Paul Levine - Illegal

A young woman, whose face glowed pink in the baking heat, took a drag on her cigarette, squashed it under her open-toed sandal, and gave Tino a big, friendly smile. She punched a code in a keypad and opened the door.

"Gracias, senorita," Tino said, with as much humility as he could muster. He stepped into an air-conditioned corridor and began exploring.

"I don't know what you mean." Mrs. Antrim shifted her weight from one leg to the other. "How would I know you were coming, Mr. Payne?"

"Because that little bastard in the black Escalade called you. Enrique Zaga."

"I'll thank you to watch your tongue. We don't tolerate profanity here."

"What do you tolerate? Kidnapping?"

"Please lower your voice, Mr. Payne."

"And where's Zaga? I want to talk to him."

"Our director of security has nothing to do with this."

"He's a human trafficker! He stashes Mexicans down in Hellhole Canyon. Unless you're grinding them into dog food, you're hiring them. You know it. I know it. I'll bet half the Legislature knows it."

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

Payne watched the receptionist hit another button on her desk phone.

Tino moved briskly down the corridor as if he knew where he was going. Carrying the tray of drinks, he passed several offices with open doors. Men in short-sleeve shirts and women in summer outfits worked at computers. Some doors had little placards. Accounting. Marketing. Purchasing. Transportation. Legal.

Legal, Tino thought. What he needed was an office named "Illegal."

A man with a ponytail and a blond soul patch came around a corner. Tino smiled at him.

Polite delivery boy.

The man seemed as wide as he was tall. Thick neck, thighs bulging through gray pants, a blue sport jacket that bunched tight at his shoulders. He had his eyes on the icy drinks. "Hey, chico. Those for Harry and the girls?"

" Si. Harry and the girls."

"Second floor. Room 207."

Tino headed toward a stairwell, the man watching him go.

On the second floor, Tino continued snooping. More doors, more offices. Shipping. Security. Human Resources.

He checked out Human Resources. No one there. Two desks and several file cabinets running the length of the room. He ducked inside and placed the drinks on one of the desks. The file cabinets were labeled with what seemed to be the names of different companies. Rutledge Ranch and Farms. Kings County Excavation. Rutledge Tool Company.

How much does this guy own?

Way more, Tino quickly found out.

Rutledge Trucking. Valley Paving. Rutledge Realty.

Tino opened one of the file drawers. Hundreds of folders. Thousands in total. He could spend a week in here.

He picked several folders at random from a folder labeled: San Joaquin Irrigation. Each employee seemed to have a file with name, photo, salary, and comments by supervisors.

More companies. Weedpatch Pest Control. Rutledge Aviation. Hot Springs Gentleman's Club.

Gentleman's Club? Doesn't sound like farming or ranching.

Tino was about to open the Gentleman's Club drawer when he sensed movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Soul Patch, his legs spread, his shoulders filling the doorway. "Ain't no Harry working here, chico, " the man said.

"If you don't give me access to Marisol Perez," Payne said, "I can get a court order."

Mrs. Antrim let the corners of her mouth curl into a tiny smile. "The courthouse is three blocks from here. I believe Judge Rutledge is in most afternoons."

" Judge Rutledge?"

"Simeon's cousin."

"You folks dish out home cooking like two-dollar hash browns."

The interior door opened. A burly man hustled into the reception area without appearing to hurry. An African-American with a shaved head and a thick neck, he wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. The uniform of a classy security guard. In his thirties, Shaved Head had the look of an ex-linebacker who stayed in shape.

"There a problem here, Mrs. Antrim?" Shaved Head said.

"Not if this gentleman leaves the premises." Gentleman with a tone you might use to describe a pus-filled wound.

The interior door opened again, and a ponytailed, soul-patched man dressed identically to Shaved Head tromped out, carrying Tino under one arm. The boy kicking and wriggling.

Shit! How'd he get in here?

"Asswipe! Cocksucker! Dipshit!" Tino practicing English words Jimmy had taught him.

"Put him down," Payne said.

"You don't give the orders here, lawyer," Soul Patch said.

Everybody seemed to know he was a lawyer, Payne thought. Maybe he should open an office in town.

"I'll kill you!" Tino cried out, trying to pry the man's fingers from his waist.

"Let him go, Clyde," Shaved Head ordered.

Soul Patch dropped Tino to the floor.

"Pendejo!" Tino had returned to his native tongue.

Shaved Head looked at Payne with an air of placid indifference. "We can do it pretty or we can do it ugly."

"We're leaving," Payne said. "But I gotta ask you two something."

They waited, staring Payne down.

"Is it true that steroids shrink your testicles?"

Soul Patch and Shaved Head were remarkably gentle. They swept Payne up by the arms, carried him through the doorway, and deposited him on the sidewalk without mussing his shirt. He admired their proficiency.

Exhausted by an endless day that began at Wanda the Whale's stash house in the desert, continued with gunfire in Hellhole Canyon, and concluded in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, Jimmy and Tino checked into the Rutledge Arms Hotel.

Jimmy ordered from room service. Pork chops for Tino with mashed potatoes, onion rings, applesauce, and a chocolate milk shake. Payne crashed, leaving a burger half-uneaten. He fell asleep watching the news on a Sacramento station, then awoke at three a.m. to find the kid engrossed in porn on the pay channel. Jimmy gave him hell, then watched a few minutes of action between a pizza delivery boy and a bored housewife. He dozed off again just as Tino said, " Buenos noches, Himmy."

They slept until nearly noon.

"Where we going?" Tino asked as Jimmy got out of the shower.

" I'm going to the police station. You're going to the Rialto to see Indiana Jones and his Kingdom of Goofy Plots."

"No way, Jose. We're a team."

Payne tried to give the kid a stern look. Tino responded the way a sixth grader treats a substitute teacher who demands quiet. He laughed.

"C'mon, Himmy. You know I'll just show up at the police station, anyway."

Payne had expected an old-fashioned courthouse in the town square, something built of sturdy limestone by the Civil Works Administration in the 1930s. The police station and coroner's office would be a block away in nondescript brick buildings.

Instead, the Municipal Center stood on the edge of town, a series of modern one-story buildings with brown shingle roofs. Courtyards bloomed with roses and rhododendrons. A fountain generated a stream that meandered from the Zoning Department past the City Commission Chambers, toward the Police Department.

Jimmy and Tino crossed a wooden footbridge that arched gracefully over the stream. They followed flagstone steps through a rock garden planted with bonsai trees. It looked like a dandy place for afternoon tea.

They found Police Chief Javier Cardenas sitting on a redwood bench along the stream, chewing a sandwich. A handsome man in his mid-thirties, he had a cocoa complexion so smooth it appeared he'd just shaved and slapped on cologne. Dark hair fashionably cut. Black trousers and a crisply pressed white shirt with epaulets and a gold badge.

"I hear you two caused a stir over at the Rutledge office yesterday," the chief said, even before Payne introduced himself.