by A. L. DeNova
“The US border is a paper towel,” JC would say to his compadres after a successful crossing, over Mexican beer with lime. How they would laugh, and drink on the beach in Coronado, looking south.
Carmen listened more closely to the sloping waves on the gentle beach, adjacent to the U.S. Naval Seal training center. The coastal air was perfection; warm, but not hot. The fine sand between her toes so soft. The beach was breathtaking and deadly at the same time.
She waited for JC’s touch after his latest conquest crossing what the cops called contraband. He laughed: “For $20, cocaine can make any place Palm Springs, and make you feel better than the Marlboro man.”
“What do you get when you mix equal parts of the Catholic Church, conquistadores, cronyism and just perfect weather?” Each time, JC answered his own question, “San Diego.”
And then he would roll back laughing on the sand, careful not to spill his drink.
* * *
JC jogged back to the idling engine and floored the V-8. He slowed as he rounded a tight turn, circling the wheel with his hand. Right over left, right over left, until a short straight away. This was a rural route that followed the old-time east-west Pony Express roads. The most frequent travelers were still rattlesnakes and outlaws. They slithered belly down across the border for decades.
JC drove from Tecate Road along the border and merged onto Route 94. They were making good time. He glanced at the Chevelle dashboard, “Hey, it’s just after midnight, Carmen. Having fun?” And then thump. The Chevelle ran along on three tires and on one very deflated left front tire. The sound was like a bullet to his mood. Reflexively, he pulled over to the dusty shoulder of the road, wishing to preserve his beloved tire rims. The load came first but he was in love with the Chevelle. He parked her and jumped out. “She’s OK,” he said, wanting to cry and scream. “What’s wrong?” Carmen asked.
Through clenched teeth, JC observed. “We have got a flat. I will ruin the rims if I drive anymore,” he explained. “You stay here, roll up the windows and don’t let anybody in here.” He bent down and tied his shoelaces with double knots. Not pausing to think, he took action. “Look, I am going to make some phone calls. They must have one at that gas station we passed.” He jogged around to the passenger side, he pulled open the gold door and placed his hands around her shoulders. “You don’t know about the cocaine, right? I told Ramon, you know nothing of the cocaine,” JC said. She was pinioned by the taut seat belt. JC thrust his hand into her tight bra and took possession of her breast and squeezed. “I’ll be back soon. Stay here, do not leave the car.” Carmen did not flinch. He slammed the passenger door.
He started walking quickly, south towards the gas station. He began to run at a steady jog through the warm, dusty night. He needed to get out of here quick even if it meant breaking a sweat. He glanced back at the dark undulating road. That product had to be protected no matter what. He stopped and turned all the way around. He did an about-face, so he could see the outline of Carmen, thirty feet up the road. He ran back a few feet and saw her in the car. With large circular movements, he indicated to her to roll the Chevelle’s window up further. Lifting his right arm, he slammed his hand down, intending her to lock the door.
He waved and then turned forward again, running for five minutes at a time to traverse the two miles or so back to the station right after the intersection of the two rural routes. The road was dark and he panted with the exertion. He breathed in mustard flowers and cactus apples dusted with road grime. Whenever possible, he ran on the hard-packed dirt of the shoulder to avoid the teenagers high on weed and 151 rum, drag racing without lights.
4
Dangerous Curves
JC saw the form of a man in a baseball cap as he jogged alongside the curving blacktop. Muttering to himself in exasperation, he ran southeast towards the gas station sign when he heard a voice call from the illuminated area. In the dim light, JC could just distinguish a thick man with stringy dark hair spilling from an Angels baseball cap. The melon head emerged from the sagebrush and called again, “Ay—Flaco!”
JC who stood five foot, eleven inches high and weighed in at 155 pounds was accustomed to this nickname, “Flaco.” He turned and then stopped to size up the challenge. Breathless and sweating, JC pivoted to his left as the man with the over-sized head and Angels cap barreled towards him. Trying to look unsurprised, JC answered, “Si?”
The conversation continued in Spanish. Melon-head closed the distance between them and touched JC on the shoulder. In a drawling accent, he inquired, “Mira, Flaco, did Don Miguel give you the instructions?”
JC was familiar with all types of smuggling. He was well aware that this long, open border was filled with all kinds of crime. Smugglers who guided large groups of Mexican immigrants had used these same roads for years. JC had relatives, they were called “coyotes,” who arranged for groups of 50 people to simply walk north through the wild hillsides that separated Mexico from San Diego County. Drivers would then pick these illegal immigrants up in trucks and cars, and drive them up to Los Angeles for jobs. “Just my luck,” JC mumbled under his breath. “Alien smugglers.”
The man looked up and down the road, “Where did you park anyway?” he smiled appreciatively. “Yes, they said you were experienced. Good not to park too close.” He then extended his hand, “I’m Kiki.”
Kiki confided, “La migra will not see our cars as they are always looking for tandem cars and convoys.” Kiki grimaced, flashing his uneven, tobacco stained teeth. Kiki carried a black, foot-long, police-issued flashlight which doubled as a blackjack when needed. He could light up the night or crack skulls with this single indispensable tool. JC had seen, that like his own enterprise, alien smugglers controlled their business through violence. JC just wanted to keep himself and his cocaine safe, until he could return to his product.
“Keep your flock together,” Kiki advised. “Don’t let your chickens wander off, or you will be screwed.” He gestured with his left hand, moving across his neck. Kiki did not smile with that comment.
Kiki handed JC a key. “This is for the truck.” JC held the single key in his palm and reviewed this situation. JC knew that alien smugglers, just like drug dealers, used all kinds of cars and trucks to transport their loads of illegal aliens north. There were service trucks, ambulances, food trucks and furniture trucks to hide the fact that they were hauling people, illegal aliens. He glanced up at the furniture truck parked up on the narrow shoulder of the road, 20 feet ahead. No. This was not his plan for the evening. He was the wrong Flaco in another man’s scheme. JC had gone over the plans many times with Ramon. This was not in the plan.
JC shut his eyes to make sense of this mix-up. Kiki mistook JC for the missing Flaco. Apparently, Flaco had been hired to move a load of illegal aliens, what the alien smugglers called “pollos,” farther away from the border. This south-eastern part of San Diego near the border was deserted. Few people lived out here. Late at night it could become crowded with all sorts. Pollos and smugglers at times collided with cops as they all shirked their way north.
There was no benefit in telling Kiki that he was running back to a payphone to repair a flat tire. JC smelled trouble in the rotund form of Kiki and knew from his own experience that this was not the time or place to set the facts straight.
The shine of the Ruger Security Six revolver tucked in between Kiki’s tumbling belly and the Los Angeles T-shirt caught JC’s eye. This heavy and reliable .357 commanded the respect Kiki knew he deserved. “OK, Bueno,” JC agreed as evenly as possible. “How much gas is in the rig?” asked JC.
“I filled it, topped it off myself. You have 20 gallons, more than enough to take you to the stash house,” said Kiki. “I’ll be following right behind, to make sure you get there safe.”
JC’s chest hurt as he wheezed for air. He glanced behind into the dark already missing his beloved. That Chevelle was gorgeous and irreplaceable. He had spent hours restoring her gleaming beauty. Ramon expected the cocaine
. As for Carmen, she would just have to wait and keep her mouth shut and her legs crossed.
JC heard the crunch of a heavy man walking on the rock-strewn dirt shoulder. Kiki grabbed JC’s forearm and hissed, “Flaco, there’s a map and a flashlight on the seat. You’ll be the only one in the passenger compartment but I will be right behind you. I’ll make sure you don’t lose your way. Follow the map.” Kiki handed JC a business card. “Call this number when you get there or if there’s trouble. When we count the pollos in LA, you’ll get paid. In dollars. Cash.” JC stared silently. “I’ll be driving behind you. Behind you the whole way.”
Kiki removed his hat and combed his bushy hair. He returned his hat firmly to his head, patted his belt. “No stopping. Follow the map, Flaco.” Kiki caressed the Ruger in his waistband.
JC walked down the dark shoulder of the highway. In the dim light, he saw “San Diego Furniture” scripted along the side of the vehicle. Kiki followed closely to his rear and walked next to the trailer rapping it with his thick knuckles. “Hey, we’re moving! Fasten your seatbelts!” he bellowed. As the man who loaded them into the truck, Kiki knew that no seat belts existed. The people were squeezed behind a false wall in the big box of the trailer truck. Despite this stern warning, chatter and coughs emanated from the cavernous interior.
“Shut up! Or la migra will ship you back! Shut up now! Ahorita!”
JC pulled the handle of the driver’s door. It was unlocked. He recognized he was the only person in the cab of the truck. Kiki was standing outside the truck, watching him. Each illegal alien was paying $4,000 to $5,000 to the alien smuggling ring for the privilege of being packed and stacked into a furniture truck. The scores of people in the back were worth up to a $250,000 to Kiki’s family business. Just this one haul. This one one night. JC was well aware that like his own family’s drug operation, this syndicate built its reputation on a reliable delivery service. Supply and demand. Southern Californians hired illegal aliens by the tens of thousands and Kiki kept the supply pipeline flowing smoothly. He ran a punctual delivery service for those who hired illegal labor.
On this empty highway JC had nowhere to go except where the man with the Ruger pointed. To refuse meant a face full of lead. JC chose to drive.
He jumped in the driver’s seat and located a long metal flashlight and a map with a yellow highlighter trail delineating the route.
JC did as instructed and turned the ignition of the big rig. JC understood he had to get off the road and merge to Interstate 5 North as soon as possible. He must do this before the real Flaco showed up. JC had seconds to move out. He released the clutch and shifted into gear, flooring the gas pedal and hauling out on the highway. In the rearview mirror, he saw the lights of Kiki.
As he rounded the curve in the highway, he glimpsed a solitary silhouette emerge from the chaparral. Was that shadow the real Flaco or another pollo? JC mused. The challenging terrain forced him to focus on maneuvering the big rig as fast as possible up the road. He left his doubts behind him.
Boom, JC heard. Boom, the sound was made again. “Hey! Mira!” JC was momentarily startled. He looked around and then understood it was coming from the rear. He put his left hand on the rear wall.
“Hey! Driver!” JC heard a woman’s voice call out. She continued, “Hey! I am thirsty, we are thirsty! Hey!”
JC who never worried about the needs of others, was quick to respond. Reflexively, he answered, “Quiet! La migra! Sleep and you will wake up in LA! Just shut up!”
He punctuated the order with a slam of his fist to the back wall. JC rolled his eyes.
“Diablo!” He cursed. He shifted into higher gear and the truck lurched forward. He watched the speedometer arrow drift past 70 miles per hour. His nerves were on edge. This was his first time driving a truck this big. With a tight back, he deftly negotiated the twists of a road carved in the early part of the century, on this secondary remote roadway.
Each second ripped a mile further away from his precious load and Carmen. What was she doing now? Patiently waiting for his return to repair the flat tire? Was she hitching into town? Did he trust her?
He decided to picture her in a bra and tight satin panties, revealing the full curve of her butt sleeping on the newly upholstered seats of his lovingly restored 1966 Chevelle. Maybe she fell asleep and her sweating skin stuck to the gold upholstery. She was a patient girl. Carmen had to just wait, JC thought as he drove on, she just had to stay put and he would be back to get her.
5
Call the Samaritan Jo
Carmen looked up from the back seat of the Chevelle, her nose pressed against the rear window. She blinked. She was disoriented to time and place. With resolve, she nodded her consciousness out of the fog of sleep. She did not have a watch but it seemed she had waited for a long time.
JC was always so selfish and easily distracted by other girls or errands or opportunities to make money. He knew how to hustle when it paid. Still he told her all the time how beautiful she was, that he loved her body and he loved taking her to the beach. Sometimes she believed him and believed in his love for her. Still this had been a long time even for JC.
She admitted to herself that he was at the least, competent but most of all she thought his family was more than competent and would certainly expect that this loaded car would be delivered.
She sat up and looked back down the road and saw nothing. Morning was coming and no JC. She was afraid. She had been afraid the night before. She was afraid of this North. She did not like drugs. Her mother did not like JC’s family or their big house next to the mayor of Tecate. When she slept over at JC’s, she was astonished to see they had a bidet. She had never seen one nor been to France or Spain for that matter. Monthly trips to San Diego was as cosmopolitan as she got. She soon learned, it was not for your hands.
JC had told Carmen he cared for her, that he wanted her. There was eagerness and urgency in his kisses but Carmen was afraid he did not love her. She was afraid she was a contrivance for the trip. Dozing in the Chevelle, Carmen realized that JC had not planned for a flat tire. He discharged his every desire. Accustomed to the power of charm, he told her “you cannot plan for passion.” She knew better. For her overnights with him, she did anticipate and placed prophylactics in her purse.
No doubt, he ran south. She shook her head, accepting the inevitable answer. The border was far closer than the point of delivery. She had worn red stilettos for dancing and then what would come later. She could run nowhere. She did not want her mother to be right, that men had every advantage.
Tonight, alone in the car, she feared not just her solitude and the desolation of Tecate. She feared being the only person left holding the bag for what she knew was a big load of drugs. It was not her profit. It was not her responsibility. She feared the load in the trunk of the Chevelle.
Carmen was also concerned about the phone call JC had made before the flat tire. They knew. His uncle knew that they had crossed la linea. The drugs had to be delivered on schedule or there would be consequences. She had seen the dead bodies behind her family’s shop. This was no threat. This was life or a barbaric end. For now, she was simply afraid to be alone on a deserted highway just outside of Tecate, California with probably a fortune’s worth of cocaine.
Earlier in the evening she did not fear she would get into trouble, as she was just coming along for the ride with JC. He promised her she was just the passenger and he would take all the risk. He told her that she was just riding along as window dressing.
Carmen sat up and looked out. In the dim light, she saw the bare outline of a two-lane twisting highway. She saw nothing. She heard very little except for an occasional bird of prey.
In her little girl mind she pictured the scuttle of scorpions and snakes through the rocky hills on both sides of the highway. Born in San Diego, she spent most of her life in comfortable interiors of the hard scrabble city of Tijuana. It was a big small town. She knew very little about this place over the border. In her big girl
mind she pictured the tin-roofed hideouts of meth cookers burrowed in the hills.
She felt the heat of the macadam penetrate the car. It permeated the vinyl seat and then her skin. She stayed in the car as he had told her. Like always she obeyed. She rebelled in her heart.
Where was he? He knew they were both looking forward to delivering the car. She was along for what would follow afterward. Late at night on the beach in Coronado, afterwards in a stunning seaside hotel and then room service wrapped in his lean, strong body, and hungry kisses. She focused on igniting her passion to burn away her fear. JC had said, “We’ll cross at Tecate. Drive the Chevelle to the pier. Grab some food, some wine and hang out in Coronado.”
But now after the excitement of crossing, she was sitting alone on a dark desert road, waiting. It was so hard to know how much time had passed without a watch. She pulled out the keys.
On the key ring were three keys: the key to the Chevelle, the key to his parents’ house in Tijuana where he lived and a key to the garage in San Diego where they were going.
She had no idea what was on that key chain until he had left. He had jogged back only to toss the keys to her. He had shown her the Chevelle’s gleaming ignition key. In the dark, Carmen fiddled with the keys. She caressed their jagged ends and she soon distinguished the ignition key. She rose up, pushed the driver’s seat forward and opened up the front door of the two-door coupe and stepped on the road.
As she stood, she saw a tractor-trailer rig as it barreled down the road. It was followed close behind by a passenger car. She paused and watched them go by and then slid into the front seat.
She saw the analog clock showed 2:00 a.m.
Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back? I am not going to worry. I am fine! Carmen tried to convince herself. Fortunately, Carmen’s most impressive talent was sleeping.