Payne, what do you think?'
'I think there ought to be a civil way for people to discuss their differences.'
'I'll drink to that.' Rutledge took a hit on his flask, his pale eyes wandering off into the distance. 'My old man hired braceros back in the sixties. One of their kids is chief of police now. Javier Cardenas. I've known him since we played pitch-and-catch with pomegranates. When I was growing up, my best friends were the wild-ass pachucos. The first girl I ever… ' He paused, as if it might not be chivalrous to continue.
'I wouldn't fuck one of them greasy little tacos,' Pigtails said.
'You ought not to talk that way in front of a lady,' Rutledge warned.
'That's all right,' Sharon said. 'I've heard worse.'
'I respect the people who work for me. I got Guatemalan women five feet tall who can carry a watermelon in each hand. I got Hondurans who pick peaches so damn gracefully you'd think you were watching a conductor at a symphony. Once, an Indio from Chiapas chopped off his toe with a machete. He just tied it off at the knuckle and kept on working. When I found out, I drove him to the hospital myself. I wouldn't trade any one of them for a dozen of these losers, blaming everyone else for their own laziness and stupidity.'
Pigtails flushed. 'Ain't no wonder white people talk about you the way they do.'
'You mean white trash, don't you?'
'Maybe you don't know it, Rutledge, but someone posted a note on our website. Twenty thousand bucks to anyone who'll put a bullet in your big, fat head.'
Rutledge slipped the flask back into his shirt pocket. 'Only twenty grand? Hell, I'm insulted. But you better tell whoever wants that money to shoot me in the back. 'Cause if I see him first, I'll rip his heart out and feed it to my pigs.'
It was going to be a damn long night, Sharon thought.
FORTY-FIVE
Payne wondered if Cullen Quinn dyed his hair. The guy was in his mid-forties, and his hair was still blond. Except tonight, on the cheap TV in the motel room, it had taken on the hue of an Orange Crush. All-American looks, a high-paying job, and engaged to the woman Payne still loved. He hated the guy.
Jimmy and Tino had driven north from the border to El Centro, then west on I-8 through the West Mesa Desert. The only traffic was the occasional trailer truck blasting past them, with illustrations of curvaceous women on the mud flaps. The world a velvet black, except for the stars and the Mustang's headlight beams. The tires sang against the pavement, a hypnotic drone. Tino's head fell to his chest, then popped up.
' Buenos noches, Himmy,' he said, dozing off for good.
Payne had strained to stay alert. He'd driven all last night and hadn't slept in two days. Fearing he'd run off the road and into a ravine, he took the Coyote Wells exit and pulled into the first motel that didn't look like a haven for meth dealers.
A few hours of sleep, and they could find Wanda the Whale's stash house after sunrise. With luck, Marisol Perez would still be there. If not, she would be en route to a job somewhere, and they could pick up the trail.
Payne's thoughts turned to his ex-wife. Was his obsession with finding Marisol a subconscious attempt to win back Sharon? She was the one who sent him on this mission. Would proving himself a valiente also prove he was husband material?
Payne had carried Tino to the motel room, stepping around a fat-tailed scorpion scurrying across the sandy parking lot. The room smelled of disinfectants and cigarettes. A place where they changed the sheets every third day, but the cockroaches stayed forever. He eased Tino into one of the twin beds and covered him with a blanket.
Payne splashed water on his face and examined himself in the mirror. He needed a shave. He needed a haircut. He needed a life.
He plopped down on the second bed and turned on the TV. He'd let the drone of the talking box put him to sleep. He clicked through the channels, declining to buy a zirconium ring or send money to a Southern drawling minister. He hit the remote and there was Paul Newman, a down-and-out lawyer, pleading with a jury. The Verdict, a personal favorite.
'So much of the time we're just lost. We say, 'Please God, tell us what is right; tell us what is true.' And there is no justice. The rich win, the poor are powerless.'
Payne watched until justice was done and Newman redeemed, but it was just a movie. In real life, the rich win and the poor eat shit. Another click of the remote and he stumbled on Cullen Quinn's all-night immigration marathon. Jeez, the bastard was haunting him like Banquo's ghost. Quinn seemed to be in the middle of a debate with an older, craggy-faced cowboy.
'Wake up and smell the tacos,' the cowboy was saying. 'We need migrant workers, with or without documents.'
'The Big Lie,' Quinn shot back. 'The myth of the indispensable alien.'
'Myth? Ask the farmers in Idaho who's gonna pick their potatoes. Or cut the trees in Arkansas. Or slaughter cattle in Wisconsin. You ever been to a meat-packing plant, because I sure as hell know you never worked in one.'
'There are American workers who'd be happy to make those wages and pay their taxes, too.'
'Got news for you, Quinn. Even Mexicans with phony papers pay taxes when they rent apartments and buy beer and pickup trucks and TV sets. Their employers send Social Security payments to Washington, but the workers never get the benefits. Hell, we're making money off these people.'
'Not when they're sending most of their paychecks to Mexico.'
'You got something against poor families eating?'
There was a flinty crust to the old cowboy's voice, like the singe of charcoal on steak.
