Paul Levine - Illegal

He had to go to Mexico. He had to find Manuel Garcia. And he had to kill him.

The huge American woman held a rusty machete, her arm plump as a chicken. "C'mon. Git inside."

She pointed the machete at the five women and motioned toward the door of the wooden cabin.

The Americana was the largest woman Marisol had ever seen. Her skin was the bluish white of milk drained of its fat. Her stomach spilled out of purple nylon basketball shorts, and her bleached yellow hair was tied around rollers, like steel cables looped on spools. She must be the owner of the clavo, the stash house, Marisol concluded. The house was actually half-a-dozen dilapidated cabins next to railroad tracks outside the desert town of Ocotillo, a few miles north of the border. A sign out front read Sugarloaf Lodge, but there did not seem to be any lodgers.

"What you waiting for?" the woman bawled at them. "Git your brown butts inside now.?Vaya!! Vaya! "

Dutifully, the women climbed the three sagging steps and, like cattle, shouldered their way through the open door.

"Not her." El Tigre blocked Marisol's path.

The woman waved her machete. "Don't be messing with my wets, dickwad."

"Yours?"

"Till Ah get paid, you bet your ass."

El Tigre cursed her in Spanish. She shouted that he owed her money. He yelled that the money was owed by the repartidor, the labor contractor who would take these worthless peasants to the farms and factories waiting for them.

They argued for several minutes, El Tigre boasting that only his brilliance and bravery got them here at all. They were nearly captured at the border. A Border Patrol helicopter missed seeing them on the mountain, as he had cleverly placed the group so the sun would block them from view. Despite great odds, the courageous El Tigre located the trailhead and waited for the driver of the Duster to bring them here.

He grabbed Marisol's arm and tried to pull her to him.

The woman pointed the tip of the machete at El Tigre's groin. "Ah got no problem chopping your little pecker into chorizo and feeding it to my dog."

"?Bacalao!" Calling her the filthiest name a man can call a woman.

The woman barked a laugh that made her fleshy arms quiver. "Listen to the Frito Bandito. Pissy as a skunk."

El Tigre still had a grip on Marisol's arm. "This one owes me money."

"That don't give you the right to lay your hands on her. Ah've known men like you all my life, and Ah've drawn blood from more than a few. All without a god-damn regret."

She jabbed the machete between El Tigre's thighs. He hopped back a step and released his grip. Cursed once more, then stomped off.

Marisol nodded a thank-you to the large woman and climbed the steps to the cabin. Bare wooden floors, no furniture. An open toilet, one sink. Perforated metal screens sealing the windows. She sat on the floor, cross-legged, the fatigue and terror of the night seeping into her bones.

"Don't know if you gals speak American, but doncha worry," the huge woman said. "Wanda's got you covered. Welcome, one and all, to the promised fucking land."

Tino took the subway to the wrong station, then landed on the wrong bus. The street signs flew by, a blur of meaningless names.

Hollywood Freeway. Lankershim Boulevard. Sherman Way.

But where is Van Nuys and the office of Mr. J. Atticus Payne?

He asked for directions then changed buses, dozing off as an elderly couple next to him chattered in Chinese. Nine hours after heading for the subway station, the bus driver dropped him at a complex of government buildings and told him to walk the rest of the way.

The sun was setting as Tino passed the Van Nuys Courthouse. Close by, a one-story building had a flashing neon sign, Bail Bonds. Two young black women in very short skirts and very bright wigs walked out of the building. One wore a green stretchy top with letters as gold as melon seeds, spelling out, "If You Think My T-Shirt Is Tight…"

She spotted Tino and called, "Hi there, cutie!"

The other one approached and ran a hand over his head. "What I wouldn't give to have your hair."

Next door was another small office building. A sign said, P. J. Steele, Private Investigations. The windows were darkened glass, the place mysterious.

Two blocks away, he found Delano Street and a sign stuck into the front yard of a small house with peeling paint. J. Atticus Payne, Esquire. It was not what he had pictured. In the bus, he had passed tall silver buildings, thin as blades, rising to the sky. He thought that Mr. Payne must be in one of those buildings, conducting important business.

But this?

He walked onto the front porch, floorboards groaning. The door was locked, the windows dark. A driveway led to the back of the house. What must have been a small yard was now pavement with parking for three cars. Empty.

Now what? It was getting dark. Where would he spend the night?

And where is Mami spending this night?

Then he figured that Mr. Payne would be here in the morning.

And so will I.

Tino went to a small side window with three glass louvers in metal slats. Too small for anyone to crawl through. Except maybe a boy.

The window was cracked open two inches. Tino muscled the glass out of the slats and squeezed through, falling onto a tile floor. He found a light switch and looked around. A messy desk. Books. Files. Empty coffee cups, a paper bag greased with French fries. On the floor, cardboard boxes marked Storage.

He had never been in a lawyer's office, but he had seen them on telenovelas. Usually, a television lawyer had a fancy haircut, wore an expensive suit, and had sex with his beautiful secretary on a clean desk of polished wood. Here, the desk was dirty, and there would be no room for any fun.

Tino opened several cabinet doors. More papers and files.

Then, a liquor cabinet. Half a dozen bottles. He sampled the bourbon and made a face. Same with a bottle of Scotch. Found a bottle of Chinaco Blanco tequila. Sipped it. Better than the stuff they served at the cantina at home. He found a coffee cup that was nearly clean and filled it.

Looked around some more. On the desk, a photo of a smiling man and a boy with wheat-colored hair, a little younger than himself. The boy wore a baseball uniform and cap. Baseball glove on his knee. Tino thought of his own baseball glove, taken by those pendejos. If he had a father, someone like the smiling man who must be J. Atticus Payne, no one would take his most valuable possession.

Tino sat in the cushioned chair behind the desk and spun in a circle, like the merry-go-round at the Caborca carnaval. He took another drink of the tequila. And then one more.

Opened the middle desk drawer. Dried-up pens, coins, stamps, a bottle of vitamins, some empty envelopes.

And one envelope that was full. Plump and weighty in the hand. Unsealed.

Filled with hundred-dollar bills!

Tino's breath caught in his throat. He glanced around as if someone might be watching. He felt guilty, like seeing one of the nuns naked.

But I haven't done anything. Yet.

Hastily, he turned off the lights. There was a small refrigerator on the floor behind the desk. Tino dropped to his knees, opened the door, and counted the money in the glow of the tiny light.

Fifty one-hundred-dollar bills.

His mother had taught him never to steal. But this was an emergency. With all that money, maybe he did not need Mr. Payne. From the looks of this office, the lawyer might not be as big and important as his mother had thought.

Tino thought of television shows he had seen. When someone is missing, you hire a private investigator, like the one down the street. P. J. Steele. He liked the name. Strong. American. A private eye could find his mother, Tino thought, especially if he is paid five thousand dollars.