Jacumba Connection

by David C. Taylor

  The neighborhood was like any lower middle class street, except for the eyes. Everyone was watching. Everyone. No one called the sheriff or the Border Patrol. It wasn’t that kind of watch, it was awareness. In Jacumba, it was important to know, just to know.

  Larry pulled up as Charlie was considering pulling out.

  “Larry, what the hell, man?”

  Inside the garage two families and three single young men were hunkered down in any dark, humid hiding place available. “Someone’s here, someone’s here,” they whispered. The youngest peered through a crack between the door and jamb.

  “It’s a big Blazer, man, that’s our ride.”

  The oldest member, Mr. Martinez, said, “Easy, mijo and cayate. You don’t know who it is, relax.”

  Many families save for years to send their sons and daughters to America. The freedoms and opportunities we take for granted are dreamed about and worked towards, sometimes for a lifetime, just for the chance to earn and send money home to the village.

  These are not drug dealers, criminals, or ex-cons. These are working class people, seventy percent are young adults who worked months in Mexico just to afford Levi’s and decent shoes, if they could find work at all.

  “Look there! Gordo, in the Mustang.”

  Mr. Martinez calmed everyone down. “Okay, okay. When they come in, the women and Pablo go first. Agreed, Simone?”

  “We can’t have the girls using this nasty bucket for a toilet.”

  “I don’t know why that fat man won’t let us in the house. At least let my Aunt Lucia in to use the baño.”

  “You want a bubble bath, too?”

  “Shut your mouth, son, and be thankful to Jesus.”

  Inside the garage, excitement filled the air. So close. Imagine yourself in a strange country, but you don’t know how to get where your American family is. You don’t even know where you are. And since you came by foot in the dark, there is no way back. It’s terrifying, you have no choice but to depend on people who don’t speak your language, and for the most part are concerned only about getting paid and not getting arrested.

  “Sorry, man,” justified Larry, “had to find you some gas money and get a hold of Ramona. I’m hooking things up for the drop.”

  “Alright, Lar. Let’s get a move on. This place creeps me out.”

  “Yeah, it’s Jacumba,” like that explained it.

  “Can we go inside, gentlemen?” Denice broke in. “I gotta pee.”

  Larry keyed the deadbolt, and they entered the house. Charlie and Denice looked around and then at each other. Pigsty. Denice headed to the restroom with a look of terror.

  “Hey, Chuck, follow me,” instructed Larry.

  “Don’t call me Chuck, fairy.”

  “Don’t call me fairy, Chuck.”

  Charlie scowled at the fat man and then followed him through the breezeway into the garage. The first thing Charlie noticed was the smell, then the faces. The combined odor of chaparral, human sweat, and that nasty bucket. Charlie did not speak Spanish, but he didn’t need to in order to know that these people had been through hell and back. His heart ached for them immediately.

  “Señor, we ask you to take the women first.”

  “You ain’t runnin’ shit, amigo,” scoffed Larry. “Just sit tight and we’ll let you know.”

  “Jesus, Larry. What the F’s wrong with you?” asked Charlie incredulously.

  “What?”

  “You don’t gotta be such an anus, man.”

  “Keep your voice down. This is your cargo. Nothing more.”

  Charlie again looked into the desperate faces and his heart bled.

  Back in the house Charlie was not as cavalier as he had been before his trip to the garage. “Let’s get this show on the road, Larry. You gonna check status, or whatever the hell it is you have to do?”

  “Yeah, let me hit the head first and then I’m outta here.”

  Charlie knew that meant hit the pipe, the pizo, the glass dick. Meth smokers like Larry needed to wrap their lips around it every half hour.

  Denice emerged from the bathroom. “God dang, Larry, you ever heard of Pine-Sol? They make this gizmo called a toilet brush, for chrissake.”

  “Kinda busy,” replied Larry on the very edge of mocking Denice. “Ain’t had time.”

  “Busy being an asshole,” Charlie added.

  “Whatever, Chuck. Those illegals are lucky I didn’t stash them under the house.”

  “Just gimme the gas money, you turd, and then go check on whatever it is you have to check on.”

  Larry handed Charlie forty-six dollars.

  “What the fuck?”

  “You’ll get paid at the drop. That’ll get you there.”

  Charlie shook his head in disdain. “Beat it, Larry, before I change my mind, or before Dee-Dee changes it for me.”

  Larry slithered into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Charlie shot Denice a disgusted look.

  -- -- --

  Charlie had already gassed up at the Shell on the frontage of Highway 8 on their way to Larry’s house. Since they would be going west, not east, the nearest gas station was in Alpine, halfway down the grade.

  Larry, after checking the status of the checkpoint and finding it closed, waited in his car as Charlie opened the back door on the passenger side of his truck. It was dark outside, no porch lights and zero streetlights in this neighborhood.

  Denice opened the garage door, revealing anxious faces. Larry sighed. “Cinco, man. Only cinco.”

  Martinez replied, “Ladies, come on.” He then pointed to his nephew and the two youngest of the men, “You and you.” He looked at Miguel, his nephew and in a calm voice said, “Don’t worry, mijó. We will watch the Dodgers play. You and I. Just like we talked about. I’ll see you at Auntie’s house.”

  Five dark figures stepped out of Larry’s garage, into the crisp night air, and quietly loaded themselves into the Blazer.

  Larry looked at Charlie through the driver’s side window of his car, “Have ‘em lay down thru town, past La Posta. Once on the grade you’re cool if the checkpoint’s still closed. The Border Patrol’s snacking on donuts at that time, and won’t be hiding in the bushes.”

  “Okay,” replied Charlie. “I got the address. Carl’s Jr. parking lot on Atlantic in Bellflower.”

  “Keep your cell on,” commanded Larry. “I’ll call if there’s a change. Good luck and haul ass. You got my last dollar.”

  “Don’t worry, dick smoker. We got this.”

  Charlie got into the driver’s seat, and Denice joined him in the front passenger side. “Everybody down,” Charlie instructed while looking in the rearview mirror. Denice turned around in her seat and motioned with her hand, smiling at the frightened women. With a shy smile back, they all curled up on the rear seat, the men in back behind them.

  “My heart’s beating like a drum.” Denice anxiously whispered to Charlie.

  “I hear ya, babe.”

  Charlie shifted into focus mode.

  Years of teamwork kicked in without one word being said between them. Denice scanned the road ahead, behind, each crossroad, every driveway.

  “There really should be a manual for this,” said Charlie.

  “Yeah,” replied Denice stoically. “The FBI probably already has one.”

  The smell of fear and unwashed feet hung in the air. They turned onto Highway 8 West and there it was – the Border Patrol checkpoint. It was dark and empty, but cameras perched on the archway over the road like predators waiting for their prey. Charlie looked at Denice and took a deep breath. Denice turned around and whispered, “Everybody stay down.”

  Charlie put the Blazer in gear and then drove forward. As the checkpoint drew closer everyone held
their collective breath. Closer...Closer...And then...

  They proceeded through the checkpoint, no hidden border patrol, no camera flash, no trap.

  On the other side Charlie let out an exhale of relief. “Yeah, baby.”

  Denice turned around to the wide-eyed bunch in the back. “Everybody okay?” she asked, looking at the nervous smiles. “You can sit up now, were good to go.”

  Lucia, one of the women, translated to the others, then asked, “How long to L.A., señora?”

  “About two hours.”

  A street light suddenly flooded Lucia’s face and Denice noticed her hooded, bloodshot eyes. The Hispanic woman pointed at Charlie and asked, “Is he your esposo? How you say... husband?”

  “Yes, he is,” replied Denice. “Kinda cute for a white guy, wouldn’t you say?”

  “He’s nice. Not like fat man. That gordo. Your esposo yelled at him for being bad.”

  Charlie caught her eye in the rearview mirror and said jokingly, “You mean Captain Ugly Pants? Yeah, he’s got a black belt in asshole.”

  Lucia shrugged her shoulders. “I do not understand, señor.”

  Denice interjected, “Don’t even try, girlfriend. Just laugh and pretend he’s funny.”

  Lucia smiled. She didn’t understand, but she didn’t need to. This is a nice couple, she thought. Not like the fat man. She clutched her picture of the Blessed Virgin that Mr. Martinez had given her, and felt safe for the first time in days.

  Charlie and Denice knew just about every street, road, and highway in southern California. They’d already figured a way around the checkpoint on Highway 15 in Temecula near the Pechanga casino. Charlie had framed houses out in that area, and was raised in Escondido, 15 minutes back down the interstate. Side roads were the key.

  Denice was the perfect navigator. Years of pulling the Love Bus all over hell’s half acre and back (looking for campgrounds, casinos, and places to skinny dip – one of the prime California pastimes for your average Cali girl) made Denice just as familiar with the lay of the land as Charlie was.

  After doing the duck-and-dodge around the checkpoint, it was clear sailing to Bellflower in Los Angeles, California.

  Everyone in the K-5 breathed easier.

  -- -- --

  Pulling into Carl’s Jr. they saw the custom coach van, silver with red stripes. They sidled up next to it, and Charlie nodded at the Latino gentleman with the Lakers basketball team logo on his ball cap. When the guy stepped out of the van, Charlie saw he was middle-aged, older than Charlie had expected. He wore a windbreaker, Levis and pointed-toe boots. Not Justin’s, like Charlie wore, but flashy, nevertheless – and shined up like a diamond.

  The man was smooth, all right. Charlie could tell right away this guy was a pro, and respectful, too. He removed his hat to greet Denice, his hair black as onyx.

  “Good evening, ma’am.”

  “Good evening to you, señor,” Denice responded, equally respectful.

  “I trust all went well?” He looked at Charlie.

  “Smooth as glass, sir,” Charlie replied, as if he were addressing an important official.

  The man opened the side door of his van while Charlie opened the side door of the K-5 Blazer, with two feet between the vehicles. The transfer was quick and flawless, but more importantly seen by no one.

  The gentleman reached into the side pocket of his windbreaker and extracted a wad of bills wrapped in a thick rubber band. “Five times five is 25.”

  “All day long,” Charlie replied grabbing the cash, and then added, “Five more up there, relatives of this group. The checkpoint was closed earlier. I know it’s late, but now’s good for the wife and me to–”

  “Run again?” the man said, finishing Charlie’s sentence.

  “Yes, sir,” confirmed Charlie. “While the getting’s good, if you get my drift.”

  The man studied Charlie cautiously.

  “Name’s Charlie.” Charlie extended his hand. The man looked into Charlie’s eyes for a second before clasping hands.

  “Okay, Charlie. You think maybe five hours?”

  “Give or take, sir. Larry will let you know when we leave the mountain.”

  “Fine. I’ll make the call. Be safe, Charlie.” The man touched his hat with his finger in sort of a salute.

  Charlie jumped in, started the truck and handed Denice the cash. She started counting as they pulled out of the parking lot, “Twenty, 40, 60, 80. One, 20…”

  Charlie looked at his wife. “That was so freakin’ cool.”

  “Twenty, 40, 60,” Denice continued counting, ignoring her excited husband. “Fifteen hundred, plus the three Larry still owes us.”

  “Damn. That was so easy, so slick baby, oh my God. But did it make you horny?” Charlie could just not help himself. He had a penis, after all, and sometimes it spoke on his behalf.

  Denice laughed. “Kinda. Hold up, let me check.” Denice stuck her hand down her pants. “Yup. A bit moist down there. But Jesus, Charlie, come on. Plenty of time for that later.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yeah, I promise. As a matter of fact, you’re a lot more attractive now that you’re rollin’.”

  Charlie leered at his wife like she was wrapped around a pole on a catwalk. “Honey, I don’t want it at all unless I can have it twice, Sooo...let’s do it again.”

  She seductively smiled and replied by recounting the fat stack of cash, “Twenty, 40, 60, 80, one thousand...”

  CAN’T TOUCH THIS

  Chapter 9

  Fourteen hours later Charlie and Denice happily set up camp in room number 307 at the Barona Casino without a care in the world. Denice snored away like a farm animal, while Charlie perused the room service menu. After meeting up with Larry, they pocketed a total of $3,300, which was now in the electronic room safe waiting to be introduced to room service and the Blazin’ Sevens.

  Their new profession was as stressful as searching for landmines or performing any bomb squad detail. They were both completely exhausted.

  Suddenly Denice was awakened by a loud knock followed by the shout-out of “Room service.”

  “Just a moment,” replied Charlie, as he slid into a terrycloth robe, compliments of the concierge.

  Charlie opened the door. “Come on in. Thank you. Just put it next to the bed, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Charlie tipped large, the man smiled. “Thank you, sir.” Charlie understood from his dad the importance of tipping your service employees. They talk. The maids, the chef, the wait staff. Want a booger in your cheesecake? Stiff room service on their tip.

  Denice sat up on the fluffy pillows. “For little ol’ me?” she cooed.

  “You’re my queen, remember? You said so back in the Jacuzzi,” said Charlie, reaching under the covers for any delights that might be waiting for his attention.

  “Charlie, do you ever think of anything else?”

  “I think I’m hungry, does that count?”

  The smell accompanying the covered silver trays held the promise of a country breakfast with all the trimmings in true California style, including ice cold Mimosas, the morning cocktail of champagne and orange juice for those who detest tomatoes, celery, and that nasty Tabasco sauce.

  As luck would have it, the blanket kept slipping down off Denice’s naked chest, as she tried to adjust her tray.

  “You sure know how to treat a girl,” she said, awkwardly adjusting the covers.

  “Right back at ya, Pumkin.”

  “Oh my God, this is so good.”

  Charlie pulled the blanket down. “You got that right,” Charlie leered.

  She pulled the blanket back up. “Hey, honey, were you scared last night? I mean, we were breaking the law.”

  “You want the trut
h?”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  “Okay. That shit scared me so bad you could not have jack-hammered a needle up my ass.”

  “Me, too,” confided Denice.

  “For real?” replied Charlie mockingly.

  “Stop it, Charlie, be serious.”

  “Alright, alright. You know, I have to say, it was a kick in the pants. What a rush. Balls out, middle of the night, sexy lady as co-pilot. Big cash payoff. More fun than Six Flags. Yes, it scared me shitless. A couple of times I wanted to cry, like the time when CHP blew past us, lights flashing. But damn, it was fun.”

  Denice looked at her man like he was ready to jump off a cliff. “That is so sexy,” she finally said.

  “Really?” Charlie replied hopefully.

  “No.” She pulled the blanket up to her chin. Twenty-one years and he still could not figure her out.

  Well, no means no.

  So after scooping every morsel off his plate with a delicious slice of buttered sourdough toast, he rose from his perch on the bed, grabbed his Mimosa, went to the sliding glass door and looked out on the golf course. “I should learn to play golf,” he said.

  “With who?”

  “You.”

  “When pigs fly the Concorde.”

  “I love Caddyshack.” Doing his best Bill Murray impression, Charlie quoted from the movie, “Cinderella golfer. Gonna use a nine iron. It’s in the hole.”

  “You just wanna tear up some grass in your pimp-daddy, off-road golf cart. Charlie, you’re not a yellow pants-and-pink-shirt kind of guy. You don’t even own a pair of white shoes. So soon as you’re done daydreamin’ we need a game plan. And not a golf game.”

  Charlie thoughtfully looked out on the golf course. Denice was right, as usual. He would never be happy as a Sunday golfer. Clinking glasses at the club, talking about redoing the guest room, bragging about which colleges everyone’s kids are going to.

  “And by the way,” Denice interrupted his reverie. “I don’t think we should use Big Blue if we run again.”

  “You’re probably right. We’d be in a world of hurt if the Feds took it. Larry said they could keep it if they wanted.”