'All right, my little valiente. '
'I am not so little, Mami. '
The truck headed west through a mountain pass on Federal Highway 2, then across a rocky, barren landscape, over bridges that traversed ravines and dry washes, finally curling up a mountain road through narrow canyons, dangerously close to steep cliffs. It was a moonless night-helpful for crossing undetected-the only light the twinkling stars overhead.
'It's okay, Mami, ' Tino said. 'Everything will be okay.'
Marisol hadn't realized it, but she was squeezing her son's hand. Squeezing so hard, he had to pry her fingers loose.
'Of course it will,' she said.
They came to a mountain town called 'La Rumorosa' — named for the winds that whistled through the canyons-and stopped outside a small house of sand-colored rocks. A threadbare sofa and two living room chairs, springs sprung, sagged in the front yard, facing a fire of mesquite wood. Three young men lounged on the furniture, one cleaning what looked like a sub-machine gun, the other breaking down a handgun. The third man smoked a joint. He waved in the general direction of the truck but didn't get off the sofa.
El Tigre banged his horn. 'Let's go, Rey!'
Rey, the pot smoker, looked to be about twenty years old. Baggy pants, shaved head, his body all cords and wires. A muscle-tee displayed his tattoos: Aztec symbols, Mexican flag, and a green snake that crawled up his neck. His goal in life appeared to be to spend as much time as possible in prison.
Heavy-lidded, Rey jammed a handgun into the front of his pants, lazed his way around the truck, and peered into the bed.
'Who are you?' Tino asked, before Marisol could keep him quiet.
'You ever hear of the Avenue 57 Chicos?' Rey's smile showed yellow teeth and undisguised malice.
'No.'
'You will, chico.'
Great, Marisol thought. A gangbanger. Or, at the very least, someone who wanted to be.
El Tigre hit the horn again. He must like the sound. Then he swung his bulk out of the cab, stood on the running board, and said, 'Rey's my nephew. He'll watch for bandits until we cross over. But stay out of his way. He is a terrible shot.'
'?Chingate, Tio!'
Rey telling his uncle to have sex with himself. The family must be very proud of the young man, Marisol thought.
El Tigre plopped back into the cab, and his nephew slithered into the passenger seat. With a final toot of the horn, El Tigre gunned the engine. Spitting up dirt, the truck bounced onto the mountain road and into the darkness of the Mexican night.
TEN
Payne called 911 and was immediately cross-examined.
'Yes, I'm sure it was a gunshot.'
'No, I'm not at the judge's house.'
'No, I'm not armed! Jeez, get the paramedics over there!'
A woman at the other end of the line asked him to hold a moment.
Payne paced in a tight circle. Fully awake now, wound tight, filled with regret. Judge Rollins was corrupt, but he didn't deserve this.
'Is this Mr. James Payne?' asked the woman on the phone.
Oh, shit.
He hadn't given his name.
The woman recited his home address and the fact that he had three unpaid parking tickets and two citations for failing to clear brush from his property.
The L.A.P.D.'s enhanced caller I.D. The city can't fix the potholes, but it can snoop into our living rooms.
Technology would lead the cops straight to his front door. They would ask all those nosy cop questions about his visit to the judge. They probably wouldn't do a Rodney King on his skull, but who wants another Grand Jury looking into his affairs?
Payne clicked off without saying good-bye. He needed time to think, and this wasn't the place. He dressed hurriedly, grabbed the envelope with the five grand he had skimmed, and hopped into his car. Headed west on Oxnard, hung a right on Van Nuys, and parked on Delano, two blocks from his office. Payne was seldom in his office between nine and five, much less in the middle of the night. Still, no use advertising his presence with his Lexus by the door.
The chambers of J. Atticus Payne, Esquire, solo practitioner, occupied a one-story, wood-shingled bungalow built in the 1920s and not updated since. The paint was peeling, the porch sagging, and the siding tearing loose. A California Craftsman gone to seed.
Rent was cheap, and the place was close to the courthouse, bail bondsman's office, and the police station. The small backyard had been paved over to provide parking for three cars, even though many of Payne's clients arrived by bus, walking the last few blocks from the Van Nuys Civic Center.
The shelves were lined with law books that Payne never read, the desk cluttered with mail never to be answered. Atop his first-generation fax machine, a single slice of pepperoni pizza looked alarmingly like a chunk of plasterboard with skin cancer. He tossed the envelope with the hundred-dollar bills into a desk drawer and opened a cabinet that was intended for litigation files but contained vodka, bourbon, Scotch, tequila, and coffee liqueur. Payne had not been much of a drinker until the accident. After his surgery, he sought relief from the pain by washing down Vicodin with white Russians.
He contented himself now with some Maker's Mark, neat, in a dirty cup. He kicked some files off an old corduroy sofa and stretched out. He did not know what he would do in the morning, though he vaguely recollected that he had an eight a.m. hearing in Superior Court, just down the street.
Exhaustion kicked in along with the bourbon. His eyes drifted closed, then opened, then descended again like balky garage doors. His last conscious thought was of Adam tossing a ball to him. The boy was rangy, all legs and elbows, with a rubbery arm. He could throw hard. Just like Payne at that age, fast but wild. With that thought, and the timeless echo of a leather ball smacking into the pocket of a finely oiled glove, Jimmy finally cruised into a restless sleep.
ELEVEN
El Tigre pulled the pickup truck off the highway, onto a dirt road west of La Rumorosa. Nothing for miles except dark canyons and sheer cliffs.
Everyone piled out of the truck bed. Two of the campesinos from the south began urinating several feet away, the splashing audible. Barnyard animals, Marisol thought, so inconsiderate they cannot walk twenty feet to relieve themselves behind a cactus.
She heard El Tigre screaming into his cell phone.
'?Chingalo! One car? I told you, a van! Asshole! I got ten pollos.'
'What's happening?' Mirasol asked Rey, his leaden eyes hidden now behind sunglasses.
'Stupid gabacho driver on other side only has one car,' Rey said. 'We got to make two trips across.'
Once again, Marisol tightened her grip on Tino's hand.
After another explosion of Spanish curses, El Tigre clicked off the phone and, for the second time tonight, counted his passengers. Luckily, he had just enough fingers to complete the tabulation. 'Five men, five women.' He looked toward Tino. 'I'm putting you with the men. Are you a good runner?'
