And Diego would say, “You scientists are all alike. You want proof.”
And she would say, “Absolutely.”
Then they would make love.
But things were not normal—the stress of what lay ahead had knocked them both senseless—and they simply kissed and prepared for the long, hot drive to Modesto.
They were all the way to Castro Valley before Diego remembered the ham and cheese bagels in the oven.
7
Before leaving San Francisco that Friday morning, Diego and his wife stopped at the Mountain Lake branch of the País Nuevo Bank of California and withdrew all of their money, savings and checking. A Bank of California cashier’s check for $545,600 was tucked away securely in an inside pocket of Diego’s backpack. A different currency was used north of the 38th latitude—it was tied to the Euro—and Diego and Adriana knew the exchange rate would not be favorable. It was not, however, a fact that concerned them. Considering what lay ahead during the next several days, an unfavorable exchange rate was not high on their list of “Things to Worry About.”
A letter on the dining room table of their Baker Street apartment stipulated that all of their furniture was to be sold at auction, and the money donated to the Catholic Church of California, the San Francisco diocese. The note would be found by the building super when their September rent was past due. They would be across the border by then. It would be a clean break. No loose ends. Their four-year-old Chevy Juice would likewise be sacrificed.
They had just driven through Livermore when Adriana looked over at Diego and said, “You’re a hundred percent certain this is what you want to do?”
“Adriana, why do you keep asking me that question?” he said. “If it was something I didn’t want to do, we’d talk about it. We’d talk about it just like we talk before making any big decision. Like you said, we’re in this together.”
“I suppose I’m feeling a bit confused,” Adriana confessed.
“Adriana, we would still be doing this even if my little trip to Phoenix—”
“Yes, I know that,” Adriana said. “I’m just perplexed.”
He took his eyes off the road and looked over at her. “About what…exactly?”
“Nothing exactly. Everything.” She pushed a wisp of hair away from her face.
Eyes forward, he said, “I can’t bear the thought of you dying in pain piece by piece.If we stay in Frisco—and we still can, you know—then that’s your future. Our future.” Diego felt a sob working its way up his throat. “I don’t want either of us to suffer through that, Adriana.” He laid his hand on her arm. “We’re doing the right thing. I feel good about it.”
The color was gone from her lips, and she smiled tightly. “But those bad vibes are at work again. What if we get to Modesto and Cutbirth’s not there. Had you thought of that?”
“If he’s not there, then we’ll turn around and drive back home.”
“Drive back home…” Adriana muttered.
“He’ll be there.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Diego paused. “I can’t.”
“And I have no Travel Pass.”
“We also don’t have any other options,” Diego said. His stomach was in the early throes of making a fist.
They arrived at the former Wal-Mart Supercenter at 11:30. Diego drove around to the loading docks at the rear of the abandoned store. All types of graffiti marred the back wall of the deserted building. Gang symbols. Religious premonitions. Rocker mottoes. The retail store had sat empty for more than seven years.
Several cardboard shelters had been constructed at one end of the massive 18-door loading dock. Clothed in rags, a collection of street freaks loitered about the flimsy dwellings, smoking and talking. Several children played hopscotch on the buckling asphalt pavement nearby. A man in a ponytail was relieving himself against the far at the end of the deserted building. A one-armed black woman squatted next to a cardboard hut and cooked over an open fire.
Diego spotted the strange-looking vehicle immediately. It was a canary-yellow, 38-foot-long motor home, and one the likes of which Diego had only seen in pictures. The word WINNEBAGO was emblazoned across the front grill in red, centered between the headlights. On the right side of the vehicle, by the door and in large black letters, were the words: A & C ADVENTURE TOURS. It was parked beside the loading docks.
Diego looked over at Adriana. “He’s here. Feel better?”
“Some.”
Diego’s car rolled to a stop beside three other cars, and he and Adriana got out and removed their backpacks from the trunk. Diego saw Arnold Cutbirth crouched at the rear of the motor home. He was wearing strange side-shield sunglasses. In one hand he held a bean burrito; in the other a tire-pressure gauge. He was checking each tire.
In the light of day, Arnold Cutbirth looked far more intimidating. His nose was as wide and flat as some ex-prizefighter, the ridge of his brow was prominent, and his shoulders were as broad as a weightlifter’s. His Cal-Tech T-shirt fit so tight it appeared to be one deep breath from ripping at the seams. Cutbirth’s chest was as round as a tree stump.
Cutbirth looked up as they approached. “Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez. So glad you could make it.”
“Just protecting our investment,” Diego said, glancing at the tires. A couple were as bald as cue balls. “You’d think with $280,000 you could afford to buy some new tires.”
“You worry about staying alive, Ad Man,” Cutbirth said with mild disdain. “I’ll worry about the tires.” He gave Adriana a smug look. “When the going gets rough, Little Mother—and I can assure you that it will—you stay close to me.”
Adriana chafed at the suggestion. “If the going gets rough, Mr. Cutbirth, I’ll stay close to my husband.”
“That would be me,” Diego said with a belligerent grin.
“It’s a standing offer, Little Mother.”
“We have a slight problem,” Diego said, cutting to the chase. “My wife doesn’t have a Travel Pass.”
Cutbirth looked up at them and raised his bushy eyebrows. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He climbed to his feet and tossed what remained of his burrito onto the asphalt. A noisy flock of sparrows attacked it.
Adriana said, “My photo ID expired yesterday and the kind people at the Bureau of Travel wouldn’t issue me a pass until I have it renewed. It’s standard procedure, so we were told.”
Cutbirth looked at Diego. “You have your pass?”
“Yes.”
“That’ll be an extra 5,000, Ad Man,” Cutbirth said.
“What?”
“An extra 5,000 and maybe, just maybe I can remedy the problem. No guarantees,” Cutbirth said. “You have an extra 5,000?”
“What’ll it buy me?”
“Peace of mind.” He looked at Adriana. “And your wife has to promise to be nice to me.”
“What the hell did you have in mind, Cutbirth?” Diego growled. Cutbirth was an ogre. There was no other word to describe him. A graceless ogre.
“You have the 5,000 or not?”
Diego had stuffed $6,000 in the side pocket of his backpack. More than adequate travel and short-term start-a-new-life money. “Yeah, I have it, but I’d like to know how you plan on using it.”
“I’ll tell you exactly how I plan to use it. I plan on slipping a grand to an immigration official at five Ports of Entry. You may think a thousand dollars isn’t much for an official to take such a risk, but these officials—all of them, from the bottom up—are corrupt, and they might make eighteen or twenty thousand a day by turning a blind eye when the occasion presents itself. The officers throw all the money into a pot and divide it equally at the end of the day. It’s common knowledge.”
“Five Ports of Entry?”
“Five,” Cutbirth confirmed.
“So where in the hell are we going?”
“Can’t say at the moment.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Take your pick.”
Adriana
said, “But it’s a $50,000 fine for accepting a bribe. Plus five years in prison.”
“There has never been a Port of Entry official charged with bribery in the brief but colorful history of País Nuevo,” Cutbirth said. “They are a band of nutcases. They’re called La Fraternidad, The Brotherhood…a police force within a police force. Mostly Border Bunnies, but a few whites. Try not to piss them off.”
The chilling manner in which Cutbirth had delivered the news gave Diego something else to add to his list of “Things to Worry About.”
“Border Bunnies is a derogatory term, Mr. Cutbirth,” Adriana said, looking him straight in the eyes, “and I am personally offended by it.”
“How about Beaners? That work for you? Or Latrino? Is that more politically correct? I can remember a time in this country when I was growing up that we didn’t—”
“Not interested, Cutbirth,” Diego interrupted. He rummaged through his backpack, found the wad of bills in a plastic baggie, and counted out $5,000. He handed the bills to Cutbirth, who had stepped in front of Diego to shield their transaction from the street freaks.
“For the record, I don’t have peace of mind,” Diego said.
“Nor I,” Adriana said.
“Duly noted.” Cutbirth stuffed the bills into his pocket.
Diego said, “So what’s this?” He scanned the motor home from end to end. Three aluminum canoes were latched to the top of the old coach, Mad River Canoes stenciled on each. Through the side windows of the motor home, Diego could make out the shadowy silhouettes of several people moving about inside.
“This, my friends, is a Winnebago motor home,” Cutbirth boasted. “Rolled off the assembly line in 1999. Bought it on eBay a couple years ago. It’s one of a kind.”
“And this antique will take us across the border?” Diego said. “I’d like some specifics, Cutbirth.”
“Your scornful remark shows your naiveté, because this antique, as you call it, is the perfect cover for a group of aspiring rabbits.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Diego said. “What are the specifics?”
“Ask me that question one more time and I will castrate you right here in front of your wife.” There was that puzzling smile again. “Go ahead, ask that question again. I dare you. I double dare you.” The mystery smile widened.
“Okay, forget that question,” Diego said. “What powers this bucket of…er, this beautiful old motor home?”
“Diesel. A 400-horsepower Cummins diesel engine. Installed it myself.” Cutbirth’s voice was filled with so much pride, one might have thought he was glorifying his firstborn child. “Runs on synthetic diesel. Only the best for this baby.” He patted the side of the motor home.
“And where do you find synthetic diesel? Truck stops?”
“Nope. Too expensive for most truckers—they use the cheap stuff. But every Laiwu farm between here and Miami uses synthetic diesel in their tractors, generators, planters, combines, all of their harvesting equipment. Only the best for the Chinese. They’re in it for the long-term.”
“And the Laiwu farms will sell synthetic diesel to you?” Diego asked.
Diego recalled reading articles in the Chronicle over the past several years about the Laiwu Corporation. The Chinese company’s Agricultural Division operated more than 90 farms south of the 38th latitude, some as large as 75,000 acres.
“You’re trying my patience,” Cutbirth said, peering at Diego from the dark sockets set deep into his skull.
“Last question,” Diego promised.
“Yes, the Laiwu farms will sell me synthetic diesel. The Chinese know how to make a buck, and they don’t much give a flying flip whose buck it is. There are still a few truckers who’ll pay a little more for the best.”
“I hope your Winnebago has air-conditioning,” Adriana said. “This heat is about to do me in.” The farther inland they had driven, the higher the dashboard thermometer had risen.
“It has air-conditioning,” Cutbirth crowed. “And an electric fireplace.”
“I don’t think we’ll need a fireplace,” Diego said. It had to be well over 110 in the shade.
One of the street freaks who had been loitering at the far end of the docks strolled toward them, hands in his pockets. As the man drew near, Cutbirth turned and faced him. “Get the hell back to your cardboard city, Mofo! There’s nothing over here with your name on it!”
“You are the devil!” the ragged man shouted, spitting the words. “And the Lord said, ‘I will smite the devil with a mighty bolt of lightning!’”
“Get the fuck out of here or I’ll tear off your leg and stick it up your ass!”
Adriana cringed. “How utterly descriptive.”
The unkempt street freak paused, gave Cutbirth the finger, which he raised high above his head, then turned on his heels and headed back toward the cluster of cardboard bungalows, muttering with every step. The man glanced at the half-eaten burrito and the mob of sparrows quarreling for a share, and for one brief moment he stopped, perhaps considering whether to reclaim the scrap of food for himself. But in the end, he continued on to the cardboard shanty town.
“They’ll make short work of those vehicles,” Cutbirth said, motioning toward the automobiles. “A street freak can strip a car down to its chassis in less than ten minutes.”
“La vida pasa,” Adriana said.
While Cutbirth finished checking the tire pressure, Diego and Adriana boarded the coach, backpacks slung over their shoulders. They had purchased them the day before at San Francisco’s downtown Macy’s, along with all the other clothing items Cutbirth had specified.
Yong Kim was seated on a large leather sofa, one of two in the Winnebago’s living room. He was playing a hand-held video game.
Henry Bilderberg had claimed a spot on the smaller sofa opposite. An orange backpack sat on his lap. Although Cutbirth had turned on an auxiliary engine to run the motor home’s air-conditioner—it was a comfortable 72 degrees inside the big coach—little tributaries of sweat poured down Henry’s pale, greasy face. In Diego’s mind, there was something dark and conflicted about the little man.
Sissy Frost was seated at the galley table, flipping through a deck of Tarot cards.
Everyone exchanged greetings, and Diego and his wife sat across from Sissy at the table.
Sissy looked at Adriana, a soft glitter in her eyes. “Want a Tarot reading?”
“Maybe later,” Adriana said.
“Mr. Sanchez? Want a peek into your future?”
“No, thanks, Sissy. I have an image of the future, and I’d like not to disturb it,” Diego said, examining the interior of the motor home.
Although the Winnebago was technically an antique, it seemed to be in good condition, and featured all the amenities of the era: ceiling fans, a satellite TV theater system in the galley, mood lighting, a fully-equipped kitchen, and a Sony rearview monitoring system. The monitor was built into the dashboard and could be seen from a custom-designed cab seat. Two bedrooms.
Diego looked across the table at Sissy. “Where’s the bathroom in this dinosaur?”
“Down the hall on your left,” Sissy said with a little wave over her shoulder. “Next to the utility room.”
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