Charlie smiled wide. “Jim Dandy to the rescue.” He slid the box of tampons through the window while holding up the key to their cabin. “How about a bath in a Jacuzzi?”
“Oh. My. GOD! You’re kidding. How?”
“Livin’ in the moment, babe. Let’s just relish this little victory for a second.” He stood frozen in time. “Okay. I’m done. Now let’s roll.”
Denice squealed with delight as Charlie hopped into the K-5.
It was a ninety-second drive to the cabin and a hot bath.
THE NIGHT BELONGS TO WILD THINGS
Chapter 7
The people above the bar had a million questions: “When are we leaving?” “Does the AC work…? It says cold air-conditioning. Where is it?” “You ever thought of tattooing an eyeball on your eyelid, or flames on your bald-ass head?”
The people above the bar had a million questions: “When are we leaving?” “Does the AC work…? It says cold air-conditioning. Where is it?” “You ever thought of tattooing an eyeball on your eyelid, or flames on your bald-ass head?”
Pelón (which means bald in Spanish) was used to the nervous interrogation by the people that had either waited all their lives for this moment, or were pissed they had to try again.
“Okay everybody...Get naked,” Pelón requested. This brought a bevy of groans and one giggle from the gay guy. “No shit, amigos, drop trou.”
Pelón needed to check to make sure no one had any heroin, cocaine, or meth taped to their bodies. Hotel Mexico did not cater to drug traffickers. That was a whole different operation. Their clients in L.A. wanted family members safe, but sometimes bad guys would try to talk their code-holders into some sneaky stuff in an attempt to make some extra cash. Unfortunately this undermined the safety of family members.
After a quick search of the seven Latino men, everyone dressed and mulled around aimlessly until Pelón blurted out with much enthusiasm, “To the bar, my friends. Where we will toast to the Blessed Virgin for a safe journey.”
Pelón was so theatrical it bordered on corny, but with his “all seeing eyeball” in consideration, it came off almost credible.
Down in the bar the Gypsy Kings were rockin’ the box, a vintage Wurlitzer, the Latin big band sound smooth as silk. The three-bladed ceiling fans that hung almost motionless were reminiscent of a Mexican version of Casablanca. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.
Pelón lined up nine shot glasses on the bar, filled to the brim with Cuervo 1800. Camacho came through the backdoor, his mustache glistening shiny from pork fat.
“Amigos, tonight I guide you. No, I take you on the first leg of your journey. We are on a dangerous mission, amigos. Raise your glass with me.”
Each man grabbed a glass. Pelón raised an eyeless eyebrow at the giggling gay man, but let him drink also. Camacho toasted, “Here’s to the Virgin Mary who reproduced without sinning. May we sin without reproducing.” He raised his shot glass over his head. The others just looked at each other in complete shock.
Pelón had a stupid smile, full of ad-hoc Mexican dentistry. You could taste the awkward silence. Camacho looked each man in the eye. And without a trace of irony said, “What? We do not need luck? We do not need the Virgin’s blessing? You are with me, amigos. The best in all of Mexico.”
Camacho’s ego was almost too large for the small bar. But it was obvious his buoyancy made the group feel safe. The tension broke. It was all laughter and smiles, handshakes and backslaps. The mood was once again festive. Everyone tossed back the Cuervo as Camacho boomed, “Follow me to America.” He spun one-hundred-eighty degrees on his right heel and took off out the back door.
Pelón herded the men out like sheep into the hot arid night where the stillness was absolute. Only the hum and crackle of the neon signs out front pierced the darkness.
Camacho’s Bronco was huge. It sounded like a NASCAR racer, and more than made up for his “stature-challenged” penis. The four-wheel-drive truck was a perfect tool for Camacho to ply his trade. He had never been stuck or broke down on any run.
He kept his Bronco in immaculate condition. If by some rotten stroke of luck, you were to vomit on the ride to the fence, which happened more often than you’d think, he’d stop, turn around, pull his side arm, and say, “Out. Get out NOW. This is a do-over for you. Walk back, you son-of-a-bitch. You will clean my truck and we will try again. Smells like rotten carnitas. Do not eat next time, you hear? If you find your way back, stay away from the BBQ.” At which time he would queue up the two-way radio and alert Pelón to the pedestrian status of the guy and his new diet.
The run to the fence in pitch-black darkness was a precisely-timed, choreographed piece of smuggling. In this business timing is everything. There are many unseen eyes and ears, from ranchers to homeowners to private pilots, all paid well for their vigilance. The comings and goings of U.S. Border Patrol and Mexican Federales are monitored and recorded, analyzed and compiled, with stealth and accuracy.
The network of people involved in a safe crossing is incredible. That’s because all smugglers share information, but not product. The need for precise timing is exactly the same whether you’re trafficking guns, drugs, or humans. But the morals and value systems differ when you’re shuffling humans across the border.
Priority number one is to know the Border Patrol’s schedule. There is an inherent 15-minute delay during each shift change when everyone exchanges info about the day’s observations. Coyotes cue microphones on two-way radios; that’s when people literally crawl through holes in the fence, and, in some cases, gamblers-on-a-losing-streak load someone’s loved ones into the back of the family van.
An action-packed race against time occurs during this dangerous dance, thus requiring nerves of steel. Confidence and control are the smuggler’s best traits. If you’re prone to mistakes and don’t have a poker face, you won’t succeed. There are so many variables and so many quick decisions to be made in that 15 to 20 minutes that it takes an almost mechanical state of mind to live to collect your money.
Camacho pulled the Bronco up next to the hole in the twelve-foot chain-link fence. The 50-mile-an-hour ride took less than 11 minutes. Once the Bronco jerked to a stop, frightened men anxiously jumped out of the vehicle and crawled, one at a time, through a recently cut hole onto Reservation Land.
On the other side, Wiley Coyote accepted his charges for the second leg of the three-part journey. His head constantly darted from side to side. Like an owl, Wiley did not need night-vision goggles.
Nor was he afraid of the natural elements.
As usual Wiley wore lineman boots that laced up 18 inches over his shins, covering thick leather leggings. These items protected his lower half from diamondback rattlesnakes, common to the California desert. Some up to seven feet in length, their powerful, venomous fangs could end a man’s career in the blink of an eye.
There was no moon in the night sky – there hardly ever was during crossings – only the stars as Wiley’s guide. But that didn’t matter because he was a pro and his people knew it. Which is why they immediately tuned in when he started his instructions with “Listen up my friends, and listen closely...”
NAKED TIME
Chapter 8
Denice was buck naked, sitting on the edge of the small Jacuzzi with her feet dangling in the steaming water. A small, but toasty fire in the Franklin stove warmed the cedar-scented air of the A-frame cabin. The only windows were at the peak of the A-frame, the same level as the loft, private, cozy and delicious. Two small candles added to the luxurious camping atmosphere.
While looking at his wife, Charlie thought to himself, Sometimes the Creator’s handiwork demands thankfulness from the hearts of we mortals. So beautiful, so smart, so tan, at times this spectacle can take your breath away.
Except for the string. Dammit.<
br />
Denice noticed her husband’s leer as he slid naked into the bubbling cauldron. She knew him so well. As with a lot of loving relationships, they read each other’s thoughts and finished each other’s sentences. At this moment, she thought about rewarding Charlie with that one thing he loved more than fast cars. More than jackpots. More than any other activity known to man.
“You’ve been a very good boy Charlie,” she cooed.
“I have?”
“Yes. My knight in shining armor. And as your queen, I have a reward for you.” She slipped into the water and looked up into his eyes. “Don’t you worry ‘bout that string, handsome.”
No more words were needed, nor could be said by Denice. Sometimes Charlie thought his cup runneth over. Life was good, sooo freakin’ good.
“Oh, yes, what a good boy I am,” he whispered lustily.
Life doesn’t get any better than this.
-- -- --
Lying on the antique comforter and the too-soft mattress, Charlie and Denice listened to the serenade of the night: chirping crickets, the hoot of an owl looking for its mate to share a kill. This is when Charlie and Denice shared their innermost thoughts, after the tension and stress of the day was shed.
“I like Lily,” Denice shared. “She seems nice. Dinner was excellent, and she made me feel welcome.”
“Yeah. And Ron’s a cool guy,” Charlie continued. “We’d be ass-out without their kindness. I’m going to give him double his money’s worth.”
“Lily said they’re short on cash, so the trade is good for them. Ron can’t do it all. She said he’s no electrician nor plumber.”
“Well, we’ll see how it goes, Pumkin.” Charlie kissed Denice’s forehead, her cheek and finally her lips like he had every night for 21 years.
Sleep came quickly for them both.
The next few days went by in a hurry. Charlie and Denice worked in the restaurant, campground, and cabins. They ate their meals in the restaurant and slept in the honeymoon cabin. But this sweet interlude couldn’t go on forever. The weekend was only two days away and all the cabins were booked.
“You want to go to the casino and have a look around?” asked Denice, well aware that they needed to find another way to get some cash.
“Sure,” replied Charlie unenthusiastically. He also knew they needed a Plan B. “Maybe play duck, duck, goose with all the people that won’t pay us back?”
“Just try a little charm, Charlie. More flies with sugar and all that.”
“You do know that flies start out as maggots,” Charlie reasoned comically.
“We all have to start somewhere,” Denice replied in that monotone I’m-not-impressed-with-your-attempt-at-humor voice that women do so well.
The Acorn Casino was packed on this Wednesday night, and resonated loudly with the din of dropping coins. The low hum of voices competed with the piped in muzak, and the atmosphere was charged with everyone’s desperate hope of quick money.
And then there was Larry, bingo was his game-o.
“Looky there, hon,” Charlie nodded toward Larry. “A cash cow.”
“Moo,” responded Denice.
Charlie spread his arms out like wings, “I’m gonna swoop over there and pounce on his wallet.”
“Thank God he’s not wearing a tie,” said Denice, remembering their last encounter.
Charlie walked up and stood behind Larry, looking over his shoulder. The money line was at eighteen dollars. “Rollin’ like a big dog, eh Lar?”
“Holy crap, you scared me, man. I’m broke, dude.” Larry noticed Denice behind Charlie. “Hi, Dee-Dee,” he said respectfully, not wanting to make the same mistake twice. “Let me throw this 18 bucks into the abyss, and I’ll meet you at the café. I want to talk to you guys.”
Charlie and Denice exchanged surprised glances. “Okay, Lar,” said Charlie happily. “But you’re buyin’ the coffee.”
They found a table near the back, sat down and waited for the fat man. They only had to wait moments. Larry had cashed out to pay for coffee.
“Hey, guys. What’s up? So, about that money. Ain’t got it, but look, I got a real good deal for ya.” He looked around nervously. “I got, like, 10 people in my garage waitin’.”
“For what?” asked Charlie, unimpressed.
“A ride to L.A., $300 each, you take three, that’s $900.”
“And how do I get paid?” inquired Charlie, slightly interested.
“Cash on the barrelhead, soon as you drop, the guy will hand you the cash.”
Denice hadn’t said a word up till now. “I thought you clowns got $500 each?”
“I gotta get paid for storage,” Larry held up both palms to show he wasn’t lying through his meth teeth.
“How come you don’t take ‘em?” asked Charlie.
“My Mustang’s a piece of crap, and besides, the whole town knows me. I’d be busted in a heartbeat.”
Charlie thought about this for a second. “Okay, Lar, the wife and I need to have a pow-wow, so give us some space and we’ll come find you.”
Larry rose to leave. Charlie tapped his index finger on the table. “You’re buyin’ the coffee, remember?”
Larry laid eight dollars on the table, fumbling with the few dollars he had left. “This shit is easy. I’ll even run up and check the status for you.”
“The status? The status of what?”
“The checkpoint. Unless you want to go down the backside.”
“Whatever, Lar.” Charlie let out a long sigh. “Just give us a minute.” Larry nodded and walked away.
Charlie slumped down in the booth while forks scratched plates and the conversational hum of diners filled the air–winners and losers, all of them. “Well baby, I never thought I’d ever consider this shit.”
“Are you now?” The words swirled over them like a tornado, one that hadn’t hit the ground yet.
“Desperate men do desperate things.”
“You need to rethink this Charlie.” Ah, the voice of reason, like the angel whispering in your right ear. Even so, Denice knew better than to draw a line in the sand. “You and me Charlie, till the wheels fall off. But I gotta tell you this ain’t a great idea.”
“Ya think? But it’s cash. Lots of it. Five or six hours, there and back, one time. Two times and we’re good for a spell.”
Denice tapped out a smoke, looked at the pack with three left in it. Charlie’s lighter went click, flick, flame. Denice took a long drag, exhaled and said, “Okay. Let’s do it, handsome.”
Charlie breathed a sigh of relief.
-- -- --
They met Larry at his house in Jacumba.
A little background on Jacumba: It’s the oldest smuggler’s town in southern California. Jacumba is the last little town on Old Highway 8, heading east from San Diego towards the Imperial Valley. It consists of an elementary school, a post office, a small store, and 16 blocks of residential homes, some with wheels. A few of them are nicely re-modeled, vintage 1950s ranch style homes, but most of the dwellings are just tiny, ticky-tacky postwar housing. The standout feature in town, however, is the spa. Once a trendy mineral spa to the movie stars in the days of the Rat Pack, now it’s just a tired rundown pool.
Jacumba also has an airport. That is, if you consider an unmonitored strip of dirt on which planes come and go unscheduled an airport. There is no tower, no gas pump, no tarmac, just easy access to a very flat, well-maintained, landing strip. This is one of the many mysteries of Jacumba, as no one’s ever witnessed any maintenance equipment grading the airstrip.
To the south exists No Man’s Land – an area belonging to both Mexico and the Indian tribes. To the west sit mountains in which the Border Patrol roosts like a gaggle of buzzards, watching, always watching, just like they’ve done since the day the agen
cy was conceived.
Sandstorms, heat, monsoons, and neglect have removed any shine the town once had. Scrub oak and Acacia are the only native trees left. The roadsides into town are filled with a billion boulders piled up by the hands of God, smothering the cracked pavement on both sides back to Interstate 8 east, and out of town.
But everything in Jacumba changes at night. In the expanse of the high desert, with any kind of moon, shadowy shapes form like those you swear you saw in your open closet as a child. The sleepy little Spanish stucco town by day becomes a chilling and haunted wasteland at night.
Doomed spirits wander the desert searching for something they’ll never find: human beings too slow, too old, or too weak to keep up, abandoned by their coyotes; the timid, with bodies locked in fear, left behind. It’s a trail of broken dreams spawned by failed attempts at a shot at the American dream.
There is no record of these lives lost, shattered and broken, on top of this mountain. But you can feel them. You can hear them on the wind. You can sense their presence in your soul.
If you ask any old-timer, he will fill your ear with story after story of success and failure, of love and hate. Even so, the tempting, all-too-glamorous life of big-money smuggling far outweighs the deadly consequences of potential loss in the sweltering desert of Jacumba, California.
Looking at Larry’s rental house, you could not tell there were 10 nervous, sweating, hungry Mexican nationals packed into his garage, dreaming of the sunny skies over Los Angeles. The house was 1960s pea green with a pitched roof. It had a detached garage and breezeway, which led to a single-story ranch style so common of that era. The property sported a gravel yard instead of grass, nicely complimenting the three dead barrel cacti that graced the front, arranged at one time like flowers. A three-foot chain-link fence around the property kept wild dogs out more than family pets in.
Charlie and Denice pulled into the crumbling driveway ahead of Larry. Fat Larry was always late, always in a hurry, except in front of a gambling machine.
Jacumba Connection Page 5