Paul Levine - Illegal

A hustler and a cheater.

"Your head's playing tricks on you, Himmy," Tino said, dragging him back to the present.

"What?"

"The accident. No way it was your fault, man."

"The week after it happened, I was supposed to take Adam on a trip. Just the two of us. Visit every Major League ballpark west of the Mississippi. Had it all planned, down to the last hot dog."

"My mother always says, Si quieres que Dios se ria, dile tus planes. If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans."

"Your mother's a smart woman."

Payne heard Tino suck in a breath. "There, Himmy."

Just ahead, sodium vapor lights turned the night air into a misty green fog. Traffic slowed as U.S. border agents guided cars into lanes approaching the station. Vendors in baseball caps hawked sodas, pastries, and souvenirs. A grim midnight carnival.

"Mexico" was painted on the asphalt. If they could run this gauntlet, Payne thought, they would see "U.S." on the far side of the station. He sensed Tino stiffen as they approached the invisible line that separated the two countries. The line that separated the boy from his mother, his past from his future.

They were surrounded now. Cars, in front, on both sides, and behind them.

"We're gonna make it, kiddo."

Tino shot him a look. Wanting to believe but maybe not quite buying it. Which made two of them.

Payne pulled the Mustang into a line of cars at the border station. Six lanes were open, each with twenty or so cars backed up.

"Tino, no matter what happens, don't panic."

"I won't."

"Don't get out of the car unless you're ordered to. Don't run."

"Okay. Okay."

"And no mouthing off to the agents."

"I'm not an idiota, Himmy."

A husky agent in a blue uniform tugged the leash of a German shepherd that happily sniffed the fenders and trunks of the cars in front of them. Payne hoped the prior owner of the Mustang hadn't been hauling any loco weed. When they were the third car in line, a cute female agent, her dark hair pulled back in a bun, walked along the row with a clipboard. She checked each car's license plate and punched the numbers into a handheld computer.

Payne gave her a "Good evening, ma'am" as she walked past the top-down Mustang. She returned a tight smile and an official nod. Her name tag read "Rodriguez," the patch on her sleeve, "U.S. Customs and Border Protection." Payne kept his eyes on her as she jiggled past. Her uniform pants were a size too small, accentuating her bubble butt. Not quite a Jennifer Lopez model, but still what the Greeks would call "callipygous." She examined the Mustang's Land of Lincoln plate, Payne murmuring a little prayer that the car hadn't been recently used in a bank robbery in Cicero.

The cars inched forward, plumes of black exhaust hovering in the night air. When the Mustang reached the front of the line, a male agent in his fifties sidled up to the driver's door. His name tag read "Lopez," and he looked both tired and bored.

"Evening, Agent Lopez," Payne boomed, with gusto. "Long day, huh?"

"Pulled a double shift 'cause we're short tonight."

Good sign, Payne thought. The guy wouldn't want any hassles.

A helicopter droned overhead, its searchlight raking the ten-foot-high border fence.

"We'll be out of your hair and on our way in no time," Payne promised, putting on what he thought was an open, Midwestern smile. "Just a midnight crossing to the Promised Land."

"Nice wheels."

"Indeed," Payne said, employing a word he never used. But then, this wasn't him. This was some educator from Northwestern University, a guy who restored old cars in his spare time. Payne had prepared an entire persona in the last few minutes.

"V-8 under the hood?"

"Four-twenty-eight," Payne bragged.

"Love that pony on the grille. Never understood why they put it off center, though."

Agent Lopez scrutinized Payne's Illinois driver's license and passport and didn't start screaming for reinforcements. He spent more time with Tino's visa, squinting a bit, then holding a flashlight to it.

Shit.

The agent slipped the visa into his shirt pocket and studied Tino. "You're a student at Temple Emanuel Academy Day School in Beverly Hills?" His tone would have worked for "You just landed here from Mars?"

"Si, senor."

"Exchange program," Payne added.

"I'm talking to the boy now, Mr. Hamilton."

Payne clammed up and Agent Lopez said, "How long you going to school there?"

"I start next month, but they asked me to come early and get myself all orientated."

"Uh-huh."

"Then I'm gonna go to Beverly Hills High. Lil' Romeo went there."

"So did Erik Menendez," the agent said, referring to one of the brothers who shotgunned his parents twenty years earlier. "Let's take a look at your luggage."

"Except for a gym bag and baseball bat, we shipped everything," Payne contributed.

Agent Lopez sighed, as if this was going to be too much trouble for this time of night. He leaned over the side of the convertible, a puzzled look on his face. "Are those bowling shoes you're wearing, Mr. Hamilton?"

"There's a story behind that," Payne said.

"Don't wanna hear it. But tell me, just what's your connection with the boy?"

"I'm associate director of Worldwide Student Exchange."

"Never heard of it."

"We're an ecumenical rainbow coalition headquartered at Northwestern University. We encourage diversity in private schools, and this lucky little fellow was chosen, after vigorous competition, to go to Temple Emanuel for intensive study."

"I love Americanos, " Tino said. "Especially Jews."

"Let me get this straight," the agent said. "You're a religious do-gooder from Illinois. You drive all the way to Mexico and come back with this boy who you claim to be taking to some Jewish school in Beverly Hills."

"In time for Rosh Hashanah," Payne added, helpfully.

The agent took a moment to think things over. In an adjacent lane, under a sign reading Secondary Inspections, agents pulled a Lincoln apart, fender by fender, the border equivalent of a body cavity search.

Agent Lopez snatched a radio from his belt. "I need a P-2 check on a Mr. Alexander Hamilton of Evanston, Illinois."

"P-2 check?" Payne said, puzzled.

"Predators and pedophiles."

"What are you talking about?"

"Registered sex offenders. Ex-cons with records of assaulting children."

Not again, Payne thought. Another guy in uniform who suspected him of being a freak. Through a window of the office kiosk, he saw Rodriguez, the cute female officer, now working at a computer. "I assure you that I'm not-"

"You buy this boy in Mexicali?"

"No! Of course not."

"Tijuana, then."

"Never been to Tijuana."

Rodriguez sashayed out of the office, a feminine swing to her hips. She held a computer printout.

Jesus, what did she find? What if a guy from Illinois named Alex Hamilton was a total perv?

Despite his best efforts to appear relaxed, Payne was holding his breath. Looking guilty. Feeling guilty. He shot a look at Tino. The boy had one hand on the door handle. The kid was ready to run, Payne wondering if he'd go north or south.

Rodriguez gave Payne a long look, then turned to Lopez. "Car's clean. Mr. Hamilton has no record in Illinois or in the federal database. Nothing in the P-2 file."

Payne let out a long whistling breath, like a punctured bicycle tire.

"And I know for a fact that Mr. Hamilton is heterosexual."

"How?" the male agent said.

"When I read his plate, he checked out my ass like he wanted to pet it."

"Busted," Payne conceded.

"I'm too tired and too old for this shit," Lopez grumbled. "Mr. Hamilton, take this kid to Beverly Hills. Or Tel Aviv, for all I care."