Jacumba Connection

by David C. Taylor

  “Fuck you.”

  “Sorry, pal. Married.” Charlie gleefully hopped out of the van and waved at the kid, who then did an angry U-turn, nearly rolling the van over.

  Charlie got a pass. No fingerprints. No record of the arrest. No credit on the kid’s performance evaluation. But Charlie was sure the young BP officer would tell his mom all about it anyway when he got home.

  Charlie walked back to the truck and reached through the rear-sliding window. He found the walkie-talkie. “How about it sweet cheeks, you out there?”

  “Oh my God, honey, are you okay?” asked Denice in a panic.

  “My feet hurt.”

  “What?”

  “Punk made me walk back, like 40 miles.” It was actually only around two.

  “Poor baby.”

  “Yeah, where are you?”

  “Kings Inn, next to the CVS pharmacy. Room number 102.”

  “Be there in a minute,” said Charlie wearily.

  “You want a ride?” asked Denice, even though she knew he had the truck.

  “Naw, I can see it from here.”

  “Hurry. I miss you.”

  “Miss you too.”

  When Charlie arrived at the motel room and wrapped his arms around his wife, the world came back into focus. The events of the last eight hours had left him shaken. A close call for sure, but as he filled Denice in about what he’d observed at the checkpoint, his mind began absorbing it as a learning experience.

  Now he knew exactly where the cat was.

  SHE’LL BE COMIN’ ROUND THE MOUNTAIN

  Chapter 18

  In California, where more baby showers are given for new ‘Beemers’ than actual babies, women control seventy percent of the cash and one hundred percent of the pussy. Guess who’s running things, really running things?

  Charlie and Denice headed back to Barona Casino, where they were put on the fourth floor, poolside. Denice did a little shopping at the gift store, but could not find what she needed. Charlie was back up at the room and dug out his trunks and her bikini.

  “Let’s go for a swim before dinner, babe. Pool looked awesome on the way in.”

  “So did the Jacuzzi, I could use a soak.”

  One of the perks of California living is a temperature of seventy-four degrees in December at sunset. It favors you with beautiful orange and purple skies that change like a kaleidoscope.

  “Red skies at night sailors delight,” not to mention Mimosas poolside on a warm California evening. The stress of the day sheds like snakeskin.

  Later, up in the room, Charlie waited for Denice to finish dressing for dinner, when the company phone rang.

  Charlie answered, “Helloooooooo?”

  “Hey, funny man. Where’s your wife?” asked Ramona from the other end of the phone.

  “Locked in the closet.”

  “Doing what?” asked Ramona, playing right along with Charlie’s quirky sense of humor.

  “Mixing. Matching. Pissing me off.”

  “You mean she’s trying to find something to wear?”

  “Yeah. Hold on,” said Charlie, realizing this could go on forever. He hollered to Denice, “Honey. Ramona’s on the phone for you.”

  “Okay. Be right there,” answered Denice from the depths of the closet.

  “Charlie, can you and your wife meet Julio and me at the Viejas tomorrow?” Ramona asked before Denice could get to the phone.

  “Sure. Here’s Dee.”

  Denice took the phone and greeted Ramona. “Hey, girlfriend, how’s things?”

  “Good. Bring your old man for breakfast tomorrow at 9:00 a.m., he knows the place.”

  “Okay, hon.”

  “See you,” Ramona said, as she hung up the phone.

  Afterward Denice asked Charlie, “What do you think that’s about?”

  “Probably about kids,” answered Charlie. “Kinda scary, don’t you think? Driving kids across the border.”

  “Let’s hear her out.”

  The meeting the following day took place at Viejas, next to a massive crackling fire. In January, the temperatures plunge all the way down to a frigid fifty degrees, and for the natives of San Diego, that’s freezing.

  Ramona started the conversation with, “Meet Julio in Tijuana, on Revolution Avenue, in a small cantina. Here’s the address,” Ramona handed Denice a slip of paper and then motioned toward Charlie. “The first meeting you can bring the Great White Hope here, but not after that. Have you talked to your daughter yet?”

  “No. Not yet,” replied Denice. “I need to have a conversation about parental guidance with this guy first.” She nodded toward Charlie. “You know what I mean?”

  “I understand,” Ramona confirmed. “While you’re discussing this, I want you to consider a few realities.”

  “Okay. We’re listening.”

  “The parents of these children are most likely already here. You will be reuniting broken families. Also, infants under two do not need IDs. And they are not in question if the parent or parents have a drivers license or American citizenship. If your daughter or daughters have their own children with them, the risks are almost zero.

  Denice looked at Charlie, and Charlie shrugged. Denice asked Ramona, “Would Nea have to meet anyone on this side if Julio’s going to be in Mexico?”

  “We can work it out many different ways. She can meet you across the border. Trade cars with you. And you can make the trip to L.A. If that’s the case, we’ve been using a safe house in Chula Vista. But if you can, work a scenario to effect delivery to me in L.A. So much the better.”

  “Okay. Let my husband and I run this past Nea,” replied Denice. “We’ll call you the day after tomorrow, at the latest.”

  “Fair enough. I’ve got one more request. We’ve got a VIP in Jacumba. She’s at a friend of Edgar’s. We need to move her. But it’s dangerous.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s Chinese.”

  “So?”

  “Communist, Chinese.”

  “Oh.”

  “She is a favor for a friend of the big boss. That’s all I can tell you. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Why is it more dangerous?”

  “Homeland Security frowns on it because so many borders are breached, bringing Chinese here. That’s why it pays $2,500,” Ramona said.

  “For one person?” asked Charlie.

  “That’s right.”

  “Consider it done,” answered Charlie, undeterred. “I’ve got an idea.”

  Ramona provided an address and phone number for Edgar’s friend. They agreed to talk in 48 hours about the infants.

  -- -- --

  Charlie and Denice rented a cabin at Live Oak Springs and invited Nea and her infant son, Brandt, up to spend a few days. They walked in the woods chasing squirrels, and soaked in the Jacuzzi. Lily thought Denice’s grandson was the cutest thing on the planet.

  Nea had arrived in a red Ford Tempo, a four-door with plenty of room for the immense amount of baby paraphernalia that she swore was necessary. The leaf does not fall far from the tree.

  Night fell on Live Oak. At 4,000 feet above sea level, the clear mountain air was freezing. Charlie lit a fire in the cast iron stove. Nea fed the baby while Denice cleaned up the supper mess. When Brandt was asleep, with the three of them enjoying the warmth of the fire, Charlie and Denice explained Ramona’s request and the plan with their daughter. Nea was an adult, and Charlie and Denice laid out the details without bias, and let Nea make this decision herself.

  “So what do you think?” Denice asked.

  “I think I haven’t received a lick of child support, lately.”

  “Have you talked to Randy about it?” Charlie interjected.

 
Nea snorted, “Yeah. Twelve feet of snow in Illinois, no work anywhere.”

  Charlie sighed sympathetically. “It’s completely up to you, hon.”

  “I’ll think about it,” promised Nea-Nea. And then she smiled. “But I’m up for the Asian girl.”

  “Charlie and I were thinking,” said Denice. “You, Brandt and I would go through in broad daylight, with Charlie behind us.”

  “She does not speak any English,” Charlie reminded everyone. “So I was thinking we’d teach her to say, ‘I’m a student at San Diego State University.’”

  “Just in case they ask,” added Denice. “But who knows, if they’re busy, they may just wave us through.”

  -- -- --

  The next day the entire family found themselves in line at the checkpoint with the Asian girl in the backseat. The sun was shining, the traffic not too heavy. They had the windows of the Tempo down, and Charlie could hear Brandt’s cassette of Sesame Street’s She’ll Be Coming Around The Mountain When She Comes blaring out of the stereo. All three girls were singing, and Brandt was waving his arms in his car seat and thoroughly enjoying Ernie’s rendition of the old folk song.

  Charlie also had his window rolled down. The first thing you do when approaching a checkpoint is roll your window down.

  There was a second of panic when he saw the agent bring his face to the right rear driver’s window, and asked, “Are you a U.S. citizen?”

  “I go to San Diego State University,” replied the Chinese girl in broken English.

  The agent pulled away. He glanced at Denice’s cleavage, then at Renea’s cleavage, and had a bit of a man moment. After that he waved them through.

  BADA BING.

  You gotta love it when a plan comes together.

  Charlie keyed his walkie-talkie, “She’ll be comin’ around the mountain, she’ll be comin’ around the mountain, she’ll be comin’ around the mountain when she comes,” he sang into it.

  They continued on to Bellflower, where they pulled into a Carl’s Jr., next to a silver van.

  “Excellent job, my friends,” cheered Julio.

  Nea sat in the passenger seat. Julio did not get out of the van. Charlie opened the passenger side, and helped the tiny “college student” out of his vehicle and into Julio’s van. Julio handed Charlie the wad of bills, examining Renea’s ride. “The red car is perfect. For Mexico.”

  “All right, I’ll call Ramona tonight. I’m sure it’s a go. But you know women. Option to change their minds, and all that.”

  “Right up till go time. After that, there’s no changing their minds,” reminded Julio.

  “Gotcha. Hasta, luego.”

  Charlie went to the window of the Tempo and handed Nea ten Benjamin Franklins.

  “Good job, honey.” He put five in his pocket, and handed ten to Denice with a smile. “Nicely done, Pumkin.”

  “Thanks, baby.”

  “Jump in the Toyota, let’s stop by Pechanga on the way back.”

  They said their goodbyes, and planned to meet back at the cabin later that evening. Barring no big jackpots.

  -- -- --

  The phone rang and it sounded like a fire alarm in the small cabin. Denice rolled over and looked at the clock. It was 4:00 a.m. Had she not known it was Ramona, she wouldn’t have answered it.

  “Hey, girl,” slurred Denice groggily.

  “Good morning,” replied Ramona on the other end of the phone.

  “Four a.m. is not morning. It’s the middle of the night,” corrected Denice through closed eyes.

  “Are we a go? Should I send Julio?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is 2:00 p.m. okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Be safe.”

  “You too.” Denice hung up by dropping the phone onto the floor next to the nightstand.

  -- -- --

  They all decided to give it a try that evening. All they needed was another car seat, and then when the time came they could be in Tijuana in less than two hours. On this first run, Charlie would babysit. Nea had a car-seat for Brandt. But they needed an infant seat also. Just in case.

  FLYING BLIND

  Chapter 19

  Flying blind. In our business, it means running the checkpoint backwards, no lights, in the middle of the night. Only fools take this kind a chance, and Dick Rod was one of those fools.

  Dick had his girlfriend de jour load seven Mexican Nationals into his newly modified van from Larry’s garage. He headed north on Old Highway 8. It was 1:00 a.m. Only a sliver of a moon was visible. Quiet and cold, the glow of bright lights of the checkpoint flickered to the west. Interstate 8 has two lanes in each direction, west and east. The I-8 business loop intersects with the interstate before and after Jacumba. The onramp westbound goes under I-8, enters the highway, and then the BP checkpoint.

  Dick Rod shut off his lights and entered the emergency lane of the eastbound oncoming traffic.

  The eastbound and westbound lanes of the grade were separated by 15 to 20 feet of median and were at different elevations. At the Kitchen Creek checkpoint, the eastbound lanes were barely visible because the eastbound lanes were close to 20 feet lower than the westbound lanes. (These were the ones monitored by Border Patrol.)

  At 1:00 a.m., you’d be surprised at the amount of traffic traveling east. Imperial Valley is the salad bowl of the United States. Big rigs roll both directions at all hours.

  Big Papa’s Kenworth was no exception. Running empty, back to Indio for another load of alfalfa. He was pulling the grade at 50 mph, to mile marker 17, five miles from the crest. He called his wife, “Hey, baby.”

  “Hi, honey. When will you be home?”

  “Two hours down, two hours back. I’ll be home for breakfast.”

  “Hurry. Miss you.”

  “Miss ya too, Mama Bear.” Big Papa downshifted.

  Dick Rod lowered his accelerator and swerved into the inside emergency lane.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Rich?” asked the girlfriend.

  “Don’t trip babe. I’m running blind.”

  “God dammit, Richard. Let me out.”

  The people in the back were clueless to the impending disaster, as they were under a plywood sub-floor, built into the van for smuggling purposes. Two miles ahead loomed the glow of lights, illuminating the lanes into the checkpoint. The Border Patrol never seemed to look at the dark eastbound lanes, and even if they did, they probably would not see the dark blue van with no lights. The van with a death wish, cooking over 70 miles an hour in the wrong direction.

  Big Papa spilled his coffee trying to fill a cup with his thermos. He shifted gears. Now going at 52 miles per hour at mile marker 19.

  The passenger realized that Dick Rod just didn’t give a damn. She sat back in her seat and said a silent prayer. Lights were growing brighter and brighter ahead.

  The big Kenworth double flatbed trailer reached mile marker 20 at the top of the grade. There was a U-Haul rental truck doing 45 miles per hour coming in the slow lane. Big Papa hit his blinker and veered into the fast lane.

  Dick Rod reached the top of the grade just past the checkpoint, and raised his hands in triumph. He let out a rebel yell, oblivious to the carnage ahead of them.

  Big Papa looked down to check his speed. A wind gust from the high desert moved the rig two feet to his left, and he tried to correct it, but tandem trailers take a slow hand and much finesse. Big Papa never had a chance.

  Dick Rod didn’t know what finesse was. He turned on his lights just in time to see the Kenworth logo of Big Papa’s truck bearing down on him.

  Dick’s van and all its occupants were crushed in a millisecond. What was left of the custom van was pushed almost a half-mile back, down the way it came.

  Big Papa’s truck did
a jack-knife, and eventually came to a stop just past Kitchen Creek. Papa’s leg was badly broken and his head was spinning.

  This tragedy was the by-product of selfish greed. Crazy, drug-induced thinking that lead to chaos, that lead to nine more lost souls that died horrible deaths and emerged to wander the desert; to add to the misery; to haunt people like Larry, who would turn a blind eye to the Dick Rods of the world.

  It’s like Charlie’s dad says, “There’s a right way, and a wrong way. Get it right, son.”

  Well, guess what, Dick Rod? Natural selection says, You LOSE, son. This world is better off without your DNA.

  Word travels like wildfire with a tragedy like this, and further justifies more compassionate operations like Ramona’s.

  Charlie and Denice had an especially hard time dealing with the deaths. Sitting in the little cabin, the profound feelings overshadowed the success their daughter Nea had, bringing a baby to the waiting arms of its mother in Chula Vista. The mood was solemn.

  Charlie was angry. “That son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Those poor people,” Denice exclaimed.

  Nea added, “I can’t believe this. How could anyone think that was a good idea?”

  Charlie said, “He planned it. He’d done it before. And he’d done it in a car. Larry told me about it.”

  “Oh, really? Captain Ugly Pants? He’d better hope I don’t see him,” added Denice.

  “I’m sure he’s long gone off the mountain by now. He’s probably scared shitless,” Charlie told them.

  -- -- --

  There are things that change a person’s circumstances. Events that sway the balance, Charlie thought. He was certainly changed by this turn of unfortunate events. Like soft iron becomes hard steel in a white-hot furnace. It’s melted, blended, and poured back into a mold life has built for you. Now, you’re harder, denser.

  Now you’re an emotional alloy.

  STRICTLY BUSINESS

  Chapter 20

  Rudolfo was an American citizen whose roots were in Argentina. He considered himself a consummate Latin lover, the Rico Suave of Southern California. He was tall with plenty of hair – much on his head, more on his chest. He rolled up his sleeves on his tight T-shirts and thought, This mangy look suits me. He squeezed into Sergio Valente designer jeans and asked the ladies, “Do these jeans make my butt look big?”