Money Matters

by Brian Finney

  Miguel is awakened by a loud buzzer that bores into his fearful dreams of being savaged by a cougar. The lights burst on. He has no idea how to conduct himself, so he decides to imitate whatever the other inmates do. Cursing and coughing, they begin dressing and making up their beds. Then they stand by their beds waiting—for what, Miguel doesn’t know. Next, two guards appear and one of them shouts out, “Roll call. Everyone stand still! No talking!” The guards match each detainee against his photo ID. When they get to Miguel there are no papers.

  “Name?” the guard asks Miguel.

  “Miguel Mondragon.”

  “Miguel Mondragon, Officer,” the guard yells in Miguel’s face. “Try that again.”

  “Miguel Mondragon, Officer.”

  “There’s no Miguel Mondragon on my roll,” says the guard accusingly.

  “That’s not my fault,” Miguel replies.

  “Don’t get smart with me,” the guard shouts. “When did you arrive?”

  “This morning.”

  “This morning, Officer.”

  “This morning, Officer.”

  “That motherfucking processor. It’s not the first time he’s screwed up,” he says to the younger guard. “Go to Processing and tell them to give you his photo ID and papers. Double quick.”

  All the detainees are left standing in silence while Miguel’s papers are fetched. It isn’t his fault, but many of them look at Miguel resentfully. Great start, he thinks. There is a further delay while the guards wait to hear that all the counts in the other dorms have been completed.

  Finally the detainees are marched to the cafeteria for breakfast. Miguel realizes that he’s starving. But breakfast turns out to be a plastic tray with compartments for cream of wheat, which is cold with lumps in it, half a cup of diluted mixed fruit juice, a biscuit with “country gravy,” and a cup of weak lukewarm coffee. Miguel is too depressed to care. Arturo, the guy who sleeps in the bed next to his and who has adopted Miguel, takes Miguel’s biscuit, dips it into his milk (he knows better than to choose coffee), and swallows it with a satisfied smack of his lips.

  A few hours later the inmates of Miguel’s dorm are allowed an hour’s recreation in the dirt yard, exposed to the blazing sun in the scorching desert heat. The detainees crouch together against the only wall offering shade, desperate for what little relief it offers, while the guards grin at them from their air-conditioned observation rooms. Like the others, Miguel is sweating profusely. After what seems like ages, the men are marched back to the dorm.

  Twenty-four hours ago, Miguel reflects, I was with Adela talking about buying frozen yogurt at Pinkberry’s. The thought of the cool treat entering his mouth only makes him feel hotter and more depressed. He curses himself for not putting his own safety first when those bastards from ICE started manhandling the young woman. His stand had not stopped them from arresting her. So what was the point of it? There was none. What a fool you are, he tells himself.

  ✽✽✽

  After the recreation period Miguel and the other detainees are marched back to the shower room. There everyone strips off their clothes and puts on shower shoes. Miguel’s bunkmate, Arturo, signals Miguel to step into the shower next to him, separated by a divider extending from waist to knees.

  Miguel tries to turn down the burning water, but the faucet doesn’t move. The same proves true of the cold faucet. Arturo, observing him, shouts over the noise of running water that the temperature is controlled by the guards.

  “Hot water makes me hot,” he says.

  Miguel looks questioningly at him.

  “Sí. Look at me,” Arturo says.

  Miguel peers over the partition. Arturo has a massive hardon.

  “You want to help me?” Arturo grins.

  “No way,” Miguel responds.

  “What if I help you?” Arturo’s hand comes around the side and moves down towards Miguel’s penis.

  “I said ‘No.’”

  “Okay. Okay. But at least you can help me.” He grabs hold of Miguel’s wrist and pulls it towards his upright penis.

  Where are the guards? Miguel asks himself.

  “Stop it!” Miguel shouts. “Let go of me.”

  The detainee showering on the other side of Miguel grins and says to Miguel, “That’s what we do for each other. That’s one of the few pleasures left to us. No mujeres. So stop making a fuss.”

  “Listen. I’m not jerking him off. No way.”

  “Maybe we stick this soap up your butt instead?”

  “Leave me alone,” Miguel is close to tears. “Just fucking leave me alone!”

  A guard appears behind him.

  “What you shouting for?” he asks.

  “Why are you leaving me alone with a bunch of perverts?”

  “What’re you talking about? Who’s a pervert?” asks the guard.

  “All of you,” Miguel shouts back in a temper.

  “You calling me a pervert, you pathetic wetback?”

  Arturo chimes in, “That’s what he was yelling.”

  “Stay out of this, you.”

  The guard turns to Miguel.

  “Time you learned some respect,” he says.

  “Bob!” he calls out to a fellow guard.

  Bob slouches over from where he has been leaning against the doorjamb. “Yeah?”

  “This jerk just called us all perverts.”

  “Sounds like he needs time out,” Bob says.

  “Just what I’m thinking,” the first guard says. “Get your clothes on,” he tells Miguel.

  “But I’m not finished showering.”

  “Get your clothes on. Now!”

  Miguel hastily rubs himself dry and dresses. Each guard grabs him by an arm. They frog-march him down a long hallway, out into the sweltering-hot yard, and into another cell block. They stop at a metal door with a small grated window in it and unlock the door. It is totally dark inside.

  “What’s going on?” Miguel asks.

  “Nobody taught you to say ‘Officer’?’

  “What’s going on, Officer?”

  “That’s better. We’re saving you from all us perverts.” Both guards chortle. “You don’t have to worry about being abused in a hold cell.”

  The two of them shove Miguel into the cell and slam the door shut behind him.

  Silence. Darkness. Miguel gropes his way around the cell. He stumbles into a bucket and knocks it over. Liquid swirls around his feet. He reaches out for the bucket and returns it to an upright position. His hands feel sticky. He continues his search and knocks his knee against something hard. After groping along its edge, he concludes it is some sort of bunkbed. He carefully lowers himself onto it and sinks his head into his hands.

  “You fool!” Miguel curses himself. “You just can’t keep your big mouth shut, can you? Once is not enough. When will you learn?”

  The black silence offers no reply.

  Tuesday

  NOVEMBER 2, 2010

  Eduardo insists on driving me to the Federal Building to deliver the cards. Eduardo turns on the car radio, and we hear Dan being interviewed by a female reporter from Fox News: “It breaks my heart,” Dan is saying, “but Gomez deserved to be deported. The law’s the law. He used a false social security number. He lied about his immigration status. It tears me up. At the same time, I don’t believe the voters will be thinking about Gomez when they come to vote today. There are so many vital issues to be decided in this election.”

  “Please,” I say to Eduardo, “can we not listen to that slime ball. How about some music?”

  Eduardo changes channels to KUSC. The Morning Show is playing Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons for what must be the hundredth time this year.

  I think back to waking up in Eduardo’s bed two hours ago, to the cup of coffee he brought me, to the sexy shower we took together, and to our dreamy breakfast at the kitchen table.

  That idyll came to an abrupt end when I turned on my cell phone to check my email. The first message was from Dad, asking if I
could get to their place by 3 for an urgent family conference. He’d already spoken to Tricia on the phone, he said, and she could make it then. What the hell is going on? I wondered. But there was no time to call Dad or Tricia before rushing to this morning’s meeting with Jorge. I quickly emailed Dad saying I would be there, and texted Tricia to ask if she wanted to drive to the Valley together.

  As Eduardo is parking in the public lot next to the Federal Building, he says, “I want to go with you to meet Jorge.”

  “No way,” I say. “That’s not the deal I made with him. What I do want you to do is position yourself near the guards at the entrance. If anything looks suspicious, you can ask them to intervene.”

  “Your call. But I don’t want anything to happen to you now I’m finally getting to know you.”

  “Wait for me to text you that the wire transfer is going through. Once you’ve confirmed that the money has arrived, it should all be over.”

  We take off, Eduardo to a position near the guards, I to the side facing Veteran Avenue, as agreed with Jorge.

  The wait seems forever. Finally, a black Lincoln Town Car pulls over to the curb, discharges Jorge and two other men, and speeds off. Jorge leaves the two others on the sidewalk and takes the path to where I’m waiting.

  “You got the cards?” he says without preamble.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Show them to me—discreetly,” he says.

  I open the envelope and fan out the five cards inside it.

  “That’s all you have?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “I need to test one before we seal the deal,” he says.

  I hand him the card from the kitchen. He takes out a portable card player, inserts the card, and watches a few seconds of it.

  “Let me see the others,” he says, and holds out his hand.

  “We agreed that you get those when the money has been transferred to the Coalition’s account.”

  Jorge hesitates. It can’t be often he accepts instructions from others. Nervous, I hold my breath.

  “Okay,” he says. “Wait while I make the transaction.”

  After a few moments he nods. “Done.”

  “Let me make sure the money’s been received.” I text Eduardo. Jorge and I stand there in silence. After a brief wait Eduardo’s text comes through. “It’s there.”

  “Okay,” I tell Jorge. As prearranged, Eduardo will have already changed the password for the Coalition’s account, to avoid further access to it.

  “Now give me the envelope. And remember,” Jorge says menacingly, “if anything about this deal ever becomes public, we will hunt you down and make you pay a terrible price. Got it?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry. I value my life.”

  I hand him the envelope. “You think a million makes you a winner?” Jorge sneers. “You could have got a lot more, chica, if you knew how to play this game. A million! It’s just loose change to us.”

  I take a step away from him, then turn back. “One final question. Is Susan still alive?”

  “Shall we say her body will never be found?”

  My heart sinks. “You bastards.”

  Jorge shrugs, unmoved. We take off in different directions. It’s over.

  ✽✽✽

  Eduardo drives us to Gloria’s apartment so that I can tell Felicia that she’s free as well as cash-rich. I tell Eduardo what Jorge told me about Susan. He looks shocked. “How terrible,” he says. “Were you close to her?”

  “Not really, but Felicia was, and I don’t know how I’m going to break the news to her.”

  As we park in front of Gloria’s, the neighborhood kid is hanging in her doorway. Eduardo gives him a dollar and tells him to watch the car.

  I’ve barely knocked on the door when Felicia throws it open. She hugs me with tears in her eyes. Eduardo and Gloria watch us indulgently.

  “What news?” she asks anxiously.

  “For a start, you’re in the clear.”

  Felicia looks confused. “In the clear?”

  “You are no longer in danger. The cartel is no longer trying to get you out of the country.”

  “Why no longer?” Felicia asks, looking befuddled.

  “Because Todd canceled his deal with the cartel.”

  Obviously I am not explaining myself clearly, as she asks me, “Why Mr. Granger change his mind?”

  “Because I came to an arrangement with him. In return for giving him the recordings that tie him and Dan to the cartel’s money, he agreed to call off the cartel and give you a check for $100,000 as compensation.”

  “$100,000!” Felicia is shocked.

  “In return for complete silence about the recordings and your illegal status.”

  “That is easy. Hardly worth $100,000.”

  “You bet it’s worth that,” I assure her. “If the press caught wind of that, Dan’s career would be over, and Todd would be facing prosecution for money laundering.”

  “Still. Is mucho dinero.”

  “And what do you think your long service to him is worth?”

  Felicia shrugs. We are silent for a moment. I reflect how tough it is going to be for Felicia to find another job with no reference.

  Then she asks anxiously, “What has happened to Miguel?”

  “We don’t know for sure. But it is very likely that he has been deported to Mexico by now.”

  “Pobrecito!” Felicia moans.

  “We couldn’t locate him in the system. And he’d already signed away his rights to a hearing in immigration court.”

  “I certain they threatened him. I know what they’re like,” she says.

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  I dread telling her the next piece of news. I hesitate, then take the plunge. “I’m afraid I have more bad news.”

  Felicia stares at me fearfully.

  “I just learned that the cartel murdered Susan.”

  Felicia lets out an animal-sounding howl. “But why?” she cries out.

  “Because they were afraid she would tell Eduardo about the connection between the cartel, Todd, and Dan.”

  “She not harm anyone,” Felicia sobs out. “So unfair.”

  “I know,” I say tearfully, holding her in my arms.

  I wait for her sobs to subside.

  “At least you’re no longer in danger. And here’s the check from Todd.” I fish it out of my purse and hand it to her.

  Felicia stares at it in silent disbelief.

  “You can go back home now,” I say.

  “Yes. I know,” Felicia says. “I cannot wait to hold my poor husband in my arms. First his nephew is deported. Then his wife is missing. He even stopped eating. Juan not eating! Never has that happened before.”

  “I know you want to see him as soon as possible,” I say. “But I would strongly urge you to first go to the bank and deposit that check. Just in case.”

  “But poor Susan,” Felicia says. “I’ll miss her muchisimo.”

  “I know,” I sympathize. “So brutal. I thought we should have a small memorial ceremony for her tomorrow morning. Just the three of us. Sort of lay her spirit to rest.”

  “Please. Yes.”

  “How about if we pick you up at ten?”

  “Ten good. Thank you so much, Jenny. For everything.”

  “Let me call a taxi for you,” says Eduardo.

  “Gracias. Gracias a todos. You both help me so much.”

  “You didn’t deserve this,” I tell Felicia as we leave the apartment. “And you do deserve the check.”

  ✽✽✽

  By 2:30 that afternoon I’m in Tricia’s new red Corvette Z06 en route to our parents’ house in the Valley. She’s a manic driver, weaving in and out of the lanes, and entering and exiting the diamond lane if that puts her a car’s length ahead.

  When I got to her apartment she had stacked my belongings in the hallway, more than ready to be rid of me. We never did have much affection for one another. She was always ultracompetitive—valedictorian, sum
ma cum laude, rich boyfriends, high paying job, designer clothes. We just couldn’t be more different.

  We had time to walk together to our local polling station at the Westminster Senior Center in Venice. We voted in adjacent booths, a somewhat futile exercise for both of us since we canceled out each other’s votes. I voted for Brown, she for Granger. I voted for Boxer, she for Fiorina. I voted the Democratic Party slate, she the Republican. Standing next to her, separated by just a canvas screen, dramatized our adversarial relationship.

  “So where did you sleep last night?” she asks me as we drive to the Valley.

  “At Eduardo’s,” I say neutrally.

  “Too bad,” she comments.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s a romantic thing, right?”

  “You could call it that,” I say guardedly.

  “That’s what you do when you’re in your teens.”

  “What is?”

  “Give it away for nothing.”

  “If you love someone you will give them anything,” I say and immediately regret letting slip the word, “love.”

  “So, we’re in love now. And with a Mexican American?”

  “So?”

  “When I was nineteen I had a hot affair with a guy from Guadalajara. He was incredibly good looking and amazing in bed. Then one day he just disappeared from my life. When I tried locating him, I found that he’d left his job and moved out of his apartment at night without paying that month’s rent. The cab company he worked for told me he’d given notice at the end of the previous month. So it was all planned in advance. But not a word to me.”

  “Why do you think that was?”

  “A close friend of his told me that ICE was closing in on him. He was due to make a court appearance the day he vanished.”

  “So that’s why you no longer give it away for nothing?”

  “No. That’s why I don’t trust Mexicans.”

  “Eduardo isn’t Mexican.”

  “You’re playing with words. He even makes his living defending Mexican illegals.”