A wrong number, he decided. It had to be.
An hour later, a little after eleven p.m., Squires and the girl were back at the hunting camp, walking from his truck toward the RV, as frogs chirred from a spatial darkness that was bordered by cypress trees and stars. He had been feeling pretty good about things up until then, but, suddenly, Squires didn’t feel so good anymore.
Shit!
Frankie was at the trailer, waiting for them. Laziro Victorino, too, along with some of his gangbanger soldiers, who came out of nowhere so fast they had their hands on Tula before Squires had time to do anything about it.
Up until then, though, it had been the best night he’d had in a while. The big man had been feeling better and better about helping the strange little girl instead of shooting her in the back of the head. And Squires had never seen the girl so happy.
On the drive from Immokalee to the hunting camp, she had sat in the passenger seat, chattering away, sounding excited because she had found out where her aunts and brother were living. Maybe her mother, too. Or so she thought.
But when Tula told Squires about it, he wasn’t so sure.
“Aunt Vilma and Isabel are working on a tomato farm in a city called Ocala!” Tula had exclaimed as she exited the church, waving a piece of paper. “I have Aunt Isabel’s phone number. And my brother, he picked oranges this winter. He was always so lazy, but it must be true.”
As they drove down Main Street, Immokalee, out of town, the girl was laughing, telling Squires, “Pacaw has moved around a lot, but he might be living outside a city that is named Venice. He had trouble finding work because he’s younger than me, only twelve-but he acts older. Everyone I met at the church thought he was at least sixteen. The people I met tonight, they are wonderful.”
Squires had to ask. “Did they say anything about me? Some tough Mexican dudes came outside and gave me some of their tough-taco shit. But you were… you know, in the middle of your speech. I didn’t want to cause no trouble.”
The big man said it expecting the girl to appreciate his thoughtfulness. Maybe she did, but he had hoped for a more positive reaction.
Squires gave it some time before he glanced at the girl and asked a question that had been on his mind: “You could have run out on me tonight, sis. You could’ve had your new friends call the cops. Why didn’t you? I was sitting here in the truck, wondering about it.”
The girl had looked at the giant, shaking her head, and didn’t bother to speak the words her affectionate expression was telling him.
Instead, she said, “I’m very hungry. One of the women-she was so sweet. She asked for a lock of my hair but didn’t have any scissors. She told me there is a very excellent restaurant not far. It’s called Taco Bell. You must be hungry, too.”
They used the Taco Bell drive-through, and Squires listened to the girl chomp down about half her weight in junk food as he drove-Tula, beside him, eating like it was the best Mex she’d ever had in her life.
Squires had the taco salad and an unsweetened iced tea. He was an athlete, for Christ’s sake. In his business, diet was everything, even during a bulking cycle. The perfect male body wasn’t built in the weight room, it was sculpted in the kitchen-Squires had read that someplace.
Ten miles from the hunting camp, the girl had gotten onto the subject of her missing mother, a conversation that Squires had tried to postpone because he already suspected where it was going.
“I keep trying to tell you the best news,” the girl had said to him. “My mother was working in restaurants and cleaning houses. But then she went to work for a very rich man and has been traveling a lot-which is probably why I haven’t heard from her. She didn’t tell anyone the man’s name. But she told someone’s niece that the man’s company makes movies. That she was going to become an actress! This was about two months ago, which is probably why she had to get a new telephone. My aunts or brother will know more when I talk to them. Didn’t I tell you that my mother is beautiful?”
Squires thought, Uh-oh… understanding immediately why Tula’s mother hadn’t told anyone her employer’s name. Either no one had revealed the name to her or the woman was too ashamed to admit it. Every Mexican in Florida knew that Laziro Victorino was a badass gang leader and the only films he had an interest in were porno and snuff films.
That gave Squires a sick feeling in his belly. She could have been talking about some other guy who made movies-but he strongly doubted it.
Tula’s mother must have been damn hard up for money to make such a decision, which wasn’t unusual for Mexican women who sent money back home. But to go to work for the V-man? It had to be more than just needing cash, Squires decided. Maybe she’d gotten hooked on crank or crack. No telling, but a lot of Mexican girls did after getting into porn or prostitution.
Squires remembered the little girl sniffing the little doll she’d found and saying her mother had one just like it. It didn’t prove the girl’s mother had been entertained by Victorino or Frankie, sitting in their trailer, drinking margaritas laced with Ecstasy. But it sure made it a strong possibility.
There was also an even more disturbing possibility, but just thinking about it made Squires feel queasy. That he’d been the one who’d entertained Tula’s mother-the Mexican chula in his sex dream. So Squires had changed the subject by handing Tula his iPhone, saying, “Call your aunt what’s her name. Tell her you’re okay. Where’d you say they’re living? Do it now because we’re going to lose reception the moment I turn off the road to my camp.”
“We’re not going back to the trailer park?” the girl asked, surprised. “That’s what I told the priest. That’s what I told everyone, that we’re returning to Red Citrus.” She hesitated. “I would feel better if I could sleep on my own cot and get my things. I have a book there I read every night before I turn off the light.”
Squires shook his head. “The camp’s closer, and I need a drink. We’ll get your things tomorrow.”
Guessing what the girl was worried about, he added, “Don’t worry, you’ll have your own bed. And all the damn privacy you want-as long as you promise to stop talking so much. What about calling your aunts?”
As Tula giggled in her seat, excited to be dialing her aunt, Squires thought about details. He wasn’t good at geography, but he’d done bodybuilding shows all over Florida. Tula had mentioned Ocala and Venice. They were both north, off Interstate 75, which was right on the way if they were driving to Mexico.
Damn… it was a big decision. Leaving the country had seemed like a smart thing to do earlier when he’d been drunk and scared shitless. Now, with the girl laughing and chattering in Spanish to her aunt, it suddenly seemed all too real. Like the idea was closing in and smothering him.
How would he feel riding with a bunch of wetbacks all that distance? His truck was a double cab, so there’d be enough room. Hell, Mexicans were like folding chairs. You could pack twenty of them into a Volkswagen. And it wasn’t like he’d be breaking any laws, since he’d be driving a load of illegal immigrants back to where they belonged. Still, the prospect seemed so foreign to him that he began searching for an alternative.
But no matter how Squires viewed his situation, he couldn’t get around the fact that if the cops questioned Tula about the dead Mexican girl, they’d arrest him for something, probably murder. Laziro Victorino was in the back of his mind, too.
Then Squires thought about the way the girl had described her village. It was quiet and clean, she’d said. A place that was high in the mountains where it was cool, and closer to God.
Squires told himself he didn’t care anything about God. But he was sure sick of Florida, where he’d been doing stupid, illegal shit, always feeling guilty- a dirty life, Tula had described it, and the girl was right.
All his problems would be solved, though, if he took Tula and her family to Mexico. No more murder rap, no worrying about cops busting his steroid business, no more of Frankie’s bullying, and of her sick, twisted ways.