by Paul Levine
"I wouldn't know."
"Really? How was lunch today?"
Sharon tried to read the look on his face but couldn't get past the smirk.
"California Club, right?" he said. "Your TV star fiance is a member."
"Wow. You've been playing detective again."
"I got a waiter who puts Quinn at table nineteen, dining with a tall woman with reddish-brown hair. The woman used the private phone booth in the dining room. Want to take a wild guess who called the club from some diner at 12:38 p.m.?"
"I'm impressed, Rigney. Maybe someday you'll pass the sergeant's exam."
"Where's he headed?"
The light changed, and she headed up Temple toward City Hall. "Who?"
"Royal Fucking Payne! You're helping him, and we both know it."
"If you can prove that, take it to Internal Affairs."
"I'll take it to the D.A. I'll throw the going-away party when they ship you to Chowchilla."
"You know what I think, Rigney? I think you're taking a lot of heat because you ran a sting that got a judge killed. The more blame you can shift to Jimmy, the better off you are. And as long as you can't find him, why not pick on me?"
"Bullshit. Payne's dirty and you're protecting him."
The Criminal Court Building loomed ahead.
"Where the hell you going?" he demanded.
"Back off, Rigney."
She moved at a brisk pace. Her legs were longer than Rigney's, and he hustled to keep up.
"You going to court?" he asked.
"No."
"Then, what-"
"I'm going to church, okay? Our Lady of the Angels."
"Why? You catch another priest diddling an altar boy?"
She wheeled and faced him head-on. "My maiden name's Lacy. The Lacys of County Clare. I missed Mass this morning. I've got six brothers who could each beat the shit out of you, and I could, too."
She turned and swept past the Hall of Records, toward the downtown cathedral. She was so angry it took another moment to realize that she had jabbed her own finger at Rigney, denting his polyester tie.
SIXTY-ONE
The welcome sign on the outskirts of town informed travelers that the burg of Rutledge had 17,068 souls and that "healthy soil makes for healthy people." The sign didn't say if the undocumented migrants were as healthy as the 17,068 regular folks.
The town's streets were wide, the sidewalks in good repair. Several businesses flew American flags. On the main drag, prosaically named "Artichoke Avenue," there was a barbershop with a rotating red-and-white pole and, next door, Hilda's Ice Cream Shoppe. Two towheaded boys tore along the street on bicycles, fishing poles lodged on their shoulders. To Payne, it all seemed like a backlot designed by Walt Disney and painted by Norman Rockwell.
The town square had a leafy park with towering white oaks and a bandstand fit for John Philip Sousa. There was a vintage merry-go-round with hand-carved horses, and organ music.
Payne hated merry-go-rounds. As a toddler, he once fell off his rocking horse. After that, all merry-go-round horses looked like monsters with giant teeth. The final scene of Strangers on a Train didn't help that phobia one bit.
"They named the town after this dude?" Tino asked.
"After one of his ancestors, but he's poured lots of money into the place."
They drove past the Rutledge Free Library, the Rutledge Town Swimming Pool, and the Rutledge Senior Citizens Center, all with signs in both English and Spanish.
"How much money this guy got?" Tino asked.
"You know who Carlos Slim is?"
" Claro. Richest man south of the border."
"Rutledge is to the San Joaquin Valley what Slim is to Mexico."
Tino whistled.
The businesses downtown were mostly wood-framed buildings with awnings shading the sidewalk and front doors propped open. There was one movie theater, the Rialto, with one screen. If you wanted to catch a film in this town, you'd better like Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.
One structure stood out. A two-story redbrick building on Peach Street with barred windows and a camera mounted above a heavy metal door. A brass plate read:
Rutledge Ranch and Farms, Inc.
Corporate Headquarters
Jimmy parked the Mustang, reached in his pocket, and gave Tino a twenty-dollar bill. "Go get a hot fudge sundae and wait for me here."
"C'mon, Himmy. We go in together with the baseball bat. It's the valiente way."
"Just do what I say, okay?"
Tino pouted but headed toward Hilda's Ice Cream Shoppe. Payne approached the front door and stood there a moment, gathering his thoughts. He planned a straightforward approach. No trial lawyer tricks. No reason not to tell the truth. And no baseball bats. A boy and his mother got separated. We think she's here. Please help us get them together. Who could object to that?
On the sidewalk, a newspaper rack held both the Rutledge Gazette and La Opinion. The Gazette headline fretted over the ongoing drought. Plastered on the Spanish paper's front page was a satellite photo of a hurricane moving toward the Yucatan.
There was a keypad at the front door and a button for visitors to announce themselves. Payne pushed, said his name, and a buzzer welcomed him inside.
"May I help you?" The woman at the reception desk smiled at Payne in a businesslike way. She was in her twenties and wearing a short-sleeve cotton dress splashed with big sunflowers.
"I hope so, ma'am. I surely do." Putting a bit of country into his voice. Not intentionally. It just seemed to come out in this farming town. He told Ms. Sunflowers that he was trying to locate a Rutledge employee whose son was looking for her.
"Could I see some identification?" she asked, pleasantly.
He handed over his driver's license, and she made a notation on a clean white pad.
"Been a while since I was carded," he said. "My first six-pack at Trader Joe's, as I recall."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Payne. But we've had numerous threats against Mr. Rutledge. He's quite outspoken, as you probably know."
"I like what he says. He's a good man." Slathering butter on the toast.
"One moment, please." She picked up her phone, pushed a button, and said, "Louise. I wonder if you could help me up front."
Payne hoped that wasn't code for "Send out the Doberman pinschers."
In a moment, a woman came through an interior door, marched up to Payne, and introduced herself as Louise Antrim. Mrs. Louise Antrim, in case Payne had any salacious thoughts. About fifty, trim, in a beige business suit, gray-streaked hair bunned on top of her head. A pair of eyeglasses dangled from her neck on a beaded chain. Her eyes were alert and frosty blue.
Payne repeated his request. Missing mother. Son desperate to find her. He filled in the name, "Marisol Perez."
Mrs. Antrim gave him a sad smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Payne, but it would be an invasion of privacy for the company to either confirm or deny that Ms. Perez is an employee here."
"But I'm trying to put a family back together."
"Do you have a signed statement from Ms. Perez authorizing our releasing the information?"
"If I had a statement, Ms. Perez wouldn't be missing."
"But if she's missing, how could she be working here?"
"I'll be happy to ask her when you take me to her."
"Do you have any documentation, Mr. Payne? Her Social Security number. A green card."
"Don't think so."
"An H-2 visa. Is she a guest worker?"
"She's undocumented."
"Well then, of course she couldn't be working here."
"Are you shitting-? I'm sorry. Are you kidding me? Your boss practically boasts about hiring undocumented migrants."
"Mr. Rutledge has strong feelings about reforming our immigration laws. But I assure you, as the head of Human Resources, we employ only documented workers."
Sounding like a tape recording.
"Mrs. Antrim, I'm just asking for a little compassion."
"Mr. Payne, as a lawyer, surely you know that we cannot-"
"I didn't say I was a lawyer."
"Didn't you?" Her cheeks colored just a bit, like the blush on a ripe peach. "Well, you seem so lawyerlike."
"Funny. Judges never think so."
"I guess I just assumed you were representing the Perez boy."
"No, you didn't. You knew I was coming."
At Hilda's Ice Cream Shoppe, Tino bought five cups of icy drinks. Coffee, tea, root beer. With the cups balanced in a cardboard tray, he hurried back and circled the Rutledge building, looking for a way to get inside.
We're a team, Himmy. You said so yourself.
Tino found nothing but barred windows and locked doors. Behind the building, a tiled patio. Round tables with umbrellas, workers in casual clothes. Smoking, talking, drinking coffee.
He walked purposely toward the rear door, holding the tray in both hands.
The delivery boy.
He used a few words of Spanglish to ask if anyone would get the door for him. Americanos always wanted to show they were smart enough to understand anything a stupid Mexican might say.
A young woman, whose face glowed pink in the baking heat, took a drag on her cigarette, squashed it under her open-toed sandal, and gave Tino a big, friendly smile. She punched a code in a keypad and opened the door.
"Gracias, senorita," Tino said, with as much humility as he could muster. He stepped into an air-conditioned corridor and began exploring.
"I don't know what you mean." Mrs. Antrim shifted her weight from one leg to the other. "How would I know you were coming, Mr. Payne?"
"Because that little bastard in the black Escalade called you. Enrique Zaga."
"I'll thank you to watch your tongue. We don't tolerate profanity here."
"What do you tolerate? Kidnapping?"
"Please lower your voice, Mr. Payne."
"And where's Zaga? I want to talk to him."
"Our director of security has nothing to do with this."
"He's a human trafficker! He stashes Mexicans down in Hellhole Canyon. Unless you're grinding them into dog food, you're hiring them. You know it. I know it. I'll bet half the Legislature knows it."
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."
Payne watched the receptionist hit another button on her desk phone.
Tino moved briskly down the corridor as if he knew where he was going. Carrying the tray of drinks, he passed several offices with open doors. Men in short-sleeve shirts and women in summer outfits worked at computers. Some doors had little placards. Accounting. Marketing. Purchasing. Transportation. Legal.
Legal, Tino thought. What he needed was an office named "Illegal."
A man with a ponytail and a blond soul patch came around a corner. Tino smiled at him.
Polite delivery boy.
The man seemed as wide as he was tall. Thick neck, thighs bulging through gray pants, a blue sport jacket that bunched tight at his shoulders. He had his eyes on the icy drinks. "Hey, chico. Those for Harry and the girls?"
" Si. Harry and the girls."
"Second floor. Room 207."
Tino headed toward a stairwell, the man watching him go.
On the second floor, Tino continued snooping. More doors, more offices. Shipping. Security. Human Resources.
He checked out Human Resources. No one there. Two desks and several file cabinets running the length of the room. He ducked inside and placed the drinks on one of the desks. The file cabinets were labeled with what seemed to be the names of different companies. Rutledge Ranch and Farms. Kings County Excavation. Rutledge Tool Company.
How much does this guy own?
Way more, Tino quickly found out.
Rutledge Trucking. Valley Paving. Rutledge Realty.
Tino opened one of the file drawers. Hundreds of folders. Thousands in total. He could spend a week in here.
He picked several folders at random from a folder labeled: San Joaquin Irrigation. Each employee seemed to have a file with name, photo, salary, and comments by supervisors.
More companies. Weedpatch Pest Control. Rutledge Aviation. Hot Springs Gentleman's Club.
Gentleman's Club? Doesn't sound like farming or ranching.
Tino was about to open the Gentleman's Club drawer when he sensed movement behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Soul Patch, his legs spread, his shoulders filling the doorway. "Ain't no Harry working here, chico, " the man said.
"If you don't give me access to Marisol Perez," Payne said, "I can get a court order."
Mrs. Antrim let the corners of her mouth curl into a tiny smile. "The courthouse is three blocks from here. I believe Judge Rutledge is in most afternoons."
" Judge Rutledge?"
"Simeon's cousin."
"You folks dish out home cooking like two-dollar hash browns."
The interior door opened. A burly man hustled into the reception area without appearing to hurry. An African-American with a shaved head and a thick neck, he wore gray slacks, a white shirt, and a blue blazer. The uniform of a classy security guard. In his thirties, Shaved Head had the look of an ex-linebacker who stayed in shape.
"There a problem here, Mrs. Antrim?" Shaved Head said.
"Not if this gentleman leaves the premises." Gentleman with a tone you might use to describe a pus-filled wound.
The interior door opened again, and a ponytailed, soul-patched man dressed identically to Shaved Head tromped out, carrying Tino under one arm. The boy kicking and wriggling.
Shit! How'd he get in here?
"Asswipe! Cocksucker! Dipshit!" Tino practicing English words Jimmy had taught him.
"Put him down," Payne said.
"You don't give the orders here, lawyer," Soul Patch said.
Everybody seemed to know he was a lawyer, Payne thought. Maybe he should open an office in town.
"I'll kill you!" Tino cried out, trying to pry the man's fingers from his waist.
"Let him go, Clyde," Shaved Head ordered.
Soul Patch dropped Tino to the floor.
"Pendejo!" Tino had returned to his native tongue.
Shaved Head looked at Payne with an air of placid indifference. "We can do it pretty or we can do it ugly."
"We're leaving," Payne said. "But I gotta ask you two something."
They waited, staring Payne down.
"Is it true that steroids shrink your testicles?"
Soul Patch and Shaved Head were remarkably gentle. They swept Payne up by the arms, carried him through the doorway, and deposited him on the sidewalk without mussing his shirt. He admired their proficiency.
SIXTY-TWO
Exhausted by an endless day that began at Wanda the Whale's stash house in the desert, continued with gunfire in Hellhole Canyon, and concluded in the heart of the San Joaquin Valley, Jimmy and Tino checked into the Rutledge Arms Hotel.
Jimmy ordered from room service. Pork chops for Tino with mashed potatoes, onion rings, applesauce, and a chocolate milk shake. Payne crashed, leaving a burger half-uneaten. He fell asleep watching the news on a Sacramento station, then awoke at three a.m. to find the kid engrossed in porn on the pay channel. Jimmy gave him hell, then watched a few minutes of action between a pizza delivery boy and a bored housewife. He dozed off again just as Tino said, " Buenos noches, Himmy."
They slept until nearly noon.
"Where we going?" Tino asked as Jimmy got out of the shower.
" I'm going to the police station. You're going to the Rialto to see Indiana Jones and his Kingdom of Goofy Plots."
"No way, Jose. We're a team."
Payne tried to give the kid a stern look. Tino responded the way a sixth grader treats a substitute teacher who demands quiet. He laughed.
"C'mon, Himmy. You know I'll just show up at the police station, anyway."
Payne had expected an old-fashioned courthouse in the town square, something built of sturdy limestone by the Civil Works Administration in the 1930s. The police station an
d coroner's office would be a block away in nondescript brick buildings.
Instead, the Municipal Center stood on the edge of town, a series of modern one-story buildings with brown shingle roofs. Courtyards bloomed with roses and rhododendrons. A fountain generated a stream that meandered from the Zoning Department past the City Commission Chambers, toward the Police Department.
Jimmy and Tino crossed a wooden footbridge that arched gracefully over the stream. They followed flagstone steps through a rock garden planted with bonsai trees. It looked like a dandy place for afternoon tea.
They found Police Chief Javier Cardenas sitting on a redwood bench along the stream, chewing a sandwich. A handsome man in his mid-thirties, he had a cocoa complexion so smooth it appeared he'd just shaved and slapped on cologne. Dark hair fashionably cut. Black trousers and a crisply pressed white shirt with epaulets and a gold badge.
"I hear you two caused a stir over at the Rutledge office yesterday," the chief said, even before Payne introduced himself.
"Not our fault," Payne replied. "They treat strangers like weevils in a cotton field."
"Next time that cabron with the fuzzy lip grabs me, I'll kick him in the cojones, " Tino said.
"Quiet, Tino," Payne said. "Chief, don't you think it's suspicious they guard the place like it's the Pentagon?"
"Nothing suspicious about it," Cardenas said. "The Patriot Patrol put a price on Simeon's head, so the company beefed up security." Cardenas took a bite of his sandwich. Bacon, lettuce, and tomato on whole wheat. "Now, why don't you tell me what you need, Mr. Payne? It is Mr. J. Atticus Payne of Van Nuys, correct?"
"Ay, he's messing with you, Himmy," Tino said.
"Yeah, I'm Jimmy Payne. And I'm trying to help this boy find his mother." He summarized the story of Marisol becoming sepa rated from her son and as much as he knew of her harrowing crossing and the two stash houses she'd passed through.
"So you want to file a missing persons report?" the chief asked.
"She's not exactly missing. More like she's working for Simeon Rutledge but his people won't let me get to her."
"Working for my tio Sim?"
Payne felt as if he'd been sucker-punched. "You're shitting me. Rutledge is your uncle?"