Always the voice of reason, Denice hushed her hubby. “Settle down, honey. Your face is all red. I can tell even in the dark. You’re just getting worked up for nothing.”
“Nothing? You see that black thing on the right side, hanging off his belt? Honey, that’s a gun.”
“So? There’s nothing he can do.” She looked at the buffoon of a cop. “Don’t they have a limit on how big your head can be to issue a fire arm?”
“Don’t think so, lamb chop. Look at him.”
Barney spoke into his phone leaving a voicemail. “This is Officer Blah Blah of the California Highway Patrol. I have a Mr. and Mrs. Charlie DeVille here in one of your rentals. They’ve removed the rear seats. I firmly believe they are using said van to smuggle illegal aliens. Be advised.”
After he ended his call he returned to the passenger window of the van. At which time Denice dryly said, “Thank you, officer. You’ve saved me the embarrassment of telling them I was fucking my husband’s socks off back there.”
Charlie was taken aback. At this moment he was as proud of his wife as he’d ever been. She had dropped the F-bomb. And right on target, too. Deadpanned and funny as hell. Charlie was trying hard not to laugh. Officer Barney was offended. Denice was stone-faced.
“Officer, may we go now?” Charlie asked firmly. “It seems I have an erection.”
“Get the hell out of here,” commanded the cop, not knowing what else to say.
Charlie put the car in gear and off they sped.
As they left the patrolman in the dust, Denice asked Charlie, “You really got an, um. You know.”
“For you? Always.”
“Good. Because you know I never lie to the police.”
CLINT EASTWOOD AND THE TALLEST MEXICAN IN THE WORLD
Chapter 17
Elwood’s family lived in Panama City, Florida. It’s sometimes called “The Redneck Riviera,” and perhaps is the only place that parties as hard as Southern California. It is a big spring break destination for the East Coast college kids.
In the South’s Gulf Coast, they call California the Left Coast, but, if you’re facing Cancun or Mazatlan, it’s always the Right Coast. We’ve got the waves (they don’t even know what those are on the East Coast). Cali’s got the girls, the fast cars, the sunshine, and roller blades.
California is the starting line of the fast lane. Cool starts here, smuggling only ends around Christmas, which is why Woody was heading to Tucker Town, home of the Tucker Clan.
With things having slowed down some, and with Charlie and Denice’s Family Trust a little healthier these days, they had time to find and buy a small beige Toyota pickup truck. It had a fiberglass shell without side windows. It was very non-distinct, just an everyday truck that no one would notice, which is just how they liked it.
Charlie took it to home base and installed over-loader rear springs and air shocks. Also he put in a CB radio and a butyl rubber pad in the truck bed, reasoning that he’d lay people down comfortably, covering them with a blanket. This was necessary because the camper shell’s rear access door had a tinted window.
With Elwood on vacation, they returned the Ryder truck, minus the pool furniture, and loaned the Maxima to Nea-Nea.
The mountaintop is a small area, and it’s a tight-knit community. The Border Patrol are everywhere, so it’s imperative you change vehicles often. Rentals are an option, but nothing blends in like an 80s-era pickup truck on the reservation.
Knowing that Bobby Peg Legs shopped the bushes near his house everyday at dusk, he always snatched a few travelers that he could outsource to people with wheels. This was a great setup for Bobby, in that neither he nor his brother had a car.
Occasionally, Charlie and Denice were happy to pick up an extra run from Bobby Peg Legs when things were slow. This was one of those times. They prepared for this run by renting a small, powerless economy car at nineteen dollars per day. Denice would take Elwood’s place riding point in the rented car, while Charlie transported their clients in his truck.
The plan was to go down the backside of the mountain, veering left through Borrego Springs. Then up and over the Wells Mountain, past the airport, and over the desert to Blythe. There the road comes out right past the Border Patrol checkpoint. They then would turn left towards the Salton Sea. That place smells like a million armpits. It’s hard to even breathe the air. The inland sea was dying from the run-off of nitrates used by farmers to fertilize their crops. Once a thriving ecosystem, home to millions of Tutwava fish, now all that was gone. Not one single fish survived the ruination.
Charlie and Denice were confident in their plan. But shit can always go awry. At Bobby’s they did not have the advantage of Ramona’s network. So they watched out the back sliding glass doors, until the two Border Patrol Broncos had left their positions on the mountain behind Bobby’s house. Apparently there was an old nudist colony somewhere up in those hills – old meaning it was frequented by the retirement set. Valentino had been there. He said it was like Girls Gone Wild, senior edition.
As soon as the eyes retreated for their briefing, Charlie and Bobby loaded four men into the back of the truck, and then covered them with a blanket.
Followed by Denice in the gutless rental, they headed down the backside of the mountain, heading east on Highway 8. But at the bottom of the grade, where you turn left towards Wells, they found the road closed. This forced them to continue to the Indio exit. At the end of this two-mile road, it dead-ends into Highway Business Loop/Main Street.
If you turn right, you find yourself at the Desert Travel Lodge, a favorite accommodation for the likes of James Dean and Dean Martin. Turn left, and you end up at the largest and most technically advanced checkpoint, a mile and a half towards the Salton Sea. The road then continued on to Palm Springs.
Anyone in the game would tell you, your chances are almost zero running illegals through that checkpoint; they were almost never closed.
Pulling up to the stop sign with Denice right behind him, Charlie flipped his turn signal to execute a right-hand turn. However, some genius at Toyota thought it’d be a good idea to include the bright-light toggle on that same turn-lever. And that’s why Charlie flashed his bright lights at one Officer Rodriguez as he was doing his nightly patrol.
Shit.
Being a studious officer, as well as a sergeant of the Indio, California, Police Department, Officer Rodriguez flipped a U-turn and got right behind Charlie.
“You got company, babe.”
Charlie left the radio in his lap, but keyed the mic.
“Great. He’s red-lighting me. Perfect.”
Charlie activated his right signal again, and saw he had his bright lights on. BRILLIANT! He pulled to the curb, and made sure to keep his hands on the wheel. In California, when being pulled over, you always leave your hands where the police can see them, unless you want a close-up view of the officer’s firearm.
Officer Rodriguez came to the window with his flashlight.
“License and registration, please.”
Denice passed slowly, and parked at a small pharmacy where she could watch the exchange unnoticed.
Officer Rodriguez wasn’t a bad guy. He was a competent, confident officer. He considered police work his job, not his calling or his identity as a man. Some cops believe they were ordained by God himself to protect and serve.
“Are you having some kind of malfunction with your bright lights, sir?” Officer Rodriguez asked Charlie.
“Yeah, Asian engineering. What are ya gonna do?”
“Excuse me?” the officer asked, obviously tracking Charlie’s racial slur.
“Look at this, officer,” pointing to the offending handle, as if it was the truck’s fault.
“Okay. One moment, sir.”
Officer Rodriguez went back to his cruiser to call in Charlie’s licens
e for warrants and wants. They can do this with a microphone that is always attached to their left shoulder. But most cops will return to their car and point their spotlight at your side mirror. Then they’ll wait for you to do something stupid. Knowing this, Charlie sat there with his hands dutifully on the wheel.
Unfortunately, as Officer Rodriguez walked back to the driver-side of the truck with his flashlight blazing, one of the men in the back moved. That caused all of them to adjust their position.
The whole truck rocked.
Officer Rodriguez shined his light in through the back window.
“Mr. DeVille, please exit the vehicle. Slowly.”
Charlie complied.
“Join me at the rear of the vehicle.”
Again, Charlie did what he was told.
“What the fuck is going on here, Mr. DeVille?”
“They’re, um...sleeping.”
“I can see that, sir.” Officer Rodriguez got right in Charlie’s face and said quietly, “Those are my people back there, Mr. DeVille.”
For the first time Charlie took a good look at Officer Rodriguez and decided he was the tallest Mexican-American he’d ever seen.
“I’m not going to insult your intelligence by telling you some lame-ass story. It is what it is, sir.”
Officer Rodriguez paused and took a breath. “You’ve put me in a goddamn hard place. I can’t just turn my head here. You’re pissing me off. You’re pissing me off really bad right now, Mr. DeVille.”
“Sorry, sir. I’m a little angry at myself right now for buying a piece of shit vehicle with a badly engineered fucked-up turn signal lever.”
Officer Rodriguez was at a crossroads. And Charlie had put him there. Both were doing their job. Yet Charlie was breaking the law. Still...if one of Rodriguez’s relatives had not broken the law years ago, his own father would never have come to Cathedral City, California. And Officer Rodriguez would not be a sergeant in the Indio Police Department today.
“God dammit, DeVille. You put me in a bad position. Those are my people. Shit!”
Across the street Denice could see the officer with his flashlight pointed in the back. She knew what was coming next. What she did not know was the turn their conversation was about to take.
“Look, DeVille. Here’s what I’m gonna do. I have to call the BP, I can’t just let you go. I’ve sworn to uphold the law. Have you ever been arrested by the BP before?”
“No, sir.”
“Okay. You’ll walk tonight. These people get a ride back. You really are pissing me off right now.”
“I am sorry, sir.”
What else can a man say? It never occurred to Charlie that some of his enemy might actually be on his side, and that in the arrest phase of a routine traffic stop, this cop had deep, deep conflicts.
“Okay, Mr. DeVille, I want you to get those people out of your truck.”
Charlie opened the rear camper door and dropped the tailgate down. The four men were frozen in place. They feigned sleep until Rodriguez said something in Spanish, and the men sheepishly disembarked and stood milling around under the palm trees.
Charlie looked at them and shrugged his shoulders, palms up. They smiled back, as if to say, Nice try.
“Okay, Mr. DeVille, I want you to drive your truck down two blocks, then turn right. Go down one block, park the truck. Then come back. Walk back. You don’t want to know what will happen if you don’t come back. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I think so.”
“I’m not going to impound your vehicle, or hand it to the BP, that way you won’t lose your truck. Got it?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Do you think that the young lady in the white car will wait for you?”
“Holy shit. You don’t miss much, do you?”
“She hasn’t stopped watching. And no, Mr. DeVille, I don’t miss much.”
Charlie thought, atta girl as he walked back from parking the truck. Never leave your wing-man.
Officer Rodriguez pointed to the front of his cruiser. “Follow me,” he commanded.
Charlie obeyed, and away from the ears of Charlie’s clients the patrolman completely changed his tune. “Okay, Charlie, I work 3:00 p.m. to 11:00 p.m. Wednesday through Sunday. Adjust your schedule accordingly. If you put me in this position again,” he said pointing to the open window of his cruiser, “I’ll drop my badge and gun on the front seat and beat the brakes off you.”
Charlie looked at Officer Rodriguez’s ham hock fists, then followed his beefy arms to some very pissed off eyes – which were dark, steady, and drop dead serious.
“I hear you loud and clear, sir,” said Charlie with the upmost respect. “Loud and clear.”
-- -- --
Nearly an hour later, a young, pimply-faced kid in a Border Patrol uniform arrived. This was obviously the boy who was picked on and bullied every moment of his pitiful life. He surely had a pair of squeaky, non-distended testicles, and a voice that could etch glass.
“Officer Rodriguez, do you have any zip ties? I don’t have enough handcuffs,” the child-officer asked. He had the body of a little girl, and the mind of a kid who burns bugs. Even from where he was standing Charlie could tell this kid’s breath smelled like he’d been snacking on cat turds.
“They’ve been standing here for 45 minutes waiting for you,” replied Officer Rodriguez. “I doubt they’re going to run.”
“Procedure, officer.”
“Right. Nope, sorry fresh out.”
“Dammit.” The kid pointed at Charlie, “You, turn around, scum bag.”
Charlie looked at Rodriguez and inclined his head toward the dork. “Clint Eastwood, he’s not.”
Officer Rodriguez discretely grinned for the first time all evening. It was the kind of smirk that sparks an infectious, barroom giggle. The four Mexican guys started to chuckle. Charlie loves a good laugh, so he started to crack up. Soon everyone, except the kid, was laughing out loud.
“Think you’re funny, do ya? Punk?” yelled the young officer to Charlie. “You’re in a world of hurt.”
Charlie audibly farted, and then he added, “Nope. Not anymore, kid.” That was probably not the smoothest nor best course of action.
“You won’t be laughing in lockup, asshole,” Kid-Cop snapped.
At this point, Charlie decided it was time to listen and cut the clowning. Denice watched as they loaded into the white and green BP van. The kid jumped in the driver’s seat and pulled away.
Officer Rodriguez turned off his flashing blue and red light bar, and headed towards Denice. He waved as he went by, and smiled.
Denice was stunned. Scared. And a little lost for a second. Her mind had begun the task of her to-do lists. This was always good for her head when she was stressed. It helped her to categorize and compartmentalize her thinking process, and not pee her pants.
First? Get a motel room.
Second? Charge the cell phone.
Third? Call Nea-Nea.
Fourth? What’s up with the truck? Gotta check. Make sure it’s locked. Make sure the keys aren’t in it. Have a pee, and so on.
-- -- --
After arriving at the checkpoint, Charlie was manhandled into a small room. It was ten by ten, one of three holding cells in the main control room of Check Point Alpha. This was the most advanced checkpoint in Homeland Security’s arsenal of Monitoring Mexican Movement, the three Ms of Border Patrol surveillance.
And the fruit – don’t forget the fruit.
As Charlie looked out the small window in the middle door of his cell, he could see two men at four computer video screens, two of which were the dark screen illumination of night vision cameras set up in the desert. The other two were a combination of microwave beam and pressure sensor pads buried under the san
d that alerted them to movement around the area. Mostly, it was coyotes walking people and drugs around the checkpoint. Charlie was astounded at the technology and watched every movement, listened to every word, though they were slightly muffled through the closed door.
“Six degrees left, camera nine,” one of the men ordered.
“Okay. Scan there, 100 yards and to your left,” came the reply over the radio from a disembodied voice.
“Roger,” said the guy at the camera controls. “Three moving to the right. I count nine.”
“Ten-four. Nine in line,” confirmed the voice on the radio.
“Slow up. Split up. They’re thirty yards straight ahead of your twenty,” advised Camera Guy.
“They stop moving?”
“Ten-four. Looks like the leaders are listening.”
Guns drawn, the officers moved forward. The sound of an electronic beep indicated that another microwave beam had been broken, and the operator looked over at a different screen.
Suddenly another officer opened the cell door, and ushered two more people in with Charlie.
“Busy night, I guess,” said the new guy.
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” said Charlie, gesturing toward the control room. Charlie continued to watch the video game of cat-and-mouse play out, and the cat always seemed to win. As the night progressed, the cells filled to maximum capacity.
Teenybopper cop “Eastwood” unlocked the cell door, then he pointed at Charlie, “You, come here.” Charlie followed him out to the van. “This is your lucky day.”
“Gotta a dog named Lucky,” Charlie said.
“I don’t give a shit about your dog. We’re busy. Too busy for the likes of you. Get in the van.”
Charlie got in the passenger side, and the kid pulled out and headed towards Indio. As soon as he was out of sight of the checkpoint, he pulled the van over to the side of the highway.
“Get out, scumbag.”
“Here?”
“Here, and I don’t ever want to see your face again.”
Charlie pointed his finger at the kid and pulled the proverbial trigger. “Right back at ya, Eastwood.”
Jacumba Connection Page 13