Border Child

by Michel Stone

  “You two up to no good as always?” she said, popping the top from a bottle of Carta Blanca for herself.

  “Look at you, drinking on the job, beautiful lady,” Emanuel said, shaking his head in mock disapproval, and she knew by that lazy smile and his tired eyes he was drunk.

  “No, no, that’s okay, Emanuel,” Diego said, winking at her. “When the waitress is as lovely as Ana María here, they’re allowed to do as they wish.”

  “You two are as drunk as sewer rats,” she said, scowling with hand on hip, suppressing a grin, though both men’s eyes had returned to the television behind her.

  “Sewer rats? Us?” Emanuel raised his eyebrows and looked Diego up and down. “Yes, you’re probably right about this guy. But me, I’m nothing of that sort.”

  “Listen, gorgeous. The workweek is done, at least for the common sort like my boy Emanuel here, and so we’re celebrating his day off from my father’s whip cracking. And we’re celebrating this win playing out up there on that screen. Plus, I’m diving tomorrow, and so I won’t drink past midnight, but until then…” He raised his bottle of beer to Ana María and to Emanuel and then toward the television. They clinked bottles before they all took swigs.

  The old cook stepped out from the kitchen in back, his apron dirty and an ever-present scowl on his brow, mumbling something about effeminate French futbol players, until he saw Diego. “Look who’s in my café! Hey Diego, what can I fix you to eat? Anything you want.”

  “Surprise me, friend!” Diego shouted to the cook, slapping hands with him.

  The cook raised a finger. “I got for you just the thing,” he said. “What’s the score here?” He jutted his gray-stubbled chin toward the television.

  “Up by one,” Diego said. “Great goal by Javier Hernández.”

  “I hate the French,” the cook said. “After that tie with those South Africans we need this win, eh Diego?”

  “We’ll win,” Diego said, like some great soothsayer, as if the world didn’t already know Mexico had won this game a full day earlier. He half raised his beer to the cook, who turned and stepped back into the kitchen.

  “What’s that guy’s name?” Diego said, with no hint of embarrassment that he couldn’t recall the cook’s name.

  “That’s Abejundio,” Ana María said. “You’re so famous and popular, you can’t remember all your fans’ names, eh Señor Magnificent?”

  Diego shrugged. “I don’t know that I’ve ever met that guy, Ana María,” he said, lowering his voice as if at once defending and acknowledging his arrogance.

  “Hey, where’s your friend Héctor?” Ana María said, looking at Emanuel. Héctor had been here a couple weeks now, but rarely did Ana María see Emanuel and Héctor out together. She often thought of Héctor, though she couldn’t quite name why. Perhaps she worried about his innocence. Though she’d never been down to Puerto Isadore, she knew rural village life well, had seen their simple, old-fashioned, and sometimes backward ways of living. Acapulco ran faster and hotter than anything country villagers like Héctor could possibly comprehend, and she worried about his safety in his desperation to make quick money.

  Emanuel drummed his fingers on his beer bottle, but Ana María caught a flicker of hesitation in his voice when he said, “Héctor? I don’t know. Working, I think.”

  “Working,” she said, her voice flat and more cynical than she’d intended. “He’s fishing, right? So those guys are now running fishing charters at night, eh Emanuel? I doubt that. I truly doubt that.” She took a swig of her beer and watched the last patrons leave the restaurant.

  Diego and Emanuel glanced at each other, then focused their attention on the futbol match. The men made noticeable efforts to busy themselves with mundane nothingness and idle chat of World Cup players and scores, so that Ana María had no doubt that tonight Héctor was doing something unscrupulous and perhaps dangerous.

  Even before Abejundio emerged with a mounded platter of half-moon-shaped molotes, the delicious aroma of chorizo and hot grease had wafted from the kitchen.

  “For Diego the Magnificent,” the old cook said, as if Ana María and Emanuel were Diego’s pet dogs rather than his human companions. Abejundio’s face was the color and texture of a coconut hull, though slicked with sweat. He set the food before them and pulled a bottle of tequila from beneath the bar. He grabbed four short cups and filled them each halfway.

  “Salud,” old Abejundio said, raising his cup to Diego.

  Before long Ana María felt as drunk as she’d suspected the men to be. They toasted one another, the cliffs of La Quebrada, Diego, and his fellow divers. They drank to the Mexican futbol team and to players the men admired. Then Ana María said, “To Emanuel’s guest, Héctor. He should be with us here!”

  “Who kicked that one?” Abejundio said, his black eyes glistening. The way he turned his head toward the television reminded Ana María of the ancient tortoise she’d observed in the zoo on a school trip years ago, its neck thick in straining tendons and weathered skin.

  “Was that Cuauhtémoc Blanco?” Even as Abejundio said this, Blanco’s name flashed across the screen. “That guy,” he said, shaking his head in adoration. “I love that one. That’s the third World Cup he’s scored in, you know that? No one else has done that!” he shouted. “At least no Mexican.”

  “To Blanco, then,” Emanuel said, grabbing the tequila bottle for another round, but its contents were spent.

  Old Abejundio took the empty bottle and tossed it into the trash bin. He lifted a hand in departure—No más, no más—and stumbled off into the kitchen.

  “So you’re intrigued by my guest, Héctor, yes, Ana María? Héctor, Héctor, Héctor,” Emanuel said. “You want to go find him? I know exactly where he is. Mischief,” Emanuel said, dragging the back of his hand across his lips. “He’s out getting into mischief.”

  Ana María listened to Emanuel but gazed at Diego who seemed uninterested in anything about Héctor, until Emanuel said, “He’s out making some sort of run for his new bosses. That’s what your Héctor’s up to tonight.”

  “Not my Héctor, Emanuel,” Ana María said. “I don’t know this guy. I just worry about him, you know? A naco such as he is.”

  Of course, Emanuel had kept this information of Héctor’s whereabouts tonight to himself when she’d questioned him earlier in the evening, but the beers and tequila had loosened that news from him. Héctor was out doing a run. What did that entail?

  “He’s working for Santiago and Ignacio tonight, eh?” Diego said. “He told you this?”

  Emanuel didn’t seem to catch the concern in Diego’s voice, a slight change in pitch, or notice his sudden interest in Emanuel and Ana María’s conversation. Ana María eyed Diego, watched his expression with curiosity when Emanuel answered, “Well, he tells me things he might not tell others, you know? I’m his host. I hook him up with shit like a bed and a job. He should tell me whatever the hell I ask him, shouldn’t he?”

  Ana María considered this, and sucked the last warm drops of beer from the bottom of her bottle.

  “Let’s go check on him,” Emanuel said, rising to his feet.

  “Check on him? Where?” Diego said, looking in no rush to go anywhere.

  “The dock. The boat, that boat he fishes,” he said to them both. Then, to Ana María, “You know, what’s it called, that boat?”

  “How would I know the name of the boat he fishes?” Ana María said, suddenly needing fresh air.

  “The Gabriela,” Diego said, to Ana María’s surprise. Diego didn’t really know Héctor, did he?

  Emanuel seemed a bit surprised, too. “Damn, you have a good memory. I didn’t think you even knew the name of the boat.”

  “Oh, sure. Why wouldn’t I know that? You recall, I introduced him to those guys he works for,” Diego said. “Did he tell you what he was doing for Ignacio and Santiago?”

  Emanuel’s typical reserve in such matters had given way to bravado in his drunkenness. He shrugged. “Sure, he tells me.
He’s out picking up a cooler. That’s it. Just picking up a cooler.”

  “A cooler?” Diego said, shifting on his stool. Something in his creased forehead, the way he cocked his head, hinted that Héctor’s new duties didn’t surprise him.

  “Yes, and I have a feeling the cooler’s not hauling fish,” Emanuel said, with a smug lift of his eyebrows. He was like the cock strutting among small, skittering hens in a thorny hedgerow, feeling a sense of dominance and great importance because of some knowledge he possessed. This wasn’t his typical way, and Ana María knew the tequila and countless beers were to blame.

  Ana María hated Emanuel in that moment, hated his indifference, his sarcasm, that this naïve old friend of his could be up to bad dealings, and Emanuel didn’t seem to care.

  “So he didn’t tell you what he’s transporting,” Diego said. “He gave you no clue as to the contents of that cooler?”

  “He didn’t know,” Emanuel said, his eyes nearly closed.

  “He didn’t know, or did he just tell you he didn’t know?” Ana María said.

  Diego watched Emanuel with great focus now.

  “Let’s walk down to the boat. Wait for his return and see what he’s up to, no? Pop the cooler open, and take a look inside for yourself,” Emanuel said, swaying, or maybe he wasn’t swaying. Maybe Ana María was the one swaying. She steadied herself with a hand on the bar.

  “Let’s go,” she said, her worries about Héctor now matched by her curiosity concerning the cooler.

  Diego stood, a somber look darkening his eyes. “I’m done. Diving tomorrow and all that, like I said. I’ll have a mother of a hangover as it is, and if I stay out any longer I’ll likely smash my head on the rocks tomorrow. I’m taking off.”

  “Ah, that’s shit. Total goat shit. You could dive those cliffs blindfolded, backward, and drunk with two monkeys on your back,” Emanuel said.

  “Well, that’s true, I could do all that even if those monkeys were drunk, too, but I’m out of here,” he said, then slipped through the door after a slight bow to them both.

  “Screw him,” Emanuel said, pulling Ana María toward him and kissing her surprisingly gently on the lips. “You want to walk with me?”

  “Yes. Let’s go see my Héctor,” she said, teasing him.

  “Ah, your Héctor. Your Héctor. Héctor, Héctor, Héctor,” he said, taking her hand, pulling her toward the door with a slight stumble.

  The night air she’d been craving knocked Ana María a bit off-kilter, and she focused on Emanuel’s words—he was talking so much—to keep her head in the conversation and to hold the world steady, because walking made her dizzy. Or perhaps standing after so much sitting on a stool was the thing that made the world spin. She held tight to Emanuel’s hand as they headed toward the dock and the Gabriela, determined to check on Héctor, to discover what he was up to on this dark and wobbly night.

  Chapter 23

  Héctor

  The wooden steps, weathered and worn, supported Héctor’s weight well enough, but even so, they were narrow and in spots slick with some invisible slime Héctor imagined would be the green of some primal ooze in the light of day. He worked his way in darkness toward the top of the cliff, focusing with great effort on each footfall, knowing he could not afford a misstep and a tumble to the rocks and foam below. Even before he reached the top and saw the container he was to transport, Héctor wondered how he could get the thing, surely cumbersome and likely heavy, down the rickety ladder while getting himself down intact. And what would happen if the cooler tipped or tumbled from his grasp, spilling its content of only God knew what? And what, he finally allowed himself to consider, would spill from the cooler? He hadn’t been able to ponder that question for fear his spine would go weak and he’d back out of the deal, like some grimy-faced pauper about to steal a chicken egg only to be deterred by an unfamiliar cur napping near the nest. Would the reward be worth the risk? Or would the perilous effort prove foolhardy and irreparably life altering?

  He heaved himself up over the cliff’s edge, landing hard on the rocky soil, unsure which way to look until a bright light blinded him from somewhere off to his right.

  “Who are you?” a gravelly voice called from beyond the light.

  “I’m Héctor. I was sent here. By my bosses. By Santiago and Ignacio,” he said, uncertain how much he should say.

  “You’re alone?” the voice asked.

  “Yes, yes,” Héctor said, rising to his feet, careful neither to step backward off the cliff nor forward toward the man.

  “All right, then,” the voice said, at once killing the bright light and switching on a small-beamed flashlight. “Let’s do this.”

  Héctor walked forward, unable to see the man until they were but a meter apart, and even then the man used care not to illuminate his face so that his features were dulled and indeterminate under the moonless sky. He stood beside a pickup truck, its tailgate down. The man turned the flashlight toward the truck, its glow landing on a large, dark-colored cooler that spread the width of the truck’s bed. The man brought the light to his brow and snapped it into place there so his hands were free as the headlamp lighted what they needed to see.

  “Grab that side,” he said.

  Héctor grabbed the handle closer to him, and with effort they hauled the cooler to the cliff’s edge and set it there. The man returned to the truck and came back with a long length of rope, one end trailing behind him toward the truck. He fastened the other end through the cooler’s handles.

  “You have a light?” the man said.

  Héctor pulled the flashlight from his pocket and flicked it on without a word, careful to shine it toward the cooler and not at his companion.

  His gut knew what he’d find if he opened the cooler. He envisioned bundles, neatly wrapped in waterproof packaging. He wondered which would be heavier, bricks of cocaine or of marijuana, but he knew determining the container’s contents simply by heft would be impossible. His mind couldn’t linger on such thoughts.

  “We’re going to lower this. It’ll take both of us. When we get it to the rocks, you go down behind it and hold it steady. I’ll come after you, and we’ll work the cooler into your boat. Then you take off, and I’ll call Santiago and let him know you’re on your way. He’ll be at the dock waiting for you.”

  Héctor nodded, then said, “Okay,” realizing the man likely couldn’t see him in the darkness as he busied himself with the rope. Héctor understood the man’s implied message: He was to go straight back to the dock without a stop, detour, or delay, and surely without opening the cooler.

  The wind had kicked up, and Héctor shivered as his sweat cooled in the breeze. The gusts blowing across the cliff’s edge from the water chilled him, though the night remained balmy. They worked the cooler over the side of the cliff, then lowered the rope hand over hand, Héctor standing behind his nameless cohort in much the way he and the boys of his youth had played tug-of-war on the beach with a length of rope left behind or lost by some fisherman. Only on this moonless night the teams were Héctor and a stranger against this mysterious container. Héctor guessed the distance from where they stood to the rocks below to be about eighteen meters, and he wondered if the rope was long enough. The lid of the cooler had been taped shut, but perhaps the tape wouldn’t hold fast, the way the container banged against the rock face as they lowered it. If the lid popped off and the contents spilled into the sea below, certainly the man would be furious. He’d taken great care to meet Héctor under cover of darkness, great care to seal the cooler and to get it, with Héctor’s help, to Ignacio and Santiago. Héctor wondered if a sharp, steely blade were just out of sight, tucked into the man’s waistband, for quick access in case he needed to gut Héctor on the spot.

  “There,” the man said. “It’s to the rocks. Go down and hold it steady. I’ll tie the end off at the truck.”

  The man turned away, disappearing into the darkness, save for the thin beam preceding him, fading into nothingness where his t
ruck waited. Héctor eased himself over the edge and down the wooden slats toward the surf and stones. To his surprise the cooler had landed on a boulder and tilted slightly backward so that one side rested against the rock face, bridging a short span of seawater. The weight of the container, along with the way it had wedged between the rock and the wall, held it firmly in place for now, but getting it from where it sat into the boat would be another matter. The rocks were slippery and with the increasing wind the sea had gotten choppy.

  Héctor had tied the boat to the bottom step, and even in the wind and splashing, foaming surf, he could hear the boat knocking against the rocks. He feared the Gabriela would suffer damage, but what was he to do? He’d followed the directions he’d been given.

  The stranger joined Héctor, holding tight to the cooler’s handle for support. “We’re going to have to get this onto the bow,” he shouted above the wind.

  Leaving the Gabriela secured to the ladder, Héctor pulled the boat as close to them as he could get it, leaving about a meter and a half between the cooler and where it had to go. With one foot on the bow and the other balanced on slime-coated rock, he grabbed the handle of the cooler.

  “Okay,” Héctor said, wondering how the two of them could possibly accomplish this task.

  Either its contents had shifted or the container had wedged deeper into the gap between the rocks than Héctor had anticipated, and when he and the man heaved the cooler toward the boat it didn’t budge. The resistance caught Héctor unprepared, and he lost his footing, scraping the length of his shin against rock and smashing his knee. Now soaked in seawater from his hips down, he grunted in pain.

  “Look at my feet,” the stranger yelled, aiming his headlamp downward. “See. You have to wedge your shoes into the rocks at an angle.”

  Héctor worked his way back up the rock, further scraping his knees and elbows, pulling himself by the cooler’s handle and fearing his weight would lodge it deeper into the crevice where it remained. He found a foothold for each of his shoes, then nodded blindly into the beam of the man’s headlight, now trained on Héctor’s face.