providing freebies for local cops and town bigwigs. She'd probably still be 'Madame Wanda,' but for a judge from Ocotillo who picked up a dose of the clap. Cops shut her down but let her open the stash house in return for monthly bundles of cash.
Now, beached in her recliner, Wanda the Whale tried to cool herself with a handheld Japanese silk fan, as rivulets of sweat tracked down her cleavage. She explained that the No Vacancy sign was posted because she never rented any cabins. The Sugarloaf was a way station, providing a night or two of housing for the flood of Mexicans, Guatemalans, Hondurans, and Salvadorans who crossed La Frontera without papers.
After a couple good years, things had slowed down. Upstate, strawberries and citrus got hammered in a winter freeze. Farmers with only half a crop needed half the workers. The slowdown in home construction killed jobs for laborers. And the feds had scared off a lot of businesses who needed workers.
'A perfect shitstorm,' she informed them. 'Getting so a woman can't make a semi-honest living.' She shifted her weight in the chair, and the cabin may have tilted a little more out of plumb. 'So who's this gal you're looking for?'
'Mi mami,' Tino said. 'Marisol Perez.'
The woman's face brightened. 'The pretty one. Ah should have known. She told me she got separated from her boy.'
'That's her! Is she here?'
'I can see the resemblance now. You got the same shape face, the same complexion. But those green eyes of yours threw me off.'
'Where is she?' Payne said. 'Is she okay?'
'Ah never would have sent her to the slaughterhouse, except to get her away from that douche bag El Tigre.'
'She's working?'
'Where?' Tino pleaded.
Wanda sighed, her breasts heaving under the cropped tee. 'Let me tell you what happened.'
Tino's eyes filled with tears as Wanda repeated what her driver had told her. Marisol fighting off a foreman at the plant, hurting him real bad. Hell, maybe even killing him.
'Ah couldn't bring her back here. Cops would be banging on my door. If not them, then the cousins of that asshole foreman. Had my driver take her to a stash house in Hellhole Canyon.'
'Is she still there?' Payne asked.
Wanda shrugged. 'Hard to tell. Place is run by a tweaker named Dickie Chitwood. Real trailer trash. Rumor is, the place is owned by some rich guy upstate.'
'We'll need directions.'
'Ain't far, as the crow flies. About three hours if you don't get lost. Or three days if you do.'
'We'll find it.'
'That's what I'm afraid of.'
Payne's look shot her a question.
'Chitwood's partial to a Ruger carbine. Damn good shot for someone stoked on crystal meth. And he don't have a kind heart like me, so you take care.'
FORTY-EIGHT
On her second day in Hellhole Canyon, Marisol sat in the shade and watched the Nazi argue with a Hispanic man who wore work boots, jeans, and a T-shirt printed with the name of a raisin company. He was about forty, with a sun-creased face.
'You're one pollo short, Chitwood.'
Chitwood. The Nazi's name. Marisol pledged to remember that. If the time ever came, she would help bring the man to justice for shooting the Honduran man through the forehead, instead of the apple through the core.
'You can't count, Guillermo.' Chitwood scratched at his goat's beard with a filthy fingernail. 'Must be them inner-city schools.'
'If Zaga don't kill you, Rutledge will.'
'Fuck them.' Chitwood's rifle was slung over a shoulder. Marisol thought Guillermo was either very brave or did not know that Chitwood was an insane drogadicto.
Guillermo dug the toe of one boot into the dirt. Came up with a wet clump. Blood. 'You shot one, didn't you?'
'What's the matter, Guillermo? Feeling sorry for your countrymen?'
'My family's lived in California for five generations. My ancestors owned ranches when yours were in debtors' prison.'
'You're still a greaser to me.'
'Eres un basurero humano.' Spitting out the words, calling him a human garbage dump. 'I don't like the pollos any more than you do, Chitwood. They embarrass me, give my people a bad name. But I do my job and get stoned on my own time. You're a fucking lunatic.'
'I don't have to take your shit. I don't work for you.'
Chitwood fingered the rifle butt. Marisol felt herself stiffen. She pictured him whipping the gun around, killing Guillermo, then shooting all the migrants, herself included.
'Zaga's in Calexico,' Guillermo said. 'If I call him, he'll be here in two hours.'
'Like I give a shit. Just load your goddamn van and get going.'
'Maybe I'll call Mr. Rutledge directly. He'll have your ass.'
'Then who'll live out here with no hot water, chickenshit up to their ass? Rutledge can't afford to lose me.'
'Rutledge can afford to lose anyone he wants.'
Chitwood lifted the rifle and fired a burst into the air. Marisol winced. But Guillermo stood in place, never moving. 'I'm taking the pollos, you stupid shitkicker. But this isn't over.'
Five minutes later, Marisol and the others were herded into the back of a windowless white van. A sign on its side read, Sweet Valley Raisin Co. Maybe that was where she would be working. The dark, windowless compartment stank of sweat and dust and urine. Nineteen men, women, and children packed inside, shoulders scrunched against one another, arms across knees.
Packed like animals in a pen, Marisol thought. Like the cattle at the slaughterhouse. As the van pulled out and headed to an unknowable destination, she said yet another prayer, not for herself, but for her son, wherever he might be.
FORTY-NINE
Jimmy and Tino headed east on I-8, then turned north on the 86 at El Centro. Near the lake, they took the Salton Sea Highway west into the desert. By midday, the sun was high, the air blazing hot. Sand blew across the highway and ping ed off the Mustang's windshield.
Tino could not stop thinking about what Wanda had told him. So many strange feelings. Pride at how his mother fought back, but shame that he wasn't there to rescue her. His mother, who would do anything for him.
'That cabron at the slaughterhouse,' the boy said. 'You think he's dead?'
'Wanda didn't seem to know.'
'If he isn't, I'll kill him myself.'
'Keep your eye on the ball, kid. We're looking for your mom, that's all.'
'A gabacho wouldn't understand.'
'You'd be surprised.'
