Paul Levine - Illegal

"I've been in a jam since the day I met you. Now get out of here."

"I gotta pee first," Tino said.

Sharon gave the boy directions down the hall to the guest bath, then hurriedly started emptying the refrigerator. Juice. Peaches. Apples. A box of pretzels from under the cupboard. She put everything in brown grocery bags. "Take this for Tino. You know how hungry boys get."

"He's not going to summer camp." Sounding grumpy.

"Can I count on you to take care of him?" Those maternal instincts again.

"He'll probably steal my car when I stop for gas. That kid is a ton of trouble in a hundred-pound body."

"He likes you. I can tell."

"When I can't find his mother, how's he gonna feel?"

"Where's that old confidence? Where's the fearless J. Atticus Payne?"

"You know damn well where. On a hillside at Forest Lawn."

That kept her quiet a moment.

They heard a car pull into the driveway.

"Shit," Sharon said. "Where'd you park?"

"A driveway up the hill, behind some jacaranda trees."

"Go out the back door. I'll get Tino."

"I'm here," the boy said, popping back into the kitchen.

Jimmy still hadn't moved.

"Go!" She brush-kissed him on the lips.

"What about me, chica?"

She kissed the boy on the cheek, then smacked his butt.

The doorbell rang. "Good luck, guys," Sharon said, shooing them out the back door.

As they crossed the yard at double time, hunched over like commandos, Tino whispered to Jimmy, "You play your cards right, Himmy, that chica caliente will be in your bed soon."

"Too late for that, kid. Sharon's moved on."

"Donde fuego hubo, ascuas quedan."

"Where there was fire… " Jimmy couldn't translate the rest. "Embers remain," Tino helped out.

"I don't know, kid."

"I do, Himmy. I could feel the heat."

Rattlesnake bites.

Dehydration, exposure, and thirst.

Robbery, rape, and murder.

So many ways to die crossing the border.

Just before dawn, Payne was at the wheel of the Lexus, pondering what could have happened to Tino's mother. He figured she didn't meet a wealthy gringo, fall in love, and elope to Las Vegas.

The desert was littered with bones of unknown men, women, and children who traveled with one bag of clothing and one jug of water, envisioning the promised land. An achingly sad Freddy Fender song came to Payne. The one about a place with streets of gold, always just across the borderline.

"You could lose more than you'll ever hope to find."

Payne shot a look over his shoulder. The boy was curled up in the backseat. He had fallen asleep before they reached San Bernardino. He awakened when they stopped for gas near Indio, a desert town where a drunken Sinatra and Ava Gardner once shot out street-lamps from the front seat of Frank's Caddy convertible.

By the time the Lexus exited the 10 and headed due south on old State Route 86, Tino was sacked out again. Listening to the tires sing on the pavement, Payne fought to stay awake. He didn't want to be here, hated the responsibility he had taken on. Sharon had convinced him to do something for someone else. As if that would heal him.

Doesn't she see I've got nothing left to give?

There were aid agencies for undocumented migrants. Churches. Nonprofits. Do-gooders all. Payne could find a place, drop the kid off in the morning, and head to Mexico after Manuel Garcia.

No I can't. I just made a promise to Sharon.

Damn, what is this hold she has on me?

Payne's thoughts turned to Marisol Perez, the dark-haired beauty in the photo the boy kept next to his heart. The woman had placed her life into the hands of a coyote and simply vanished into the night.

What if Payne learned she was dead? How could he tell the boy? Not that the experience would be entirely new to him. He once told a mother her boy was dead. His boy, too.

Even if Marisol was safe somewhere, how could he find her? All the kid knew was that the coyote named El Tigre was supposed to take them to a stash house near Calexico. But that could be a farmhouse in a remote canyon. All those dirt trails leading into the desert. All those ravines halfway to nowhere. The enormity of their task seemed overwhelming.

Sure, he would do his best to find Marisol Perez. His good deed. Then he would go to Mexico and find Manuel Garcia. His murderous deed.

He turned on the radio to keep himself awake. Green Day was singing "Boulevard of Broken Dreams."

"I walk a lonely road."

Tell me about it, Payne thought.

They had driven all night. Payne was sleepy and his patched right leg was beginning to stiffen. Every hour, it seemed, another reminder of Adam. Or more precisely, the last moments of Adam's life.

He pulled off the highway and onto a looping street outside Salton City, a grandiose name for a sun-grilled, scrub-brush town. He needed to stretch and get some coffee. He found North Marina Drive and headed toward the giant lake. At first glance, the stagnant, salty puddle in the middle of the desert would seem to be one of God's grand mistakes. Instead, it was man's malfeasance, hatched when California bigwigs accidentally diverted the Colorado River nearly a century ago. The town was supposed to become a fancy resort, but now most buildings appeared empty, the wood rotted, the air slick with the stench of dead birds and decaying fish. Real estate signs announced waterfront lots for dirt-cheap prices. Great potential, if you wanted to build on the River Styx.

Payne saw a Hispanic man and a young boy carrying fishing poles along a rocky beach. Were there any fish still alive in this cesspool? Payne pulled the Lexus into a diner across the street from the lake. The orange fireball of the sun was just sizzling out of the water. Payne couldn't help but think of fried eggs. He awakened Tino and asked if he wanted some breakfast.

Tino rubbed his eyes, yawned, and said, "If you're paying, Himmy, I'm eating."

The cop was staring at them, Payne decided. An Imperial County sheriff's deputy. His black-and-white parked in the diner lot. The cop was eating grits and French toast.

Okay, relax. The cop's staring at us because we're the only other customers.

Payne was beginning to think he didn't make a very good fugitive. He looked guilty just eating breakfast.

Tino drowned his pancakes and bacon in gloppy syrup. Payne stuck with a plain omelette, coffee, and dry toast.

The deputy looked up from his own plate. Young guy. Chunky, with a thick neck, his cheeks and nose sunburned, but pale around the eyes from his sunglasses. The waitress, a tired high school girl wearing no makeup, approached the cop's table. "Harley, you want some more coffee?"

The cop raised his cup and nodded. His gaze drifted back to Payne, who looked down and chewed his toast.

"So, Himmy. Why are you divorced from that chica caliente?"

"None of your business."

"You cheat on her?"

"Never."

"Beat her up?"

"Of course not."

"You a drogadicto or alcoholico?"

"Give me a break, kid."

"So how come she dumped you?"

"How do you know I didn't divorce her?"

Tino's laugh was hearty and unself-conscious. A boy's laugh. Adam's laugh.

"I wasn't there for her when she needed me," Payne heard himself confess.

"Where were you, vato?"

"I was there but not really there. I didn't open up. Didn't give enough." Payne shot a look at the boy. "You don't understand, do you?" Tino shrugged. "Just loving somebody isn't enough. You have to dig deep inside yourself and bare everything, no matter how painful."

"Then you can give enough?"

"Then you can bond, and each person gives to the other. It's simple math. Love equals feelings plus action. You may not know it, but that's what you're doing for your mother."