Paul Levine: Illegal

"?Pinche rinche por todas partes!"

Fucking cops everywhere.

Marisol did not appreciate the profanity in front of her son, but for now she must try to get along with this foul and repulsive man.

"If you get caught, they just send you back," El Tigre said. "But for me, it's prison. Or I get shot by bandits. Or vigilantes. The Minutemen. Patriot Patrol. All those gabachos with guns. And now, the U.S. Army. The Border Patrol knows what they're doing. But the soldiers! Scared kids who think we're all drug runners."

"Instead of the humanitarians you are," Marisol said, evenly.

He did not catch the sarcasm, rambling on, boasting of his knowledge of the Border Patrol's motion detectors and TV cameras, infrared binoculars, and drone aircraft. How La Migra had beefed up patrols. Ford Expeditions, like always. But now on horseback, too, with Indian trackers from Arizona. Vaqueros y indios. Cowboys and Indians. Just like in the movies.

"If the wind is right, the Indians can smell your burlap sacks a mile away," he claimed. "You need someone who knows what they're doing. I don't lose people in the mountains or leave them to die in the desert."

Marisol leaned over the table, exposing even more decolletage, showing the line where the darker sun-burnished skin gave way to the softness of her creme de cacao complexion. She put a wistful note in her voice. "But if you are going tonight, and have room for two more, I promise to pay you later."

El Tigre wiped beads of sweat from his forehead, then drained the rest of his beer. He seemed to be weighing the options, using his limited brains and his even more limited morals.

"I won't disappoint you," she said, spicing her words like chiles in hot sauce.

He took a pen out of a shirt pocket and scribbled an address on a paper napkin. "The stash house. We leave at midnight. Bring the money you have. We will work out the rest."

He smiled a gold-capped grin, the contented look of a wolf contemplating a lamb.

Sleep. Dammit. Sleep!

Maybe it was the oysters, Payne thought.

From the Chimney Sweep, Payne had moved to the Oyster House, a neighborhood saloon in Studio City.

Dinner alone.

Sitting at the bar. A dozen oysters, a spicy cioppino stew, two Sam Adams drafts, and the complimentary peach schnapps the regulars receive.

Payne would have liked to have shared dinner with a woman. But who?

Maybe Carol, a former client who loved shopping at Saks on Wilshire, but skipping the inconvenience of paying. Was she out of jail yet?

Or Polly, a kosher caterer in Brentwood who specialized in festive circumcision brunches. Her business, Prelude to a Bris, was booming.

Or that woman who owned the cat condo in Rancho Cucamonga. Hair in a tabby-colored shag, big hoop earrings. Jeez, what was her name? Well, if he couldn't remember, it must not have gone that well. And now that he thought about it, hadn't Cat Lady had a funky smell?

What about Sharon?

Her scent was warm and sweet. A fresh peach from the tree. And they always had great sex, though it tapered off after she'd shot him. Not that he wasn't willing, once the anesthesia wore off.

Sharon had been aiming her nine millimeter at Lester Koenigsberg when she winged Payne. Unhappy with Payne's handling of his divorce case, Koenigsberg was holding a knife to his lawyer's neck, threatening to slice his jugular. Hardly the reaction Payne expected after disproving Mrs. Koenigsberg's allegations that Lester had a violent temper.

Payne was semi-grateful to Sharon for saving his life. But why a detective in Consumer Frauds even needed a gun was beyond him.

He listened to the paddle fan turn, clickety-clack ing.

C'mon, sleep!

He adjusted the pillow under his gimpy knee. Ever since the crash on the P.C.H., the leg wouldn't straighten completely.

Sleep, dammit, sleep!

The bed was just too damn big when you're alone. A cruise ship with one passenger.

The house was a one-story, two-bedroom California bungalow with a small porch devoid of furniture. The faded green stucco could use a fresh coat of paint. The dreary 1950s kitchen smelled of mildew, the low-pitched roof leaking during winter rains. The perfect home for the unhappily divorced man.

Payne flicked on the night-table lamp, made from a bowling pin, and stared straight into Sharon's face. An eight-by-ten glossy, taken on Mammoth Mountain. A ski trip, the background a heaven of powdery snow. Sharon's cheeks pink from the cold, Adam bundled in a parka.

Smiling. Laughing.

Old times. Good times. Short times.

Oak bookshelves lined one wall. Scott Turow and George V. Higgins. Crime stories well told. Payne didn't like those courtroom novels where the lawyers were heroes. Too unrealistic.

No, it wasn't the oysters. Or the lonely bed. Or the choking memories. The day was still with him, and all the days before that. A ton of crap had floated down the stream since the crash and the divorce.

C'mon, think happy thoughts.

Adam playing baseball. The worst part of the divorce was spending nights without his son. At least Sharon was decent about it. He could see Adam practically anytime he wanted.

Payne gave up on sleep, grabbed the TV remote, and turned on Channel 56, home of Twilight Zone and Hawaii Five-O. Payne loved the classic shows, even though he wasn't born when they first aired.

The TV flickered on, and there was a young James Garner with an even younger Tom Selleck. The Rockford Files. Selleck was Lance White, the perfect detective, solving cases without breaking a sweat, pissing off Rockford, who usually got beaten up and tossed into jail, before turning crud into gold. Payne identified with the Rockford character, except his crud always turned into more crud.

At a commercial, Payne flicked to one of the movie channels. The Big Lebowski was just coming on, great opening scene, a tumbleweed at the mercy of the wind, blowing from the desert into Los Angeles. The shit happens philosophy of life. Who could argue?

He'd seen the movie the first time with Sharon, who didn't share his enthusiasm for a wacky story about a stoned slacker. Sharon was both a good cop and a dogooding cop, someone who believed the words carved in the granite of the courthouses.

Equal Justice Under Law

Yeah, spend an hour with Judge Rollins, and try singing that tune.

Payne vowed he wouldn't flip to Channel 9. Cullen Quinn's late-night show would be on. He'd be railing about the Mexican border and encouraging the yahoos to shoot all illegals on sight. It wasn't just Quinn's politics that upset Payne. The broad-shouldered, blow-dried bastard was recently engaged to Sharon and had given her a rock so humongous it would make Paris Hilton blush. To Sharon's credit, she seldom wore the engagement ring, explaining that a cop's jewelry shouldn't be worth more than her car.

Payne kept his promise for a full twenty seconds before flipping to the Satan of the Airwaves.

"We're going the way of the Roman Empire." Quinn leaned toward the camera, his silvery blond hair frozen in place. "The Romans opened the gates and the Goths came storming in. With no respect for Roman culture or language or customs, the Goths burned Rome to the ground."

Quinn paused and lifted his chin, as if daring his viewers to take a poke at him. "Did you see those Mexican protesters in the streets? 'Open the borders!' And those weren't the Stars and Stripes they were waving. Those were Mex-i-can flags."

"Mex-i-can" sounding vile, the way you might say "roach infested."

"?La Reconquista!" Quinn boomed in his broadcaster's baritone. "That's what the illegals want. To reconquer their land. And we're handing it right back to them. Welfare and schooling, all paid for by you, my friends. Their children bring lice and bedbugs into our schools. Our hospitals and prisons overflow with illegals, infected with hepatitis, TB, and chingas."