by A. L. DeNova
JC jumped back into the idling AMC spirit. The gas station had to be close. Where the hell was Carmen? “Chinga, “he said. He did not see his gold Chevelle where he had left it twelve hours earlier. JC could not fathom that the puta Carmen moved the Chevelle. He was in disbelief. Did Carmen get the car repaired? Somebody must know.
JC drove the AMC spirit a few more miles down the road. Like an iridescent mirage, he saw the neon of the now open Discount Gas Station sign. This pink and turquoise sign contrasted with the dull colors of the desert in the summer. It was visible on the left-hand side of the road. He had to ditch the stolen AMC, or run the risk of an auto theft arrest by the local Sherriff. He turned on Jim Road, really just a dirt lane. Out of sight from the gas station, this road would be a good place to park the car.
JC shifted the AMC into park behind a large live oak tree. He stared into the rearview mirror, smoothing his brown hair with his ever-present black comb. He could not help but smile at his handsome reflection that won admiration from young women daily. He was tired, but he was always ready with a provocative word for the right girl.
JC walked slowly towards the grimy gas station office. As he kicked the rocks, he reviewed his credible lies. At the entrance to the gas station office, JC saw the sunburned potbellied Gringo look up from his Soldier of Fortune Magazine.
“Hi,” JC said when he stood ten feet away. The older man spit, and did not look up. “I left my Chevelle on the road. She’s perfection, 1966, classic and five-slot rally wheels. I left her maybe a mile from here. Have you seen her?”
The Gringo looked up with blood shot blue eyes. He took a good close red look at his visitor.
He looked to be a young man, somewhere about twenty-five or twenty-six Mexican but light-skinned, and stylish. The visitor was dark-haired and light eyed. He wore tight fitting designer jeans, a fine collared shirt and running shoes. The older man hoisted his loose blue work pants up to his waist. He extended a grimy right hand. JC took it, and shook. JC noticed some of the mechanic’s grease had been transferred to his own palm in the exchange.
Mike pointed to his uniform shirt with the name “Mike” embroidered over his left chest. “I am Carlos,” JC said as a half-truth. “Have you seen that classic Chevelle? I had a fight with my girlfriend. Maybe you saw her-Carmen? Pretty, you know,” JC paused, and drew an “S” with his left index finger. Mike appreciated the pantomime but did not respond. “She drove away in my Chevelle, after we had a fight on our way back to San Diego.” Mike said, “Hmm.”
The mechanic stared, not comprehending this strange idiom nor its context. JC rambled on, hoping to prod the old man to help him recover the car. “I was driving, and we started fighting. I just pulled over, and walked out into the sage brush, to cool off and I walked back, and the car was gone,” JC explained.
Mike took a drag on his unfiltered cigarette, and took a swig from a dark iced beverage in a coffee cup. It was Coca-Cola and small batch Bourbon. Mike showed no response in his watery blue eyes. Who was this kid fooling? Tecate might be in the middle of nowhere, but it was and had always been a vital location in this century’s northbound smuggling game. He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a fresh cigarette. Mike took another puff of the cigarette, a futile effort to ignite the lapsed synapses of his undertaxed mind.
Naw, he did not give a damn. Whether this sharp dressed, and lying smuggler found his load or not, that was between him and unknown third parties. Not his business. Not his concern. His loves were few: engines, firearms, cigs, and a quiet lady who knew how to keep the beer cold, and the meat rare.
With an impassive flick of his cigarette, Mike drawled with the echo of his Oklahoma roots, “Yeah. Two girls came by, on...” Mike paused, to take an impossibly long drag on his cigarette. JC tensed ever muscle, and said nothing, not knowing how to read this redneck geezer. “Yeah, they came by. I didn’t get their names. One had really short hair. Your lady?” “No,” said JC. “My girlfriend, she has very long straight dark brown hair.” Mike looked up, and shook his head, in the affirmative. “Oh yeah, there was another, younger girl, who had long hair, and very high, spiked heels.” Mike chuckled, not respectfully. He was going to make this little shit pay for anything he gave up. Mike liked those girls alright, they respected him, and said please and thank you, as a young lady should. They sure appreciated his help, he was damn sure about that.
“Yeah, they bought two tires. Funny, no spare, they said. They had no tools, that’s what she said. The long-haired girl stood and watched the whole time. So that’s your girlfriend?” “Was,” JC said in an uncharacteristic moment of truth. “Funny thing was, I drove them back, oh a mile or so, to where the Chevelle was parked, and they were real polite, sweet really. And then we get out there, and the long-haired one, Carmen you said her name was?” Mike said. J.C shook his head, “Yes.” “Carmen said they had no tools, and she could not open the trunk. Or wouldn’t. She stared at me the whole time. Just stared as I put on the new tires. She just would not open the trunk.” Mike took another long inhale of the cigarette, and stared into JC’s sunglasses. “She said she was sure there was no spare tire in there?” Mike probed, knowing how strange it was to have a tricked out classic Chevelle with no spare. “Did she tell you where she was heading?” JC asked.
“I heard her talking to the other girl, the one in pants. I heard the tall one give your girl directions to San Diego. I think the tall one said she lives in a certain neighborhood, Hillcrest.” Mike glared at JC, seeing if he could make this punk flinch. “Do. You know where in Hillcrest? What street,” JC said.
JC pulled out an extra set of keys on a Chevy key chain. “I have the keys, I always keep an extra, just in case...” JC said. JC kept the rest of the sentence to himself, which ran, ‘just in case he needed to deliver the car, and store it, and then retrieve the drugs at a later time.’
Instead, JC continued with his cover story, “I miss her, and I need to find my car. I still have a loan on it, and I miss that sound of the V-8.”
“I know what you mean,” Mike said. “I love, I mean I love my cars. That’ll be why I stay here, it is a great place to drive, and fix cars,” Mike hitched up his loose pants. Mike shuffled through the piles of inventory lists, and yellow receipts on the nicked metal desk. “Oh yeah, here we go,” Mike said. He read, “Josephine Gemma.” “Yeah, they had to get two tires. So, they put their money together. Your girl, she didn’t have enough, so the tall one lent her some money. She said, “You can pay me back later.”
“Where can I find my Chevelle?” JC asked.
Mike uncrossed his arms, and pointed a greasy, calloused index finger west. With his Oklahoma drawl, he said “San Diego.”
JC coughed. He would not concede to defeat. The minutes were ticking down, and this was a match he could not lose. He had to find Carmen and the Chevelle. He fished into his designer jeans pocket. He pulled out 85 cents. He had one good meal today, and that would have to sustain him for now.
He put one dime and one quarter in the Coca Cola machine outside Mike’s grimy office. With the reassuring “clink,” the machine dispensed the reliable refreshment. He retrieved the green tinted bottle, and put its frosty glass to his temple, cooling in the July heat. He tried to ice his fear, and take the pause to plan.
JC snapped off the cap with the built-in bottle opener on the Coke machine. He drank down hope. As the cold beverage washed down, he reflected that the long arm of the law was nothing compared to the violent and certain retribution of the cartel. He had to find that Chevelle because he could not pay cash for the lost load. His business experience taught him that money was more important than blood.
JC sat down on the curb outside of Mike’s office. He combed his hair and finished the last sweet drops of soda. He could delay no longer. It seemed like an eternity. He stood to look at the large clock tin the mechanics bay of the gas station that displayed a time of 1:35 p.m. He squeezed his eyes, and realized that it was still only Friday afternoon.
<
br /> 15
Breathe Easy
July 15, 1988
Friday
Noon
Tecate, California
Where could he find Uncle Ramon? At Nina’s, a topless restaurant where all the jefes (bosses) gathered? He opened up a folded business card for an auto repair shop in Mexicali. He dialed the number at the pay phone.
The waitress, JC knew as Norma, answered. “Norma, it’s me JC. I need please, to speak with Don Ramon, he is expecting this call.” JC said in Spanish.
Nina answered unimpressed,” He is eating and does not like to be disturbed.”
“I understand,” JC Countered, “But please, please tell him it is me, and this is an emergencia.”
Norma said, “Ay” and then the line was silent and JC heard the click, click, of a woman scampering down a tiled hall in high heels.
There was a sneeze and then a tongue limbered by a few shots of tequila. “Juan Carlos, I have asked if made the delivery. He said No. Where are you?”
“I made it, I just had some, um, car problems,” JC said
“Juan Carlos, you are family. This is why you are not dead already. Only because you are my cousin’s son, I will give you five days. That is all.” Ramon firmly replaced the black receiver and went back to his lunch, and the young strippers.
For a family member, JC understood a sober warning could be just as potent as a death threat. JC’s stomach tightened.
He knew that Carmen took his car west, to San Diego, and very likely, to a certain neighborhood, with this short-haired lady in business clothes. Who was this other girl, and how did Carmen know her, JC wondered. Was that just a stranger lending a hand, or was this Carmen stealing his load?
He was going to find that car, and get it. He had the key. He just needed the car. Carmen was not capable of stealing that car. He would soon learn what had happened.
He dialed another number scrawled on the business card, a San Diego number, not a Mexican number this time.
He spoke in English, careful to flatten out his accent to the flat tones of So-Cal.
“Hi, it’s JC” was all he was able to get out when the response poured out angry, and insistent “Where the Hell are you? We got the whole crew together. Looking for you, asshole. I am being squeezed, man. Shit is coming down.” JC glanced over at Mike, shuffling paperwork at his desk. Mike was out of ear shot, so JC did the unmentionable. “Look Eduardo-” but JC Was cut off. “Asshole, don’t you ever say that name again on the fuckin’ phone Eduardo whispered, “I have five days to get the load. I just spoke to Ramon. No worries. Carmen has the car, she is in San Diego. Everything is safe, intact. I will meet up with Carmen, and then meet with you for the close,” JC said.
He heard some voices in the background, and then Eduardo coughed, loudly into the receiver. JC dropped the payphone handle. He heard loud laughter. Eduardo said, “I will meet you at the end of the Ocean Beach Pier at 8:00 p.m. tonight,”
JC said, “Got it.”
“They will pick you up.”
JC reviewed if he should give Eduardo his precise location. He had very few options. They would find him, better to find the Chevelle with Eduardo, than to have Eduardo find the Chevelle without him. He had to get ahead of this situation. Eduardo then abruptly ended with “Stay put, he’s leaving now.” Eduardo summoned Jose´ and tossed him a set of keys attached to a silver pistol key chain, grim homage to the profession.
“Where are you?” Eduardo Chin, unaffectionately dubbed “El Chiño “by the Feds, asked. “I am at Discount Gas, just north of la linea.”
“Uh Huh, don’t move,” El Chiño ordered and slammed the phone. El Chiño picked at the string of pork fat wedged in his incisors with an ivory tooth pick. He would see that idiot kid soon enough.
JC sat down in the sliver of shade offered in the shadow of the gas station business office. He was a man who liked to move. He had to stay and wait. He had nowhere to go, and no way to leave. He sated his growing hunger with a peanut candy bar and tortilla chips from the gas station vending machine. Even so, his stomach was in knots.
Periodically, he dusted off his designer jeans, rubbed his now dusty running shoes, and jogged out to the highway, to peer up the road for his ride. It was a relief to get away, for a moment from Mike’s openly curious stare. Did he know, that JC was connected?
Without a muffler, the grinding engine noise, cut through the electrified guitar music emanating from Mike’s grimy office. A faded blue Impala attacked the gas station lot, and a beefy bearded giant of a man emerged, unfolding himself from the low seat with obvious energy and strength. The large man’s dark eyes joyfully anticipated a confrontation.
The bearded man looked about, peering in the hot son for his designated passenger. A thin clean-shaven man, in a pressed sky blue collared shirt remained inside the car, with air conditioning blasting on high, and the engine still running.
JC walked quickly to the car. He did not say a word.
Mike, got up from his chair with a creek, and said flatly “You are welcome kid.”
JC did not turn.
The bearded man opened the rear door of the Impala. He nodded to JC. Don Ignancio spoke to JC in Spanish, in a dialect and tones which reflected his university training in Ciudad, Mexico.
“Get in Juan Carlos.”
JC responded in Spanish, “Yes, sir.”
Without turning around from his position in the front passenger seat, the slim man laughed, “1000 kilograms and Carmen, that’s a lot to lose.” JC failed to see the humor.
Sweating stinging his eyes, he struggled to keep his tone even: “Don Ignancio, there is a difference between lost and just misplaced.”
Ignacio was known by his nickname of “Nacho” to his friends, enemies and surveilling law enforcement on both sides of the International Border. Nacho, spun around mongoose-like at the comment and slapped JC hard across his right cheek. A violet bruise rose from JC’s cheek, marking the disrespect.
“Next time, Juan Carlos,” Nacho said softly “it will not just be my hands.” Nacho emphasized the final word. “You should listen to what I tell you until we both visit El Chiño.” Nacho continued, “Juan Carlos, let me introduce you. It gives me such pleasure to introduce the large and enigmatic Jose´ Contreras.” JC nodded at the large bearded man who had showed him the back seat of the car. Jose´ lifted up his carefully pressed white shirt to show a Sigsauer P226 9mm semiautomatic pistol, big, black, and as JC knew effectively deadly. It was snug in its discreet concealed carry holster attached to his dark trousers.
Nacho glanced at the heavy gold watch on his wrist- “It’s 6:05 p.m. We will be at El Chiño’s for drinks at the Seaside Bar and Grill. We can watch the sunset.” Squeezed behind the wheel, Contreras floored the Impala, and chased the sun west.
Mike wiped the grease from his hands with a clean, red oil rag. He took out his USMC zippo, lit another cig, and he spat onto the dust outside his office door. “Narcos,” he said, grinding his teeth. He stared at the Impala heading out Route 188.
As instructed, JC uncharacteristically sat silent. Nacho unleashed his tension, this was the biggest delivery by car, if the load was not recovered, JC could not live. There were rules that could not be broken, Nacho reflected. There was the overhead. Not just the product, but the payrolls, and the payoffs, the Federales, the occasional American Customs officer, and the campaign funds to the District Attorney. Nacho just shook his head, in anger and in disbelief. “How, how do you lose 1,000 kilos,” Nacho said, expecting no answer. JC squeezed his fists. He did not want to ignite the highly flammable emotions of Ignacio.
Nacho turned around the seat, fixing his deep brown eyes on the now hang-dog countenance of JC. “You are going to find that car, that Chevelle and our cocaine. There is no other way imaginable.” JC listened.
Nacho turned back around and tapped his right hand on the car door, keeping tune to a narcocorrido song playing on a cassette tape on the Impala’s tape deck. He removed a pac
k from the glove compartment, and quickly lit up a cigarette.
“Cigarillos Jose´?” Nacho asked the driver, who gladly accepted the offer.
Soon the two men were puffing away in the closed car. JC felt every breath of the sixty-minute ride from Tecate to Ocean Beach. JC fought to find the explanation expected by El Chiño.
JC interrupted Nacho’s conversation with his staccato coughs.
Choking out a broken syllable, JC said, “I have—asth-ama.”
In a silent response, Nacho blew rings of smoke up to the roof of the car.
16
Don’t Make It a Federal Case
Monday
July 16, 1988
5:00 a.m.
U.S. Federal Court House
Carmen opened her eyes to locate the digital screech. The culprit was five feet away from Jo’s bed, on the other side of the room. Through heavy lids, she saw the ascetic time of 5:00 a.m. She was no saint. And this was too early to get up for such a pretty girl. To her knowledge, she had never been awakened at such a ridiculously early hour. She loved the night and all that it brought. It was July, and yet, fog in this neighborhood masked the sun. She could have slept for hours, if not for the screaming of the electronic alarm. Crazy, loco Americans twisting technology to lower the quality of life.
The events of the last few days smashed into Carmen’s frontal lobes. The pageant of events began with JC, the breakdown, the breakfast, Jo, muscular Jacobo, Club DeFcon 2, and surfing with all the crazy Lesbians. A few days ago, she was in her own bed in their Rancho in Tecate, Mexico. It was better having fewer alternatives.