Marisol had never met the coyote, but she recognized him immediately.
Shiny, tight black pants, tucked into pointy boots. Wraparound reflecting sunglasses and black felt Tejano hat, he looked like a low-life gambler at a cockfight. His black shirt with pearl-colored buttons was open halfway to his waist, and a heavy gold crucifix dangled in front of his hairy chest. His face was pitted with acne scars shaped like tiny fishhooks.
The man called himself 'El Tigre,' although this tiger had a paunch pouring over his turquoise belt buckle. At the moment, he was using his fingers to dig into a platter of deep-fried anchovies.
When he saw Marisol and Tino approach, El Tigre wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. The other hand was wrapped around a bottle of Tecate. Nodding, he said, 'Do you have the money?'
'We have two thousand, three hundred dollars cash,' she answered, taking a seat. 'All my savings.'
He took a swig of the beer. 'Not enough. It is three thousand dollars each. And no discount for the little one.'
Tino bristled and started to speak, but his mother kicked him under the table.
'We will pay you the rest when we cross over and can borrow the money from my aunt,' she said.
El Tigre's mouth creased into a smile, displaying an array of gold-lined teeth that had taken on a greenish hue, as if covered with algae. 'Your aunt? Why does everyone have an aunt in El Norte? I bet she's a rich woman with a mansion in Phoenix.'
'A nice house in Torrance, California. My uncle owns a gasoline station there.'
Marisol was weaving her story out of threads plucked from the air. True, she had an aunt, a miserly woman who had married an American and refused to return to Mexico, even for her sister's funeral. The last Marisol knew, her aunt lived in Torrance, where she managed a trailer park. But that was ten years ago, and Marisol had no idea where the old crow lived now.
Marisol did not like to lie. Her father taught her the value of honesty and hard work, and she tried to live up to his standards. As a young girl in Hermosillo, how proud she had been of him. In his crisp, clean jumpsuit with the Ford Motor Company logo, he looked… well, like an Americano. Proud, too, when he told her how he had refused an Anglo supervisor's request to falsify inspection records on Lincoln Continentals.
'I told him I'll rot in hell before I lie to the company!' her father thundered.
Soon after that, the supervisor arranged for Edgardo Perez to be fired. Her father, Marisol knew, was a courageous and honorable man. And, ultimately, a tragic one.
'Sometimes, Papi, it is all right to lie.'
'I promise I will pay you,' she told the fat and sweaty coyote. 'I swear on my father's grave.' Neglecting to mention that her nonbelieving father never attended church and the only time Edgardo visited Mexico City, he spat curses in front of Catedral Metropolitana. On the other hand, Marisol's mother attended Mass every morning. It made for interesting discussions over dinner. Marisol's beliefs fell somewhere between the two. She knew her Bible but was not blind to the failings of the Church. She sensed a spirit greater than her own and prayed it would protect Tino and her. Especially now.
'I do not give credit,' El Tigre said. 'But maybe we can work something out.'
He placed a plump hand on Marisol's bare arm. She wore a short-sleeve white peasant blouse with two buttons undone. The pig was studying the rise and fall of her breasts. Nothing new. Marisol was used to men pawing her on job sites. She had learned to accept this fact of life. Only when the abuse became intolerable-a hand slipped down her pants-did she retaliate. Her father had taught her how to throw a punch with a turn of the hips and a straight, quick arm. In her experience at construction sites, a balpeen hammer worked even better.
'Why the rush to leave Mexico?' El Tigre asked.
'Family matters.' Keeping it vague.
'I cross tonight and come back tomorrow. Why not stay here a few days, and we can get to know each other better.'
'We go when we want!' Tino piped up.
El Tigre scowled. 'You go when I say.'
'Maybe we cross by ourselves,' Tino shot back.
'Tino, quiet,' his mother ordered.
' Mami, I could build a raft, and we could float up the New River.'
El Tigre burped a beer-and-anchovy laugh. 'The river is full of shit, and so are you, chico.'
Marisol winced but did not reply. There were times to kick a man in the kneecap and times to appeal to a slightly higher region. She softened her look and let her eyes water. 'Your charges are so high.'
El Tigre launched into a defense of his prices. He had expenses. Lookouts and guides and vehicles and drivers. Stash houses on both sides of the border. Bribes to the judicales and the federales. Protection money to the mafia de los coyotes because he was a freelancer. Then there were the risks.
'?Pinche rinche por todas partes!'
Fucking cops everywhere.
Marisol did not appreciate the profanity in front of her son, but for now she must try to get along with this foul and repulsive man.
'If you get caught, they just send you back,' El Tigre said. 'But for me, it's prison. Or I get shot by bandits. Or vigilantes. The Minutemen. Patriot Patrol. All those gabachos with guns. And now, the U.S. Army. The Border Patrol knows what they're doing. But the soldiers! Scared kids who think we're all drug runners.'
'Instead of the humanitarians you are,' Marisol said, evenly.
He did not catch the sarcasm, rambling on, boasting of his knowledge of the Border Patrol's motion detectors and TV cameras, infrared binoculars, and drone aircraft. How La Migra had beefed up patrols. Ford Expeditions, like always. But now on horseback, too, with Indian trackers from Arizona. Vaqueros y indios. Cowboys and Indians. Just like in the movies.
'If the wind is right, the Indians can smell your burlap sacks a mile away,' he claimed. 'You need someone who knows what they're doing. I don't lose people in the mountains or leave them to die in the desert.'
Marisol leaned over the table, exposing even more decolletage, showing the line where the darker sun- burnished skin gave way to the softness of her creme de cacao complexion. She put a wistful note in her voice. 'But if you are going tonight, and have room for two more, I promise to pay you later.'
El Tigre wiped beads of sweat from his forehead, then drained the rest of his beer. He seemed to be weighing the options, using his limited brains and his even more limited morals.
'I won't disappoint you,' she said, spicing her words like chiles in hot sauce.
He took a pen out of a shirt pocket and scribbled an address on a paper napkin. 'The stash house. We leave at midnight. Bring the money you have. We will work out the rest.'
He smiled a gold-capped grin, the contented look of a wolf contemplating a lamb.
EIGHT
Sleep. Dammit. Sleep!
Maybe it was the oysters, Payne thought.
From the Chimney Sweep, Payne had moved to the Oyster House, a neighborhood saloon in Studio City.
Dinner alone.
Sitting at the bar. A dozen oysters, a spicy cioppino stew, two Sam Adams drafts, and the complimentary peach schnapps the regulars receive.
Payne would have liked to have shared dinner with a woman. But who?
Maybe Carol, a former client who loved shopping at Saks on Wilshire, but skipping the inconvenience of paying. Was she out of jail yet?
Or Polly, a kosher caterer in Brentwood who specialized in festive circumcision brunches. Her business, Prelude to a Bris, was booming.
Or that woman who owned the cat condo in Rancho Cucamonga. Hair in a tabby-colored shag, big hoop earrings. Jeez, what was her name? Well, if he couldn't remember, it must not have gone that well. And now that he thought about it, hadn't Cat Lady had a funky smell?
