Paul Levine - Illegal

Payne watched until justice was done and Newman redeemed, but it was just a movie. In real life, the rich win and the poor eat shit. Another click of the remote and he stumbled on Cullen Quinn's all-night immigration marathon. Jeez, the bastard was haunting him like Banquo's ghost. Quinn seemed to be in the middle of a debate with an older, craggy-faced cowboy.

"Wake up and smell the tacos," the cowboy was saying. "We need migrant workers, with or without documents."

"The Big Lie," Quinn shot back. "The myth of the indispensable alien."

"Myth? Ask the farmers in Idaho who's gonna pick their potatoes. Or cut the trees in Arkansas. Or slaughter cattle in Wisconsin. You ever been to a meat-packing plant, because I sure as hell know you never worked in one."

"There are American workers who'd be happy to make those wages and pay their taxes, too."

"Got news for you, Quinn. Even Mexicans with phony papers pay taxes when they rent apartments and buy beer and pickup trucks and TV sets. Their employers send Social Security payments to Washington, but the workers never get the benefits. Hell, we're making money off these people."

"Not when they're sending most of their paychecks to Mexico."

"You got something against poor families eating?"

There was a flinty crust to the old cowboy's voice, like the singe of charcoal on steak.

Payne liked this guy. Standing up to Quinn. The cowboy looked so rugged he made Quinn-even with his boxer's jaw-seem effete.

"President Calderon ships us his peasants and his problems," Quinn said. "He plays us for suckers, and you know it, Mr. Rutledge."

Rutledge.

Of course. Rutledge Ranch and Farms. Quinn's favorite target.

"Those 'peasants' are the lifeblood of the San Joaquin Valley," Rutledge said.

Quinn turned away from his guest and faced the camera. "As regular viewers know, I've proposed sending young offenders from Los Angeles to Mr. Rutledge's beloved valley. We can get the crops picked and break up the gangs at the same time."

"You gonna put the Crips on one bus and the Bloods on another, or mix them up?"

"It can all be worked out," Quinn said.

"You city people don't have a clue. If I didn't have migrant labor, my citrus and stone fruit would rot on the trees. My lettuce and melons and artichokes and berries would turn to mush."

"Is that why you horsewhip your workers, to make them speed up?"

"That's a damn lie. I treat my people like family. Free medical care and cheap housing. Preschool for their kids."

"Still no excuse for breaking the law. No excuse for turning our nation into a province of Mexico."

Rutledge raised his voice. "What are you afraid of, Quinn? That's really the heart of it. Fear. Just like the nativists a hundred years ago when the Irish and Italians and Jews were coming over."

"You're pretty cavalier about the takeover of our country," Quinn said. "Twelve million illegals now, more pouring in every day."

"Then change the law to accept the reality."

"So you're for open borders?"

"All I'm saying, you can't turn this country into a gated community."

Quinn shook his head, a practiced look Payne had seen many times. Soap opera acting, but effective in TV land.

"And what about simple fairness?" Rutledge continued. "What about all those Cubans who get papers when they wash up on Miami Beach? All because the phony politicians want the Cuban vote in Florida."

On the wall above the television set, Payne watched a brown spider climb toward the ceiling. At least it looked brown from the bed. Maybe it was black. A black widow. The desert was full of them.

"Stay tuned, folks," Quinn said. "Next, I've got two heroes from the Patriot Patrol, real Americans who are manning our border, doing the job the federal government doesn't have the guts to do. Then I'll present my own ten-point plan for stopping the takeover of America."

Quinn's theme music came up, some bugles and drums that made it sound like the bastard was going to charge San Juan Hill. The camera lingered on the two men. A young woman wearing a headset helped Rutledge unclip his microphone.

Payne watched Sharon walk onto the set, hand Quinn a bottle of water, then mop his forehead gently with a towel. Quinn beamed and said something to her. Sharon leaned close and whispered something back. But what? Feeling like a peeper, Payne studied their body language. Familiar but not affectionate. She never touched him. He never touched her. Of course, they were on-air. No way they'd start groping. But what did it all mean?

He wondered again what Quinn had said and what Sharon had replied.

He wondered what she was thinking.

He wondered if she still had feelings for him.

And with those thoughts swirling through the nooks and crannies of his brain, he finally dozed off, dreaming he was tied to stakes, spread-eagled, in the desert. A scorching wind sand-blasted him, scraping his skin raw. An army of scorpions wriggled across his chest, a trail of black widow spiders bringing up the rear. A rattlesnake coiled alongside his head, its tongue flicking. Payne tried to scream for help but couldn't. Without warning, a fusillade of venomous stings, the arrows of a thousand archers, locked his muscles into excruciating spasms. A searing flame blocked all vision, and then his world turned silent and black.

At just past ten the next morning, Jimmy and Tino sat in the Mustang at a railroad crossing on Shell Canyon Road outside Ocotillo. A freight train rumbled past, a seemingly endless procession of cattle cars, stuffed with Herefords and Angus and all manner of bovines. Thousands of animals, millions of dollars on the hoof.

Payne glimpsed the Sugarloaf Lodge blinking through the rushing cars. Once the train had passed, he crossed the tracks and parked in the shade of a billboard for Truly Nolen Pest Control. Dead ahead was a rocky range called the Coyote Mountains. Given the circumstances, Payne thought, an apt name.

A dry wind pelted the windshield with sand. The Sugarloaf was Wanda the Whale's stash house, the place El Tigre dropped off Marisol. There could be armed guards and pit bulls and who knows what. Payne was reasonably certain there would be no doorman and concierge.

"What are we waiting for?" Tino asked.

"I need to plan our assault."

"Why don't we just find the Whale and ask her about Mami?"

"Not how it's done." As if he knew.

He scanned the property. Six squat cabins with cedar siding and drooping porches, spread out across a few scrubby acres. No swimming pool, no restaurant, and damn little shade from the desert sun. A cow fence of unpainted logs ran along the perimeter. A few feet inside the row of logs was another fence, this one of barbed wire. A scarlet eucalyptus tree bloomed in the yard of the nearest cabin. A sign read: Office and No Vacancy. Parked under the tree was an Eldorado convertible, vintage late-sixties. The car had once been red, and now was the rusty orange of a Tequila Sunrise.

"Only one car out front," Payne said. "No one around, but the sign says the place is full."

"So?"

"You ever see Rockford Files?"

Tino shook his head.

"Classic show. We'll watch it sometime."

Tino scowled. "Don't say stuff you don't mean, Himmy."

"I mean it. Channel 56 still shows reruns. Once we find your mom, if she says it's okay, we can hang out."

"?Verdad?"

"You bet. For a career criminal, you're not a bad kid." Payne tousled the boy's dark hair.

The boy flashed a smile. "So, what's Rocket Files have to do with anything?"

" Rockford Files. Jim Rockford's a private eye. This is where he'd walk up to the office and tell the woman behind the counter he's looking for someone named Marisol Perez. The woman says, 'Never heard of her.' But Rockford won't let up. Then a big goon with prison tats comes out of a back room and growls, 'This guy giving you trouble, Agnes?' Rockford makes some smart-ass remark, and the guy picks him up by the neck and throws him halfway to L.A."