Paul Levine: Illegal

His body spasmed and his legs buckled as if his spine had just melted. He dropped to his knees, like a parishioner in church. The rest of him followed, collapsing slowly and neatly, straight down, like one of those old hotels demolished by well-placed explosives.

Marisol stood there soaked in his blood, breathing hard, her body trembling. She was about to pick up her change of clothes and head through the tunnel door when the staircase lights blinked on.

"Mr. Zaga. You down there?"

The guard.

"Mr. Z. You okay?"

Barefoot and bloody, Marisol grabbed the flashlight, swung open the iron door and, flailing at cobwebs, plunged into the black hole of the tunnel.

Wired and edgy, Sharon believed it would be a sleepless night. She was holed up with a twelve-year-old boy in the hotel room. Jimmy was out there in the dark somewhere, playing lumberjack with some old peach trees.

Trespass.

Malicious mischief.

Destruction of property.

And just maybe, getting a young woman and himself killed.

She hadn't been able to talk him out of it.

Foolish. Reckless. Dangerous. Pure Payne.

Her job tonight was to keep Tino safe. They had talked for hours, the boy chattering about going to a Dodgers game with Jimmy and enrolling in some school Jimmy had picked out, and Jimmy somehow getting them immigration papers, even if he had to fudge the truth a little.

Jimmy. Jimmy. Jimmy.

Tino was the president of the Jimmy Payne Fan Club. Maybe its sole member. The boy worshiped him. But would he still, after tonight? What if Jimmy didn't rescue Marisol? What if his actions led to her death? Sharon couldn't help but think of all the horrible possibilities.

Tino couldn't sleep, either. Together they watched television. Sharon made microwave popcorn. In typical male fashion, the boy asked for the remote, then hop-scotched through the channels. Just like his hero.

Sharon couldn't keep her mind on the programs. Jay Leno's jokes seemed duller than usual. Sports Center 's nightly baseball clips all looked the same. Tino clicked through one channel after another, settling on a shopping network that sold diamond rings for thirty-nine dollars.

Tino stared into space, his attention wavering. Sharon could only guess what fears plagued him tonight.

Then he surprised her. Without warning or prelude, he said softly, "Himmy told me what happened. To your son."

"Oh."

"Himmy's really messed up about it."

"I know."

Tino picked up his baseball glove-the one Jimmy bought him-and pounded a ball into the pocket. "Maybe the two of you will get back together. You know, help each other with all that bad stuff."

"Did Jimmy tell you to say that?"

"No way. I just see how he feels about you."

"I'm hoping he'll get over that."

Tino gave her a look. Too serious for a twelve-yearold. "But will you get over him?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you didn't love Himmy, you wouldn't have come up here."

Before she could process that, the door burst open, splintering off its hinges.

Sharon dived for her shoulder holster, slung from the bedpost.

"Freeze!" Rigney in the doorway, aiming his Glock at her.

She obeyed, hands inches from her gun.

Tino jumped out of bed and pivoted like Omar Vizquel at shortstop, sidearming the ball straight into Rigney's chest. The cop howled and staggered a step backward but didn't drop his gun. "Punk! You little punk greaser."

"?Chingate!"

"No, fuck you, kid."

"Put the gun away, Rigney." Sharon glared at him. "Jimmy's not here."

"No shit. He's out playing Paul Bunyan." He gave her a gotcha grin while using his free hand to gingerly touch a rib where the ball had nailed him. Moving toward the bed, he grabbed Sharon's holster from the bedpost.

"What are you doing here?"

"Enforcing the law." He flipped over a badge hanging around his neck. "Duly appointed deputy, named by the chief himself."

Sharon felt like spitting at him. "How much they paying you, Rigney?"

"Take it easy, Detective. I'm saving your ass."

"What about Jimmy? You saving him, too?"

"Your ex is dead meat. But I got nothing to do with that." Rigney turned to Tino. "C'mon, kid. Let's go."

"No fucking way," Tino said.

"Relax. I'm taking you to your mother. The chief's gonna send both of you back to Mexico. With some cash, for all your trouble."

"Is that what Cardenas told you?" Sharon said.

"He's a cop, for Christ's sake. What do you think he's gonna do-kill them?"

"You are so dense, Rigney. Cardenas works for Rutledge."

"So what? Who do you think we work for, the Red Cross? Money buys everything and everyone. Rutledge is no different than the bigwigs in L.A. He just wears cowboy boots instead of Italian suits."

"We're supposed to fight corruption, Rigney."

"Losing battle." He reached into a jacket pocket and tossed a pair of handcuffs to Tino. "Cuff her to the bed frame."

"Chingate," Tino said for the second time.

Rigney grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck and shoved him toward the bed.

"Go ahead, Tino," Sharon said.

Tino hesitated. Rigney clopped him on the side of the head with an open hand. "Now!"

"Do as he says, Tino," Sharon said.

The boy snapped one cuff around Sharon's right wrist, and the other to the metal frame.

Rigney pulled out a roll of duct tape and tore off a piece. "Someday you'll thank me, Detective." Before she could reply, he covered her mouth with the tape. Then he grabbed Tino by the arm and said, "C'mon kid, smile. You're headed to a family reunion."

The bed of a farmer's pickup truck could be filled with a pile of fragrant manure, or sacks of lung-searing pesticides, or a basket of rusty rakes and dirt-clodden hoes. Simeon Rutledge's green Ford, built during the Korean War, smelled of polish and gleamed with wax. Had a moon been peeking through the rain clouds, the truck would have shined in the dark.

Payne lay on his back in the short, stubby cargo bed, Adam's Louisville Slugger at his side. The truck was parked in the circular driveway in front of the farmhouse. If someone drove up-say, Enrique Zaga, hauling Marisol along-Payne would leap over the low side panel and flail away at the man's skull, like Juan Marichal on Johnny Roseboro in Candlestick Park.

The other option was Rutledge driving to wherever Marisol was being held.

Payne heard the front door of the farmhouse bang closed. He fought the urge to peek over the side panel. Rutledge's cowboy boots crunched the gravel, his steps quick. The driver's door opened, and Rutledge's weight settled into the front seat.

The old Ford coughed and cleared its throat. Rutledge put it in gear and spun out of the driveway, spraying gravel.

Payne stayed down, bracing his feet against the back of the cab. He lost his sense of direction after several turns. Asphalt. Unpaved road. Potholes the size of canoes. The painkillers must be wearing off. His temples throbbed. His head was filled with billiard balls, clacking into one another. At the same time, some gremlin with a hammer was engaged in carpentry on his hip bone.

Lightning flashed from the southeast, a summer storm born in Mexico, crashing toward the valley. The heat of the day gave way, the air cool and moist, the smell of rain even stronger now.

The truck bounced along, branches of sycamore and birch trees forming a canopy over the bed. The dirt road gave way to another stretch of pavement.

Thunder rumbled across the sky. Zeus hurling thunderbolts. Angels bowling. God farting. Whatever.

Payne crept onto his knees and peered cautiously through the window into the cab. Rutledge's right hand rested on the spindly gearshift shaped like a question mark. His left elbow stuck out the open window.