Paul Levine - Illegal

"Not our fault," Payne replied. "They treat strangers like weevils in a cotton field."

"Next time that cabron with the fuzzy lip grabs me, I'll kick him in the cojones, " Tino said.

"Quiet, Tino," Payne said. "Chief, don't you think it's suspicious they guard the place like it's the Pentagon?"

"Nothing suspicious about it," Cardenas said. "The Patriot Patrol put a price on Simeon's head, so the company beefed up security." Cardenas took a bite of his sandwich. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato on whole wheat. "Now, why don't you tell me what you need, Mr. Payne? It is Mr. J. Atticus Payne of Van Nuys, correct?"

"Ay, he's messing with you, Himmy," Tino said.

"Yeah, I'm Jimmy Payne. And I'm trying to help this boy find his mother." He summarized the story of Marisol becoming sepa rated from her son and as much as he knew of her harrowing crossing and the two stash houses she'd passed through.

"So you want to file a missing persons report?" the chief asked.

"She's not exactly missing. More like she's working for Simeon Rutledge but his people won't let me get to her."

"Working for my tio Sim?"

Payne felt as if he'd been sucker-punched. "You're shitting me. Rutledge is your uncle?"

An easy smile. The guy had a politician's set of teeth.

"Not a blood uncle," Cardenas said. "More like my godfather. It's a long story."

Tino nudged Payne in the ribs. "And you gabachos say Mexico is all dirty politics."

"Why do I feel like I'm playing a road game?" Payne said to the chief.

"More like you're the Washington Generals and you're playing the Harlem Globetrotters," Cardenas said.

"So how the hell can you investigate Rutledge's business?"

"Didn't know it needed investigating. Did I mention Tio Sim bought me my first gun and my first car?"

"What about your badge? He buy that, too?"

Cardenas let out a soft train whistle of a sigh. "You work hard to get under people's skin, don't you, Mr. Payne?"

"Nah. It just comes naturally."

The chief was silent a moment. He seemed to be figuring out what to do with his unwelcome visitors. Then he gestured with his sandwich. "You want a B.L.T., Mr. Payne? And what about you, young man? Donna over in Planning and Zoning made a bunch today."

"No thanks," Payne said.

"Me, neither," Tino said.

It was the first time Payne ever saw the boy turn down food.

"Suit yourselves. But it's mighty good. Rutledge lettuce. Rutledge tomatoes. Bacon from Rutledge hogs. All courtesy of Tio Sim."

"All Rutledge, all the time," Payne said. "You're sending a message, right?"

The chief's smile gleamed like the blade of a knife. "If that's what I wanted, I'd lock you up right now on all those outstanding warrants."

That stopped Payne, who took a moment to think it through. Once Rutledge learned about the cluster fuck in Hellhole Canyon, he would have wanted a dossier on J. Atticus Payne, Esquire. Enter Cardenas, who had to do something to earn his bacon, lettuce, and tomatoes.

"You're a one-man crime wave, Mr. Payne. Grand larceny in L.A. County. Resisting arrest and assaulting an officer in Imperial County. Importing drugs from Mexico into San Diego County."

"The drug rap's bogus," Payne said.

"And that cop," Tino said. " I'm the one who resisted and assaulted."

"So why aren't you gonna arrest me?" Payne demanded.

"And deal with all that paperwork?" Cardenas said. "Three different jurisdictions fighting over your sorry butt." The chief let his eyes twinkle. "I'd miss the County Fair over in Hanford."

"But if Rutledge told you to do it, you'd throw my sorry butt in jail."

The chief laughed, showing those good teeth. "Mr. Payne, you and Sim are more alike than you realize. You both overlook the fine print of the law. Hell, you overlook the large print. And you both go out of your way to help people."

"No, I don't. And I doubt he does."

"Don't be modest. Sim respects what you're doing for the boy. So do I."

"But you refuse to help."

"What makes you say that? I arranged lunch for you tomorrow with Sim."

"No way."

"He might try to poison you, Himmy," Tino said.

"Happens on telenovelas all the time."

"Sim said he'll have his people do everything they can to find the boy's mother. He'll have a report for you by lunchtime tomorrow."

"Great," Payne said, not sure he believed the chief. "Sorry about what I said before."

"Not a problem. There's one more thing Sim said. What was it, now?"

"Yeah?"

"Oh, I remember." The chief's smile turned sly. "He said, 'Javie, ask that persistent little pissant if he likes sheep balls in coyote gravy.' "

It was dark outside the window when Marisol tried her door again.

Locked from the outside.

Dizzy, she returned to the bed.

They must have put something in her food. An older black woman, a uniformed housekeeper, had delivered a tray. Grilled vegetables, a green salad, and rice pudding.

"They don't want you putting on any weight, honey."

Now, lying on her back, looking at the mirrored ceiling, Marisol heard voices in the corridor. Laughing men, voices fueled by liquor. Giggling women, teasing talk. Grunts and yells through the wall next to her bed. A man brayed like a goat. A woman fired off words like bullets from a machine gun."?Si!?Si!?Si! No! No! No! Don't stop!"

Marisol wondered if that room was like her own. Dim lights. Mirrors. No telephone. A television that played only filthy movies. A tiny bathroom with a shower and toilet and a dozen hand towels.

She heard a key turn the lock, and the door opened. A heavy-bosomed American woman with teased platinum hair came in, carrying a satchel. The woman's translucent skin was stretched tight over her cheekbones, but her neck crinkled with turkey wattles. She was either forty or sixty, no way to tell. The woman opened the satchel.

"For you, dearie."

Out came lingerie, black as midnight, glittering with sequins. A leather bustier with tie strings. Leopard-spotted bras and panties. A satin slip with garters and stockings. Items she'd never seen except in the movies, the American woman calling them teddies and baby dolls, camisoles and peek-a-boos. Giving her shoes with velvety skin and heels longer than a sixteen-penny nail.

"I do not belong here," Marisol said.

A shrug. "Who does?"

The woman showed her how to apply layers of makeup and hauled out small bottles of lotions and tubes of lubricants. Plus lipstick a whorish red.

When tears filled Marisol's eyes, the woman said, "Honey, I can share a few tricks that'll make it a bit easier for you. Let me show you how to make a John think he's getting a blow job when you're really just jerking him off."

A man appeared in the open doorway. "Helen, get out of here and take that shit with you."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Zaga." The woman gathered up her satchel and left the room.

The man was as old as El Patron. But smaller. Hispanic features. Grayish hair falling nearly to his shoulders, a Western shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Arms corded with thick veins.

Marisol tensed as he approached. If he grabbed her, she would fight.

"Relax, chica. I'm here to talk, not fuck. Back home, did you read newspapers?"

It was such an odd question Marisol had no answer.

"You understand English?"

"Yes. I read newspapers. Books, too."

"What's your favorite book?"

"Why do you ask such a thing?"

"Just answer me."

"El Amor en los Tiempos del Colera."

"You read it in English or Spanish?"

"English. My father insisted. Why do you care?"

Appearing unhappy, the man mumbled to himself, "What the hell are we gonna do with you?"

"I do not understand."

"Rutledge has a soft spot for your type. Those damn gypsy eyes."