"Watch out for the encargado, " the driver had warned her, before driving off. "A drogadicto who thinks he is a Nazi. Probably insane. Just wait for the van and stay away from him."
With that, Marisol was left in the shade among defecating chickens and snoring migrants, the corrugated roof hot as a griddle.
She heard a scream. A woman yelling, "No! No! No!"
Marisol squinted into the sunlight. The woman's husband, a Mexican of perhaps forty, stood with his back against a tree, his hands up by his ears, holding onto a squirming, squawking chicken. Thirty feet away, the Nazi aimed his rifle at the man.
No, that's not it!
The Nazi was trying to shoot the chicken off the man's head. A surreal sight, a scene from a nightmare, a hallucination.
"Hold still, Pancho!" the Nazi yelled. "Christ! Hold that bird still before it shits on your head!"
Trembles shook the man's body. The chicken flapped its wings and screeched.
The man's wife wailed in Spanish, invoking the names of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
"Stand up straight, goddammit!" the Nazi ordered.
The man's knees buckled.
"I can shoot the freckle off a rabbit's nose at fifty feet. But you gotta hold still, Pancho."
The man squeezed his eyes shut.
The sound of the gunshot echoed off the canyon walls. The man fell to the ground, screaming, his face covered with blood.
"You ain't hit, Pancho! If you was hit, you wouldn't be yelling."
The decapitated chicken flopped on the ground, spurting gore.
"Who's next? Who wants to be in the circus?"
The driver was right, Marisol thought. This man is insane.
"C'mon now! Deadeye Dickie Chitwood is just warming up."
The migrants studied the tops of their boots, sneakers, and huaraches.
"You! Come on down!" Pointing at a man next to Marisol. Mid-twenties. Honduran, she thought, coppery complexion with Indian features. The man didn't resist, didn't say a word. Just walked to the blood-spattered tree and stood there. Like he'd taken orders all his life.
"My man!" the Nazi shouted. "See!" He gestured to the silent migrants under the corrugated sheet metal. "No fear. This greaser's gonna make a lot of money climbing peach trees for Mr. Rutledge."
The Nazi took an apple from the back pocket of his jeans, placed it on the Honduran's head. The apple fell to the ground.
"Pick that up, goddammit! You let it drop again, I'll dig you a third eye."
The man put the apple back on his head. This time, it stayed in place, even as the man's legs swayed.
The Nazi moved back to a mark he had made in the dirt, then sighted the rifle. "Gotta adjust for wind and curvature of the earth." Another cackle of laughter. He was still laughing when he pulled the trigger.
An explosion blew apart the man's forehead, and he sank to the ground as if his knees were made of butter.
"Oh, shit!" the Nazi said. "Gonna be one wet short for Mr. Rutledge."
Her stomach clenching, Marisol turned away.
One more day, Tino, she promised herself.
I will live one more day, and I will see you before I die.
FORTY-ONE
In Mexicali, heading north toward the border, the souped-up Mustang passed rows of whitewashed wooden crosses, printed with block-lettered names. Honoring the pollos who died trying to reach El Norte.
Tino watched the crosses fly by, reading the names in the headlights.
Serafin Rivera Lopez.
Pedro Morranchel Quintero.
Graciela Gonzalez.
Several crosses simply said, No Identificado.
Tino felt his gut tighten. He knew where his mother had been left. A stash house called "Sugarloaf Lodge." But was she still there? She could have been taken someplace. To another state, even. What if he searched the rest of his life and never found her? What if she was no identificado?
It was nearly midnight, but the road north was crowded. Campesinos from the countryside pushed carts filled with fruits and vegetables. Along the berm, women sold travel gear. Backpacks, plastic jugs of water, cans of tuna and sardines. Pollos buying last-minute supplies before venturing north.
They passed a small stucco building painted red. Grupo Beta. A government agency that tried to discourage border crossings. Letters two feet high were painted across the front of the building. La Busqueda de un Sueno Americano Puede Ser Tu Peor Pesadilla- The search for the American dream could be your worst nightmare.
Too late for that warning, Tino thought.
They traveled in silence a few moments before the boy blurted out, "Who's Adam?"
"What?" The question seemed to stun Payne. "Why do you ask?"
"This morning, on the highway, when the cop asked my name, you said 'Adam.' "
Payne let out a long train whistle of a sigh. "My son. He was killed in a car accident. Fourteen months ago. Drunk driver."
"Garcia? The Mexican?"
Payne shot him a look. "How'd you know that?"
"Back in the pretty lady's kitchen. You said you were going to Mexico to kill a man named Garcia."
"Jesus. What else did you hear?"
"Everything you said. Why do grown-ups think kids aren't listening? Where's Garcia now?"
"The best I can figure, back in Oaxaca. Fled the scene of the accident. Left the country."
"No papers, right?"
"Right."
Tino tried to process the information. "What about those Mexicans who got fried in the trailer truck?"
"What about them?"
"You helped them."
"I helped the survivors stay in the country."
"Before or after your accident?"
"Before. Why?"
Tino took a moment, not sure he should ask. "If it had been the other way around, if Garcia had killed Adam first, would you have still helped the mojados?"
"I don't hold it against the entire country that one drunk Mexican ran a red light. But I haven't gone out of my way to help anyone-American, Mexican, or Martian-since Adam died."
"You still would have helped the mojados."
"What makes you think so?"
"You're helping me, aren't you?"
Payne shot him a glance. "Sharon made me, kiddo."
"Sure, Himmy. Sure."
Turning back to the road, Payne swerved to give room to three old Mexican men walking along the pavement. They wore long-sleeve shirts buttoned up to the neck and carried canvas sacks. Tino had seen men like this all his life. But now, for some unexplainable reason, now the Mexicanos looked foreign to him.
"Himmy, I'm real sorry for you and the pretty lady."
Payne took his hand off the wheel and tousled Tino's mop of hair. "Thanks, kiddo."
"I saw his picture. Adam, I mean."
"Where?"
"In your office. He was wearing a uniform."
"Little League. He liked to catch. Used to wear his shin guards around the house."
"That baseball bat." Tino gestured toward the backseat. "Adam's, right?"
"Right."
"I bet you coached his team, too."
"Yep. You keep this up, the L.A.P.D. will give you a detective's shield." Payne was quiet another moment before saying, "It wasn't all Garcia's fault."
"What do you mean? You said he was drunk and ran a red light."
"I was looking out the window at the ocean. Just before Garcia hit us, I was watching some terns feeding in the shore-break. One second, two seconds, maybe. If I'd been looking straight ahead, maybe I'd have seen Garcia's truck coming. Maybe I could have done something."
The memory crashed over Payne, swept by an incoming tide of bone-chilling cold.
If this, maybe that. A second here, a second there.
If he'd seen the truck…
He'd be playing catch with Adam today. He'd still be married to Sharon. He wouldn't have gone nuts and said: "Screw the rules; I don't care anymore." He wouldn't be the guy the cops set up to bribe a judge. At this very moment, he wouldn't be sneaking back into the United States with phony papers, in a stolen car.