Paul Levine - Illegal

While on the phone, Payne noticed the sign taped above the pass-through window to the kitchen. English Spoken Here.

One of those little put-downs of aliens, legal and illegal. Back home, Payne's Mexican-American plumber had two bumper stickers on his truck. One proclaimed his love of the Dodgers. The other, "Broken English Spoken Here." Not only could the guy fix the shut-off valve on a gravity sump, he had a sense of humor, too.

On the TV, the lead story seemed to be the weather. A hundred five degrees yesterday; a hundred five degrees today, a cooling trend tomorrow, at a hundred four.

The waitress, a tired forty-year-old with a messy bird's-nest of bleached hair and no wedding band, moseyed over to take their order.

"Chicken croquettes," Tino announced. "And a Coke."

"Eggs, ranch style," Payne said.

"Ranch style?" The waitress chewed on her pencil. "You mean, like a Denver omelette?"

"No omelette of any kind. Just eggs, ranch style."

"I'll ask the cook if he can make it."

"Sure he can. It's number three on the menu."

The waitress looked over his shoulder as he pointed to the item. "That's huevos rancheros, mister."

"Shhh." He motioned toward the sign. "English spoken here."

"You some sort of wise guy?"

"Just trying to follow the rules."

She walked away, muttering, "City people."

Sharon hadn't moved from the phone booth. She glanced toward Cullen at the table. Two men-a city councilman and a county supervisor-were kibitzing with him. Chuckles all around. Maybe planning their costumes for the Sheherazade Ball. The councilman gave Cullen a politician's whomp on the shoulder, no doubt congratulating him for holding the fort against the swarm of illegals. Sharon hoped the busboys didn't hear, fearing what they might slip into Cullen's drink.

Her fiance was in his element. Smiling his anchorman smile. Looking damn pleased with himself. Not seeming to wonder about her whereabouts.

She replayed her conversation with Payne. He had sounded excited. Involved. Optimistic. How long had it been since she'd heard that in his voice?

She looked down at the linen napkin she had carried from the table. Now covered with scribbles, the names and numbers Payne had given her.

Damn you, Jimmy Payne!

Tino studied Jimmy. "You tell me the truth just now? Pretty lady's gonna help?"

"She's never let me down, kid. Except when she shot me and divorced me."

"But she's a cop. Can't she get in trouble?"

"When you love someone, you take chances for them."

"If she loves you, why she gonna marry that cabron on the TV?"

"It's complicated. Adult stuff."

"You saying she doesn't know she loves you?"

"She knows, Tino. But she fights it."

The pay phone at the end of the counter rang, and Payne raced to answer it.

He reached the phone just as a bighorn sheep came on the TV news. Something about the animal's shrinking habitat.

"Sharon?" Praying it was her.

"Precision Glass. Sand Dunes Electrical. Valley Plumbing," she said flatly. "They all exist."

"Damn. Blows my theory out of the water."

"Just listen a second. On paper, they're legitimate. But none are doing business. And get this: All three were incorporated by the law firm of Whitehurst and Booth in San Francisco."

"So what?"

"They're general counsel for Rutledge Ranch and Farms, Inc. Simeon Rutledge is-"

"I know who he is. But that law firm's got a bunch of big clients, right? Banks. Insurance companies. Maybe other big growers, too."

"Sure they do. But that Cadillac Escalade. It's owned by a man from Kings County named Enrique Zaga."

"That's him. What else can you tell me?"

"Only this," Sharon replied, drawing out the moment. "He's worked for Rutledge Farms since he was a kid. Picker. Foreman. Crew chief. Been head of security the last dozen years."

"Yes! You found Marisol. You're terrific, Sharon." Payne's voice was so loud, the waitress who already hated his guts gave him a dirty look. He caught Tino's eye and shot him the thumbs-up. The boy bounced out of the booth and ran toward him.

"I don't know why I did this," Sharon said, softly.

"Sure you do," Payne said.

"Don't start with me."

Tino interrupted, gesturing wildly toward the TV set. Under the caption "WANTED" were two photos lifted from a police car's video. Blurry, but still no mistaking Jimmy and Tino. Beneath the photos, another caption: "Police Hunt Suspects."

"Shit," Payne said. "Sharon, we gotta go."

"Where?"

"Where do you think? To Rutledge Ranch and Farms."

"Jimmy, be careful. I've met Simeon Rutledge. He's a rough guy."

"So what?"

"There are stories. A Grand Jury. Indictments coming. It's a pretty big deal."

"Still don't see what that's got to do with Marisol Perez. Or with me."

"Only this: Whenever you hear the name Rutledge, it's always attached to the word 'ruthless.' "

Payne downshifted as the Mustang climbed toward the peak of the Tejon Pass, a slash in the mountains that separated the Mojave Desert from the San Joaquin Valley. Road signs warned drivers to turn off their A/C, for fear of overheating.

Jimmy and Tino were headed north through the Los Angeles National Forest toward the town of Rutledge in Kings County, home of the far-flung empire of Simeon Rutledge. They had begun the day below sea level in the desert. Now, they ascended to over 4,000 feet, the temperature dropping 35 degrees. Tino began to shiver. He declined Payne's offer to put the top up and sat quietly while the radio filled the car with the throbbing guitars and hoarse voices of the Gipsy Kings playing "Pasajero."

They passed a lake, far below them in a valley, boats stirring up foamy wakes. Tino barely seemed to notice.

"Everything okay, kid?"

"Sure, Himmy."

Payne tried to decipher the boy's serious look. Nothing apparent, but consider the last few days. Back home, Tino had stabbed his mother's abusive and dangerous boss, who then threatened to cut the boy's heart out. He'd run from the cops in Van Nuys and rescued Payne from the sheriff's deputy along the highway. Then the run-in with El Tigre and the horrors of two stash houses. He'd heard how his mother fought off a rapist at the slaughterhouse. Just this morning, he'd escaped a pedophile ex-con and been shot at by a pint-size cowboy.

Not exactly the problems of kids from Bel-Air or Beverly Hills. Missing a goal in soccer practice or losing the debate tournament doesn't measure up.

"What are you thinking about, kid?"

"Back at the chicken ranch, when Chitwood started shooting, why'd you jump on top of me?"

Payne shrugged. "If anyone was gonna take a bullet, I wanted it to be me."

"Because you're a valiente."

"It doesn't need a name. It's just what a man does."

"A man does it for his own hijo. But you did it for someone who's not your own blood, and that makes you a valiente."

"If you say so, kiddo."

Tino squinted into the windstream, then blurted out, "You think mi mami 's pretty?"

"From the picture, muy bonita. Why?"

"Maybe if Sharon marries that cabron Quinn, and you like mi mami, you can marry her."

"You left something out, kid. Your mother would have to like me, too."

"She will," Tino said. "She's never met a man like you."

Jimmy and Tino were twenty miles south of Bakersfield. Payne turned on the radio and picked up a Dodgers game from Shea Stadium, the Mets leading by a run. They heard the cra-ack of bat on ball and listened to the melodious Vin Scully describe Rafael Furcal banging a double off the left field wall.

"?Solido conectando!" Tino chimed in. "Furcal's my favorite."