Paul Levine - Illegal

"Mo-ther-fuck-er," the deputy snarled, leaking blood from a split lip.

Tino jogged over, shotgun still pointed at Dixon. "Way to go, Himmy."

"You two assholes are both cooked."

"Handcuff key," the little gangster ordered.

The cop tossed him the key. Tino held the shotgun in one hand, unlocked Payne's cuffs with the other.

Adrenaline pumping, heart racing, Payne scanned the road. A trailer truck roared past, heading north, the driver oblivious.

Now what?

Payne knew all about the fight-or-flight response. They had just fought. Now it was time to flee. But to where? All he could see was prison. Beatings, boredom, starchy food.

"Himmy, we got to get going."

"Right."

Payne ordered Dixon back into his cruiser and cuffed him to his steering wheel. The deputy unleashed a string of curses.

Tino was already back in the Lexus. Payne got in, sat there a moment, both hands resting on the steering wheel.

"Himmy, go!"

Payne gunned it, burning rubber, heading south on State Route 86. Then Tino, a kid full of surprises, did something Payne never expected. He burst into tears.

The gun-toting, tough-talking, maybe-motherless boy finally looked and acted his age. Payne slung an arm around him.

"It's okay, slugger. Let it out."

The boy spoke between sobs. "You'll still help me find my mother, vato?"

"I made a promise, didn't I?"

"People break promises all the time."

It came to Payne then. The boy's desperation. The kid had said he'd do anything to find his mother. And he'd just proved it.

"Listen to me, Tino. You're a great kid. No matter what happens, I won't leave you, and I won't let you down. You got that?"

Tino sniffled and nodded. "Back there, you were a real valiente."

"Only if a valiente can be scared shitless."

"He can, if he still acts with valor."

The boy stopped crying. Payne tousled his hair and gave the Lexus more gas. He smiled and said, "Hey kid. You my vato?"

Tino wiped away a tear, and they rapped knuckles.

Now what? The question still hung there. They were heading south, but soon-maybe within minutes-some trucker or another cop would stop and set the deputy free. Every uniform in Imperial County would be looking for them. The deputy had Payne's name, his license plate, and the whole episode would be recorded on the cruiser's video camera. Hell, they'd all probably end up on some cable program: America's Dumbest Criminals.

What were their options? If they turned back north, they'd never get as far as San Berdoo. If they headed west, there'd be an A.P.B. for them in San Diego. East, they'd be stopped before they got to the Arizona border. But there was one other choice. A place they'd be safe. A place where Payne could think. Could plan. Could retrace Marisol's steps. Payne floored the accelerator.

"Where we going, Himmy?"

"Mexico," Payne said.

"Damn it, Simeon. This is serious," Charles Whitehurst said.

"Yeah. You told me. There's a list. I'm a target." Rutledge wanted to get on with castrating his stallion. But his doomsaying lawyer wouldn't let up.

"You're on the top of the list, Simeon. The first raid will be here." He made a circular motion, as if the feds would storm the barn at any moment.

Rutledge spit toward a bale of straw. "We've had Immigration poking around for years. Just P.R. stunts."

"Not this time. A multiagency task force. Homeland Security. F.B.I. I.C.E."

"What about all those subsidiaries you set up? Field hands work for them, not for me."

Whitehurst shook his head. "Corporate dodges don't work anymore."

The lawyer's voice was tense and high-pitched. Not like the unflappable old mouthpiece. It gave Rutledge pause, and now he pictured jeeps and helicopters and swarms of agents in Kevlar vests, kicking in doors, flaunting their automatic weapons. Bees buzzing around a hive. All to appease the yahoos and their prejudices.

"How do you know all this?" he asked.

"That's not important. Just trust me. The suits at Justice checked out every big employer in the West. Meat-packing plants. Hotel chains. Fisheries. They saw your name and said, 'Bingo! Simeon Rutledge.' You're it. And they'll milk it for all it's worth. You're facing millions in fines. Serious prison time. Forfeiture of your property. They're making you the test case."

"How the hell do you know all this?" Rutledge repeated.

Whitehurst looked around the barn as if the Attorney General might be hiding behind an Appaloosa in a neighboring stall. "We had a young lawyer, a junior associate, leave the firm last year to get trial experience. He's with the U.S. Attorney in San Francisco, and we've maintained a good relationship. Do I have to say any more?"

Whitehurst had bought himself a spy, Rutledge thought. In the high-rise world of the justice system, you didn't have to shovel shit to get your hands dirty.

"When's it coming down?" Rutledge asked.

"Soon. Tomorrow. Next week. A few weeks, at most."

Rutledge ran a hand over his buzz cut. The information sounded legit. "You got some legal advice for me?"

"Get rid of your illegals. All of them. Now."

Rutledge coughed a wet, gravelly laugh, the sound of stones washing down a sluice. "Then who'll pick my arti chokes? You?"

"It's time to clean up, Simeon. And not just the farms. You gotta close that pleasure palace up in Hot Springs."

"The Gentleman's Club? Bullshit! My granddad built that for his friends in Sacramento. Hell, they oughta designate the place a historic monument."

"Why don't you just hire lobbyists like everyone else?"

"What do you think whores are? Granddad used to say you could buy anything with bourbon and pussy."

"Like I've been saying, Simeon, times change."

"Well, I don't. As for the migrants, even George Dumb-ass Bush knew we couldn't run the country without 'em. It shouldn't be a crime to hire able-bodied men and women just because they don't have some papers. Unless John Q. Public wants to pay ten bucks for a head of lettuce, we gotta have these people."

"Not a time for political speeches."

"Maybe it is. They arrest me, I'll have a platform."

"And if you're imprisoned?"

"I'm counting on you to keep that from happening, Charlie."

"You can't buy your way out of this one. Jesus, Simeon, sometimes I wish you'd fire me."

"Say the word, and I'll hire a smart Jew lawyer who's still hungry. So are we done? I'm not getting rid of my mojados or my putas."

"If you don't take precautions, Simeon," Whitehurst said, "I shudder to think of the consequences."

"While you're shuddering, I'm gonna do some work." Rutledge turned his attention to a young Hispanic man leading a huge white horse into the gelding stall. Alongside, an older man with cabled forearms gripped the horse's halter. The horse whinnied and stomped the floor like a spoiled child, its tail sweeping back and forth like a geisha's fan.

"You know why I castrate fine-looking beasts like White Lightning?" Rutledge asked.

Whitehurst sighed. "So you'll be the only stallion left on the ranch."

"Gelding mellows him out so he can pasture with the mares without humping 'em and dumping 'em."

The older Mexican man stroked the horse's flank and whispered in his ear. The stallion seemed to relax.

"Jorge, I ain't got all day," Rutledge said. "You done singing love songs to that big bastard?"

" Relampago Blanco knows in his heart what you're going to do to him, jefe, " Jorge answered.

Rutledge moved around the horse, examining it the way a pilot checks an aircraft before taking off. He ran his hands over the horse's sheath and leg, then peered into its eyes. This was a strong and handsome animal, and Rutledge felt something akin to love for him.