Paul Levine - Illegal

The initials "EJR" were engraved into the worn leather handle of the whip, which had been custom-made for Ezekiel Rutledge in the 1920s. In a Tulare bar, Ezekiel had taken out a man's eye, and good thing, as the man was drawing a Colt. 45 at the time. Ezekiel wasn't above snapping the whip at a worker who was "lazing off." Seldom hit one, though. He saved the lashes for the union organizers. "Those goddamn Jews and commies from the city."

Rutledge pictured the whip in Ezekiel's hand, imagined his grandfather listening to the same cr-ack, the sound stretching across decades. At moments like this, handling the whip, or riding his stallion along an old trail, or pruning his grandfather's peach trees, Rutledge felt a bone-deep kinship with family, with the land, and with the past itself.

Within minutes, Rutledge's mind cleared. There were decisions to be made. The government would unseal those damn indictments any day now. It would be all over the news. The banks would go batshit. Lines of credit would be pulled, loans called. In a business with an erratic cash flow, that could mean financial death.

Then there was the lesser, but not insignificant problem of that damn Mexican woman. Rutledge had learned from his father that a ship can sink from the tiniest breach in the hull. Like the old nursery rhyme said, "For want of a nail, the shoe was lost." An accountant gets busted for drugs and strikes a deal to testify against his tax-evading employer. A legislator finds God and spills his guts about bribes. Or a woman yells "rape" and brings down an empire.

Jesus, all they had on Al Capone was rinky-dink tax evasion, and he went to Alcatraz.

The Mexican woman would be no problem if not for the piss ant lawyer from the City of Fucking Angels. Javier had called and told him Payne chickened out last night. Now what was the shyster going to do?

His grandfather wouldn't have worried about it. Not with all the potential grave sites in fields and levees.

Deep, dark places a body would never be found, not even by a pack of coyotes. But then, his grandfather didn't have to deal with Grand Juries, and prosecutors out to make their bones.

God, what a time that must have been!

A Spanish-speaking gardener was trimming a rosebush when Payne asked where he could find el jefe.

In the corral, the man answered.

Batting away a swarm of gnats, Payne headed down an inclined path. A moment later, he heard a horse whinny and a voice barked, "You better be here to say adios!"

Simeon Rutledge, in dusty boots and faded jeans, sat astride a caramel-colored palomino with an ivory mane. The gate was open and Payne walked into the enclosure.

"I couldn't do it." Payne looked up at Rutledge on the palomino. "Garcia, I mean."

"I don't give a shit if you killed Garcia or butt-fucked him. I gave you what you wanted. Now get your ass back to L.A."

Payne noticed a couple stable hands watching them. Two Hispanic men, each with a foot on the bottom rail of the corral fence.

"I made a promise to a boy, and I'm not gonna let him down. Not this time."

Rutledge's laugh was as sharp as barbed wire. "Got a news flash for you, Payne. Every day, kids in Africa starve to death. Women in Tecate are raped and murdered. A little boy riding with his father gets broadsided by a drunk. Grow the fuck up!"

"Not growing up. Not giving up. Just give me Marisol Perez, and I'll go away. Whatever's happened, we'll let it go. No authorities. No investigations."

"You got no idea what's at stake here. Or what I'll do to protect it." Rutledge leaned forward, both hands on the saddle horn. A look crossed his face like quick, scudding clouds covering the sun before a storm. "Don't you get it, Payne? You're the one endangering the woman's life. You fuck with me, her blood's on your hands. Not mine."

Rutledge reached into a holster fitted alongside his saddle.

Payne heard the cr-ack before he felt the pain.

The tip of the bullwhip had struck his shoulder like a rattle snake.

"I could take out your eye before you could blink," Rutledge taunted him.

A second cr-ack, and the leather flicked at Payne's neck, drawing blood. The sting of a hundred bees.

The two Hispanic men leaning against the rail didn't move. They could have been watching their boss shoe a horse.

Payne raised an arm and blocked the third throw. But the popper wrapped itself around his forearm like a snake. Rutledge tugged at the reins and turned the horse, yanking Payne off his feet. A nudge in the ribs, and the horse cantered around the perimeter of the corral, dragging Payne through the red dirt. His face scraped the ground, a blowtorch to the skin. He tried to get his feet under him but could not. A knee twisted and buckled. Pain shot through his metal-plated leg, a dagger deep to the bone. He pulled with his trapped arm, tried to rip the whip out of Rutledge's hand, could not get the leverage.

The horse picked up speed, and Payne dug his sneakers into the dirt, trying to slow down. One sneaker came off, then the other. He felt his shoulder pop out of its socket. His right arm was aflame, and he spat blood.

He heard himself scream. Hated the sound, a shameful shriek of pain and fear.

Rutledge gave slack to the whip and wrestled it free from Payne's arm. He slung himself off his horse. Payne writhed on the ground, face pasted with dirt and blood. His stomach heaved. He thought he would puke. He struggled to his knees, just as a shadow moved over him, blocking out the sun. The shadow kicked him. A cowboy boot straight to the gut. Another kick, this one to the side of the head, and his vision blurred.

"Damn you!" Rutledge brayed. "Damn you to hell! A smart man would have taken the money. A real man would have killed Garcia."

Rutledge kicked him again, aiming for his balls, but catching the inner thigh. Payne curled into the fetal position, yet another humiliation. Rutledge towered above him. Face reddened, saliva oozing into his mustache.

"Turns out you're stupid and a coward. Ain't that right, Payne? Estupido y cobarde. "

Payne remembered Tino calling him a valiente. But he was neither brave nor cowardly. He was just a flawed man trying to fix one thing in a broken world.

"You just gonna lay there like a whipped dog?"

Payne got to one knee, and collapsed, blood spraying from his blistered lips.

Rutledge spat into the dirt near Payne's head. "My daddy always told me if I was to stomp a man, I should squash him like a cockroach. Leave nothing but a tobacco stain on the ground."

The heel of a boot appeared above Payne's head. Rutledge grunted as he put all his weight into it. A lightning bolt shot through Payne's brain. Sparklers burned, and he saw the capillaries, like twining streams, behind his eyelids. The pain took a detour, paused like a pedestrian at a traffic light, then crow-barred him between the eyes. A second later, he was aware of nothing at all.

Kneeling in the moist earth of the brothel's garden, clipping at the rosebushes with pruning shears, Marisol planned her escape. She had been docile ever since Mr. Zaga asked whether she could read and speak English. He would not expect her to run today.

Where would she go? She didn't know. She would search for Tino, but where? Had he crossed over or was he still in Mexico? How would she ever find him?

When the enormity of the task made her tremble, she focused on the first step of the journey. From her bedroom window, she could see that the brothel was an island in a sea of farmland. Almond trees. Cow pastures. Strawberry fields stretching to the horizon. Everything owned by el jefe. Mr. Rutledge. The man who had come to her room and taken what he wanted. As if he owned her.

Through a stand of oak trees, she had seen a building perhaps three hundred feet away. One story, made of concrete blocks, with a flat roof. Seemingly abandoned. A small parking lot and a yard full of weeds. A flagpole with no flag. Just beyond the building was a road. If she could make it there, she could flag down a driver. But not those white trucks with the sign Rutledge Ranch and Farms, Inc.