You’d dig Hec, maybe we could get him a job in Hollywood. A character actor. A cigar-chomping Miami cop. Do they still make cop movies?
“No shame, get you, bitch . . .”
But you’re wrong. I have no morals, no husband, no children, but shame I have by the bucketload.
He starts to scream again.
“Help me! Help me! Help me!”
The duct tape is still in the backpack. I could cover his mouth, but what’s the point? Let him scream.
“Help me! Help me! Help me!”
In a minute he wears himself out.
His teeth chattering. His eyes closing.
I pull out the pack of Faros and put two in my mouth. I flip the Zippo and light both. I offer him one of the cigarettes. He nods and I put it between his lips. It’ll help him. In a couple of seconds the dissolved nicotine molecules will be firing neurotransmitters that’ll release small quantities of dopamine into his brain. As the cold starts to get to him, blood will retreat from his extremities and his brain will become overoxygenated, perhaps releasing more dopamine and endorphins. The feeling will not be unpleasant.
I put my hand beneath his armpit and lift him a little.
He draws on the cigarette and nods a thank-you.
“I just g-gave up. M-man, this is ironic, it r-really is,” he says.
Oh,
compañero
, don’t you read the poets? Irony is the revenge of slaves. Americans are not permitted to speak of irony, certainly not Americans like you.
He grins.
He probably thinks I’m starting to crack, that I’ll change my mind about this business.
I won’t but I am so caught up in that grisly smile and the fading blue of his eyes that I don’t see the black Cadillac Escalade idle its way to the locked gate behind us. I don’t see the doors open, I don’t see the men with guns get out.
I don’t see anything.
I’m in this moment with this man.
Are you ready?
Are you ready to speak the truth?
Or do you want to wait until the black angel joins us on the ice?
“D-d-don’t d-do this. D-don’t d-d-do this.” His voice drops half an octave, keeps the imperative, but loses the
tone
. “Don’t, p-please.”
Much more effective.
A call to prayer in the wilderness.
We Cubans are the vagabond descendants of the Muslim kingdom of Granada. We appreciate that kind of thing.
A call to prayer. Yes.
The dogwood minarets.
The ice lake sajadah.
The raven muezzins.
“How d-did it c-come to this?” he asks, crying now.
How did it come to this?
Mi amigo
, we’ve got time. I’ll tell you.
CHAPTER 2
BLOODY FORK, NEW MEXICO
T
he future paid a shivery visit to the back of the car. I woke, half opened my left eye. A yellow desert. Morning. I let the eyelid fall. Blackness. But not the blackness of negation. Nothing so fortunate. Merely the absence of light. Too hot to sleep. Too uncomfortable, too much background noise: radio in the front cab, annoying chitchat, stones churning against the bottom of the vehicle like lotto balls.
I felt weak, my bones ached, my jeans and sneakers were drenched with sweat.
The Land Rover rattled over a bump on the coyote road, the engine grumbling like an old horse.
No, no point trying to sleep now. I removed the cheap plastic sunglasses, wiped the perspiration from my forehead, rubbed at the dirt on the rear window.
Vapor trails. Red sun. Hot air seething over the vast expanse of the Sonora. No cacti, no shrubs. Not even a big rock.
Where were we? Was this a double cross? Easiest thing in the world, drive half a dozen desperate wetbacks to the middle of nowhere, kill ’em, rob ’em. Happens all the time.
I turned to look at Pedro, our driver. He caught my eye in the rearview, nodded, and gave me a tombstone grin. I nodded back.
“Yes, we’re across,” he said.
We crunched into a pothole. Pedro grabbed the wheel and cursed under his breath.
“Keep your eyes on the road,” someone said.
“What road?” Pedro replied.
I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly.
“We’re across the border? We’re
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