The Long Run, page 28
“I will. I know who to watch for.” He squeezed her hand. “When you’re done, come back here and wait. Don’t stay out there longer than you need.” She agreed, and they parted, with Sofia crossing the lot to the water fountain and Israel to the diner’s front door. He clutched the door handle, took a breath, and stepped inside.
The diner’s bar formed an L and seated half a dozen hungry truckers guzzling black coffee and chewing breakfast with the dead eyes of grazing cattle. The look of road life. Only the woman working the counter noticed when Israel stepped inside. She arched an eyebrow at him before swiveling to pour a customer more coffee. Israel didn’t want to stand out. At least not any more than he already did in his ragged, sweat-soaked clothes and haggard appearance. He ducked into a bathroom and washed his face with tap water and paper towels. He returned to the diner and slinked into an open seat at the bar. Two men sat on either side. The barkeep stopped in front of him.
“What would you like?” she asked with a doubtful pucker of her lips.
“Water. Please.”
She sniffed and sloshed the coffee pot in her hands. Her gaze swept from Israel to her customers and back to Israel. “No begging. Or you leave. Understand?”
“I got it. I won’t.” He dipped his head respectfully.
She ambled off to fetch his water. Israel rested his elbows on the countertop and assumed an air of belonging with his chin held high. He popped his neck to conceal his sidelong glances. One diner companion had already angled his body away from Israel. A result of the waitress’s comments. Or maybe it was Israel’s smell. Maybe both. He was a lost cause. The other diner had been occupied by his cell phone when Israel sat. Now he chewed his black beans and rice with a ripped tortilla and a slurp of coffee. The waitress thunked Israel’s glass of water in front of him with an unsubtle scowl before answering a call at the far end of the bar.
There was no time to waste. Israel cleared his throat and looked at the trucker beside him. “Buenas días.”
The trucker’s furry black eyebrows lifted in surprise as he glanced at Israel. A gentle, unsure smile parted his thin beard. “Buenas días,” he replied.
“Where are you headed?”
“Hm? Oh. Mexico City.” His eyes narrowed on Israel’s appearance. “You?”
“That’s a long haul,” Israel said, trying to hurry the conversation. The waitress was busy responding to hungry patrons. He’d prefer she not see him speaking with a customer.
“Yes. Very far,” he said, and retreated to his plate of food. But Israel wouldn’t let the conversation die this quickly. The waitress now had him in her sights. Only the constant calls for service kept her away.
“I’m looking for a ride north,” Israel said, keeping his voice low.
“¿Ah, sí?” The trucker lowered his food. Anxious eyes flitted from Israel to the waitress and back.
“I can pay. There’s two of us and…”
“Excuse me,” the trucker said as he grabbed his plate and coffee mug and stepped off his barstool.
“No. I can pay. It’s all right.” But the trucker was already walking away. He found an open cubicle and sat with his back facing Israel. Israel pivoted to face his opposite bar mate when the waitress shook free from her other duties.
“What did I tell you? You need to leave. ¡Fuera de aquí!” She waved him off with an angry wave of her arm as she balanced a stack of dirty dishes on her other arm.
“No. Ma’am, I was just…” he said, lapsing into English before returning to Spanish.“Go on! Get out of here!” she said, ignoring his entreaty.
“Hola compadre!” an unfamiliar voice sounded behind Israel. The accent belonged to an American male. Israel swiveled in his seat. The man stood at Israel’s left elbow with a casual grin. He had the crow’s feet of entrenched middle age. But he lacked an older man’s pot belly and wore his dirty blond hair straight past his shoulders. He extended a veiny, tanned hand to Israel as a greeting. “My name’s Clark,” he said in fluent English. “Not many other Americans around here.”
“Robert,” Israel lied, as he accepted the man’s handshake.
“¿Lo conoces?” the waitress asked Clark with a frown.
“Está bien, Gloria. Yeah, he’s a friend of mine.”
She nodded grudging approval and gave Israel one last glare before hurrying to continue her chores.
“Don’t worry about Gloria,” Clark said, returning to English. “She don’t mean no harm. Come have a seat with me. I don’t get to speak English very often.” He had an ease and charm that comforted Israel. Plus, he was out of other options. He accepted Clark’s invitation and pushed away from the counter.
CHAPTER 51
Sofia
Sofia couldn’t remember her dad’s number. Same with Oscar and Osiel. She never remembered phone numbers. Only punched them into her contacts list and never thought of them again. But she remembered mom’s number. Her mother had drilled it into her brain as a child. A potential lifeline in an emergency. As always, mama was right. It only rang once before mama picked it up.
“Hello?” her mother said.
“Mama!” Sofia said, choking the word as her mother’s voice induced a swell of emotion. “It’s me. Sofia!”
“¡Mija! Oh, sweet Jesus! Is it you? Where are you? Are you OK? ¡Mija!” Her mother’s words rattled like machine gun fire punctuated by teary thanks to God. Their shared excitement threatened to overwhelm the intention of the phone call. As much as Sofia wanted to speak with her, time was short. She interrupted her mother to speak.
“Mama! Mama! I can’t talk long. I’m calling from a pay phone, and I’m out of money.”
“Where are you? Are you OK?”
“I’m OK, mama. I’m in… I… I don’t know where I am.” She twisted in search of signs showing her location. The corkscrew telephone line trailed behind her. The gas station only listed its name and gas prices. A McDonald’s across the street resembled every other McDonald’s on the planet.
“You don’t know?”
“Hold on mama.” She flipped the other direction. A traffic sign down the road read: Campeche 1km. “I’m outside Campeche. At a truck-stop.”
“What are you doing in Campeche, mija?”
“Never mind that. Mama, I’m safe. For now. We escaped.”
“Oh, praise Jesus. Wait. We? Who’s we?”
“Me and Izzy. He came to find me. We broke out during the hurricane and—”
“Izzy? Israel? What is he doing there? What’s happening? I don’t understand.”
Sofia caught her breath. Her mother must have been in a cocoon of silence for days. Filled with questions and worries. Now all the missing information blasted into her ear like a fire hydrant unleashed. “Mama. Mama. Sh. I don’t have much time.” The dwindling ticker on the phone urged her forward. “We’re safe for now. But the gangsters are looking for us. We want to come home, but we have no money.”
“Go to the police, mija! They’ll protect—”
“No mama, we can’t trust them. And we don’t have our passports. We’re trying to reach the border. But we need money.”
“Well, how do I send—”
“There’s a Western Union here. Send us as much money as you can. Ask Dad. He’ll know how.”
“Sofia, let me call the FBI lady. She can come get you and—”
“FBI? You talked to an FBI agent?”
“Yes. She’s a very nice lady. She said she would help.”
Getting the FBI involved couldn’t hurt. “Yeah. Tell her. Oh! Mama let me give you this phone number before the timer—” The phone call cut off with a pleasant chime and a robot voice that told Sofia she needed to insert more money to continue. “Shit!” Sofia banged the receiver on to its cradle in a huff.
Her eyelids pressed together, and her nostrils flared. How did people survive before cell phones conquered the world? She wanted to tell her mother more. So much more. She wished she had told her what happened at Club Bombom. Or about Mr. Carson’s involvement. Or that she loved her. She wished she could have spoken to her dad and Oscar and Osiel, too. She had done all she could. Now she had to wait, and hope, that her parents wired her some money. They weren’t rich. Not poor either. She didn’t know how much they could scrape together on short notice. But she knew they would do everything they could. She exhaled and returned to her lair behind the dumpster to await Israel.
For twenty minutes, she sat with her back to the retaining wall and pulled her knees tight. She watched bees hover around a lilac bush before Israel appeared beside the dumpster.
“Hey!” he said, surprising her as fatigue shut her eyelids.
“Izzy!” she replied. He approached with the slanted smirk and mischievous eyes she knew so well. A look that eased her worries. The only person in Mexico she could trust. But when another man appeared behind him, she tensed. “Who’s this?”
“It’s cool, Sofie,” Israel said, kneeling beside her and taking her hand. “He’s an American. His name is Clark. He can help us.” Clark pressed a shoulder into the retaining wall and gave a quick wave.
“How?” Sofie stood and brushed dirt from her filthy jeans.
“I’m a pilot. Got my own plane. Little Cessna 150. She ain’t much to look at. But she can fly us across the Gulf. Done it a bunch of times.”
“You’ll do that for us?”
“Sure thing, little lady,” Clark beamed and smacked his gum. Sofia detected a faint Boston accent strained through years of Spanish. “Izzy told me you guys got sideways with the law while on vacation. Now you’re stuck. I get it. I was young once.” A knowing wink indicated some past indiscretion.
“Oh my God,” Sofia said and covered her mouth. Israel’s risky expedition into the diner had borne greater rewards than she had hoped. “We’re going home?” She faced Israel, hoping for confirmation.
“Yeah,” he grinned. She pulled him close with a firm grip. She couldn’t wait to see her mom and dad and her brothers. Hank was another matter. He now carried baggage requiring extensive explanation. She hoped he wasn’t involved in the darker side of his father’s business.
“Thank you,” she said, swiveling to face Clark.
“Ah. It’s no bother. But I can’t take you all the way home.”
Sofia released Israel. “What? Why not?”
“I mean,” Clark raised calming hands. “I can fly you most of the way. To Reynosa, if you want. But I can’t land in the US.” He smiled and cleared his throat. “Y’all aren’t the only ones who got sideways with the law.”
That was good enough. It was better than stowing away inside an eighteen-wheeler. Or a weeks-long trek on foot. They could be on the US border in a matter of hours.
“Wait,” she said. “What do we do about passports? We don’t have IDs.”
“Don’t worry about that,” he waved. “I can see you guys never flown a private plane before. My plane is stored in a hangar nearby. No customs to clear. And I know a private runway to land outside Reynosa. I’ve done some work for the owners in the past. They won’t mind.”
Sofia scanned him from head to toe. He was dressed casual in his unbuttoned shirt over a blue Maui tee. Long board shorts covered his knees. Birkenstocks strapped his ankles. “What do you do, Clark?”
“Hah! I’m living the dream. I give tourists tours of the bay. Let them watch the sunset. They like hearing an American voice. Or pull ad banners. Whatever I can do to make money. I spend my nights watching the sunset,” a dreamy smile spread across his face.
Or run drugs, Sofia thought. Maybe as a side hustle. But like Israel, she detected no malice or conspiracy from this washed-out stoner.
“Sounds good to us,” Israel said.
“Cool. I only need gas money. You said you can pay?”
“Um…” Israel said
“Soon,” Sofia chimed in. “I just called my mom. She’s going to wire us money.”
“Western Union?” Clark asked.
“Yeah.”
“Cool. There’s one near my place. Let’s swing by there and then we can pick it up. Sound good?”
“Yeah,” Israel said, and turned to Sofia. “Yeah?”
Sofia scoped Clark once more. One last search for signs of ulterior motives. But his pleasant, goofy smile betrayed none. She nodded her approval.
“All right. Let’s go.” Clark led them from the dumpster to his truck in the parking lot. A rusted brown and white Ford F-150. A two-tone relic of the 70s that reminded Sofia of her departed uncle Felipe. The passenger door creaked and clunked as it pulled open. “Sorry,” Clark said as he held the door for them. “This is Darlene. A fella from Alabama told me any truck this old needed a name.”
“That’s fine.” He could call it whatever he wanted. To Sofia, it was a luxury limo to the airport. She climbed in first, followed by Israel. Clark got behind the steering wheel.
“Holy shit,” Israel gasped. His reaction frightened Sofia until she followed his gaze. An eight-track player embedded in the dash. “Does it work?”
“Hell yeah! Check this out,” Clark grinned. He punched the eject button and a black cartridge popped out. She made out the name Freddy Fender on its faded label. Israel explored the cartridge like a newborn baby plucking at an oversized plastic toy.
“I didn’t know these still existed.” He handed the cartridge back to Clark. Clark pushed it back into the player and hit play. The tape played with clicks and a slight fuzzy hiss. The result of decades of wear. Soon the lyrics of Wasted Days and Wasted Nights warbled through the ancient speakers.
“We’ll be there in a few.” Clark’s head dipped and bounced to the music.
The truck started with a belch and a shudder. But it drove and soon they were on the highway. Further from Chucho and one step closer to home.
CHAPTER 52
Agent Dominguez
Cell phone service was shit inside the McAllen police department. It was especially shit inside the interrogation room. Bare, soundproofed walls and a hardwood door surrounded the eight-foot by ten-foot rectangle. A closed-circuit camera—mounted high on one wall—pointed at the spartan meeting table and its four chairs. A room designed to isolate and unnerve suspects. It worked on Agent Dominguez the same way. She sat on one of the padded chairs, her elbows on her knees, and stared into her glowing iPhone screen.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” she muttered as she flipped through her unsynced email. The words No Service appeared on the top left corner of the phone. Information was her lifeblood. Whenever it was denied, she felt like a junkie desperate for another fix.
A buzz at the doorway snatched her attention from her obstinate phone. The bolted lock slid back with a heavy shunk as she stood to face the newcomer. The door swung open, revealing a patrolman leading Centavo by the arm. He’d had time to clean up since their previous rough encounter. His hair was combed and slicked back, with one unruly lock dangling over his forehead. He wore the same work clothes from this morning, though he’d tucked in the shirt. His cuffed hands rested in front of his crotch. His eyes twinkled at her in recognition.
“Hello Centavo,” she said, choosing his nickname as an introduction. Let him know upfront she knew all about him. He smirked as the patrolman led him to the table. The guard unlocked one cuff and slid it around the lock bar bolted to the table and clicked it shut.
“Sit,” the patrolman said. Centavo complied, slumping into his chair. “He’s all yours.” The patrolman strode from the room and closed the door, leaving them alone. A fact that surprised Agent Dominguez.
“No lawyer?” she asked.
“I want to hear you out first.” His voice was deep and wheezy, betraying a lifelong smoking habit.
“Why’s that? Got something to get off your chest?”
“No.” His gaze wandered over the room, absorbing every feature like a laser scanner. “Just want to listen.”
“OK.” A risky choice. She assumed he would call his boss immediately. Doubtless the Carsons would FedEx a high-priced lawyer to keep him quiet. Did he not know that? “Like I said before. I know the Carsons have been running drugs across the border for the cartel using their dump trucks. And you’ve been the driver.”
“You know what you know,” he shrugged.
“I’ve got hundreds of texts between you and Hank Carson. I know Hank is Big Red. And I know you sold a trunk full of dope the two of you stole from the cartel to Gustavo Arriaga.”
“¿Ah, sí?” His eyes lifted in surprise. “Sounds serious.”
“It is. What I want you to tell me are the details. You’re using Carson trucks to evade detection from the border patrol. But they still stop you. Still do a cursory check. It’s not like cellophane bricks of coke are sitting on the passenger seat. Where do you hide it? And how do you skim your take off the top? Are you not worried about the cartel finding out? They can be VERY unforgiving. And does Henry Carson Sr. know about your little side business?”
“Heh heh. I hear good stories too. La policía arrest drug dealers and sell the drugs themselves. Take it out of, how do you say, evidence? Maybe you. Maybe? Who knows?”
Agent Dominguez drummed her fingers on the table. She could accuse Centavo all day and he wouldn’t talk. Maybe sweat him into submission. But she assumed he would maintain his foot-dragging silence, and she hadn’t given up hope of finding Sofia alive. People want what they want. He didn’t care about her accusations. He wanted to know what his cooperation was worth.
“I have you on resisting arrest. That’s a fact. And you’re undocumented. I could have you deported in a few hours.”
“Unless?” he said and crossed his arms. A confident man who believed he had options. Agent Dominguez had to simultaneously crush those options and provide him with a pathway out. “Unless you swear out a statement to the DA. Provide evidence. You don’t have to spend the next twenty years of your life in jail, Mr. Ordoñez. It’s a matter of time now. We have stacks of documentation pointing to Mr. Carson's involvement. It may take longer to prove it without your help. But we’ll get there.”
