Angel Baby

by RICHARD LANGE

  “Hey, handsome,” she says.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he replies.

  But she’s not. She’s short and fat and all worn out. Her husband is disabled, tethered to an oxygen tank, her son is in prison, and the bank is trying to take her car. Thacker never asks about her life, she offers it up freely, like she’s proud of it. When nothing’s any good, he guesses, why hide the bad? She probably thinks it’s healthy to get it off her chest, and if he did the same, maybe he wouldn’t dream of choking on fish bones and wake up gasping for air all the time.

  He skims the paper until she brings his food.

  “You know anything about dogs?” she asks as she sets his plate down. She has a cross tattooed on the web of skin between her thumb and forefinger. “One of the dealers here wants me to take a pup, pit bull–Lab mix.”

  “It’ll need training,” Thacker says. “It’s gonna have a lot of bad traits from both sides. Could be a sweetheart or could be a real monster.”

  “It’s for my husband,” Yoli continues, not even hearing him. “He doesn’t do nothing but sit in front of the TV all day. I have to talk to the landlord first. They got rules against pets. And you got to feed them too. That’s expensive.”

  Thacker pours ketchup onto his eggs and forces himself to take a bite. “Layla” is playing on the casino’s sound system. Seems to Thacker that it’s always “Layla” when he notices. He looks up from his plate to see Yoli still standing in front of him.

  “Charlie Hutchinson was in earlier,” she says.

  “He was?” Thacker says.

  “Talking crazy.”

  “Is that right?”

  She leans in close to refill his coffee. “If I owed him money, I’d pay him,” she whispers. “He’s a scary guy.”

  Hutchinson’s a loan shark who works the local casinos. Thacker got drunk one night, got desperate, and borrowed $2,500 from him. He’s missed a few payments, so now he’s into the scumbag for something like four grand. He doesn’t put much stock in the rumors that Hutchinson uses the Vagos motorcycle club to help him collect, but all the same, he’d like to get clear of him as soon as possible. That’s why he jumped at this thing Murph called him with last night.

  “Say no if you want, but hear me out,” is how Murph began. He’s CBP too, works the Tecate crossing, and he and Thacker have been tight ever since Murph and his family moved into Thacker’s neighborhood five years ago. Shooting the shit at barbecues and soccer games, they discovered they had a lot in common. CBP for one, and the fact that both were gamblers, with a gambler’s problems. Also, they both took money from wherever they could get it.

  Murph’s hustle is that for the right price he’ll wave a vehicle into the U.S., no questions asked. Last night one of his Southside partners contacted him to arrange safe passage for a client. Then this partner, a Mex named Freddy, mentioned that the client, a young woman, appeared to be carrying a large amount of cash with her. Freddy had a question: What if the car carrying this girl was to be pulled over once it crossed into the States and someone took the money off her? “A thing like that could happen, couldn’t it?” he asked Murph.

  “Well, could it?” Murph asked Thacker when they talked.

  “It could,” Thacker said, already working out how. The job would be a little more complicated than jacking wets but nothing he couldn’t pull off if it was truly worth his while.

  “I’m guessing it will be,” Murph said. “Freddy says this girl paid him twenty-five grand, and it didn’t even make a dent in her pile. Whatever you get off her, we’ll split sixty-forty, me and Freddy on the big end.”

  Thacker thought it over for all of ten seconds before saying yes.

  It’s 4:30 when he finishes his breakfast. The girl is crossing around ten, and he wants to be at the Tecate crossing by eight to scope things out and be ready to intercept her. That gives him some time to kill, time for a couple of hands of blackjack. Just a couple.

  The Chinese guy is still at the table, a pretty good stack of chips in front of him. Thacker sits down and tosses the money he took off the pollo onto the felt.

  “Change five hundred,” the dealer calls to the pit boss, then starts counting out green chips. “How’s it going?” he says to Thacker. His name is Scott. Thacker has played with him before.

  “We’ll soon see,” he says.

  He loses five hands in a row right off the bat, the dealer never busting once. The Chinaman snaps his tongue against the back of his teeth and shakes his head like it’s Thacker’s fault the table’s gone cold. Two more losing hands, and the chink colors his chips and walks away. Fuck him.

  It’s back and forth after that, Thacker winning one here and there, then losing two. After a shuffle he presses his bet to $50 for no good goddamn reason and is dealt a pair of aces. He splits these, and another ace falls on the first one. He splits again. The pit boss strolls over to watch. Thacker’s second cards are a three, a six, and a five. The dealer, showing a three, draws into a nineteen.

  Thacker wants to break something but merely purses his lips and slides out his bet for the next hand. A woman is vacuuming the carpet behind him, and the noise makes him antsy.

  “Can we do something about that?” he asks Scott.

  The dealer talks to the pit boss, who talks to the woman, who grudgingly rolls up her cord and goes away. Doesn’t make any difference. A half hour later Thacker has lost all of the wet’s money and $200 of his own. Disgusted with himself, he tosses a five-buck chip to Scott, and, after a stop in the men’s room, heads out to the parking lot.

  The sun is about to crest the mountains to the east and is chasing the last of the stars from the rapidly pinking sky. The cool morning air smells of dust and sage. Thacker is so pissed off he doesn’t notice any of it. He scuffs to his truck, bone tired, swearing for the thousandth time that he’ll never again throw away money like that.

  “Excuse me, sir.” A skull-faced kid beckons from the open window of a filthy Toyota. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  Thacker stops but doesn’t move any closer. He adjusts his windbreaker in order to have easy access to his P2000, holstered under his left arm.

  “What about?” he says.

  The kid steps out of his car and stands with his hands in the air like he knows Thacker’s carrying. His hair is cut short, revealing a quarter-sized sore on his scalp.

  “I got my baby daughter here,” he says, “and we don’t have nothing to eat.”

  Thacker looks past the kid into the Toyota. He sees a car seat on the passenger side, covered with a Winnie-the-Pooh blanket.

  “I ain’t never begged in my life, sir, but she needs food,” the kid continues.

  “Where’s her mom?” Thacker asks.

  “Well, sir, she’s a crackhead and run off with a bunch of Mexicans. I’m trying to get some food and gas, and then we’ll go on to my mom’s place in Hemet.”

  “You on dope too?”

  “Me? Oh, hell no, sir. Hell no.”

  He’s lying. His eyes are spinning in his head like carnival rides. Thacker pulls a twenty from his wallet and steps up to pass it to him.

  “Thank you, sir. God bless you,” the kid says.

  “Put it in your pocket before you lose it,” Thacker says.

  “Right, right,” the kid says. As soon as his hand drops, Thacker hits him in the temple with a quick left, knocking him to the ground.

  “Please, sir, please!” the kid yelps. He curls into a ball and protects his head. Thacker steps over him and reaches into the Toyota to yank the blanket off the car seat. The seat is empty.

  “You used the same story on me last week, you fucking moron,” Thacker says.

  The kid doesn’t reply, just lies there breathing hard. Thacker kicks him twice in the ribs.

  “Give me back my money.”

  The kid digs into his pocket and brings out the bill. Thacker snatches it from his hand and tells him to get the fuck out of there. The kid scrambles to his feet and jumps into his car. Th
acker waits until he drives out of the lot and disappears down the frontage road before walking to his own truck.

  The sun is up now, and a bright creep of light spreads across the asphalt. Thacker sits behind the wheel and watches a couple of stray dogs sniff around the casino’s dumpsters. He thinks about going to the motel for a few hours’ sleep but decides he can’t bear the place this morning. He thinks about calling Lupita, but she’s made it clear there’ll be no more honey without more money.

  So he’ll crash here for a while. He unfolds a silver sunscreen and places it against the windshield. With his shades on, it’s dark enough that he might be able to doze off. Reclining his seat as far as it’ll go, he closes his eyes. A black tornado spins in his head, minutes and days and years, voices and faces, his whole life. It’s always there waiting for him, and he always hopes it’ll slow down enough for him to pinpoint exactly when everything went wrong. But it never does.

  12

  MALONE WAKES UP LYING IN A PUDDLE ON THE FLOOR. HIS HAIR IS wet, his face. Luz is standing over him with a dripping Subway cup.

  “Time to go,” she says, her shoes already on, already holding the backpack.

  The sun on the ceiling is as blinding as a welder’s arc. Malone sits up and takes a moment to put together where he is and what’s going on. Most of it falls into place before his headache kicks in, with only a few details eluding him, mainly how he got back to the room last night. He stands with a groan, his back feeling like there’s a knife stuck in it. He’s too old to be sleeping on linoleum.

  A few minutes in the shower help, but there’s blood on the toilet paper when he blows his nose. He pulls on his shorts and shirt and checks his watch: 9:15. The border is open, and Freddy’s man is on duty. A quick call to find out which traffic lane the guy’s working, and they’ll be on their way.

  His phone, though. It’s not in the pocket where he usually keeps it. He walks back into the room and checks the floor and under the bed.

  “Do you see it anywhere?” he asks Luz. She’s sitting in the chair by the door, frowning at him as he searches.

  “This is a joke, right?” she says.

  “It’s probably…” He pats his shorts again, all the way around. His wallet is there, his keys, but no phone.

  “I don’t believe this,” Luz says.

  “No big deal,” Malone assures her, recalibrating. “We can call from the office here.”

  Luz opens the door and steps out into the hall. Malone decides not to get too worked up about disappointing her. All he can do now is bring this thing in for a safe landing. He makes one more circuit of the room, then follows Luz to the front desk.

  The crippled woman is there in her wheelchair. Luz does the talking again. The woman shakes her head when Luz asks about using the phone, says it’s not possible.

  “Why not?” Luz says.

  “It’s not allowed,” the woman says.

  “Why?” Luz says.

  “Does she want money?” Malone asks Luz in English. He pulls a twenty from his pocket. “Money?” he says to the woman.

  The woman shakes her head.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Luz says to her.

  The woman picks up the phone. “Maybe you want to talk to the police,” she says.

  “What’s your problem?” Luz says.

  Malone takes hold of Luz’s arm and hurries her toward the stairs. She’s fuming when they get down to the street.

  “Don’t touch me again,” she says, shaking off Malone’s hand.

  “Don’t freak out,” he says. “We’ll buy a card and call from a pay phone. It’ll take five seconds.”

  “Unless you find some way to fuck that up too.”

  They cross to the tree-shadowed park and ask a man sweeping leaves off the sidewalk where the nearest store is. He points them to a place on the corner, a small, dark shop that smells of bad meat. While Luz handles the transaction, Malone stands with his elbows pressed against his sides, afraid of knocking something off a shelf. He pays for the hundred-peso card and the bottle of Corona he pulls from a cooler. The old woman at the register slips the beer into a little plastic bag. A preacher yells in Spanish from a radio on the counter.

  There’s a phone at the edge of the park. Luz sits on a nearby bench, tense in the shade. Malone opens the beer and takes a big swallow before searching his wallet for Freddy’s number. He thought he had it on a scrap of paper, but it doesn’t seem to be there. He calls information for the number of Goyo’s Body Shop. Goyo answers, and Malone is able to make him understand that he needs to speak to Freddy.

  “Dígame,” Freddy says when Malone finally reaches him.

  “It’s me,” Malone says. “What’s up with our man in Tecate?”

  There’s a pause, then Freddy says, “Where were you last night? I called and some crazy woman answered.”

  “I guess I lost my phone.”

  “You should be more careful.”

  “Excellent advice.”

  After another long pause, Freddy says, “Our friend is in the booth on the left.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good luck.”

  Malone finishes the beer and leaves the bottle on top of the phone. There’s Tylenol in the Beamer, he remembers. He cleans his sunglasses on his shirt as he walks over to Luz. Strange black birds sing strange black songs in the park, and the shoeshine guys are opening their stalls.

  “We’re all set,” he says.

  The announcement doesn’t cheer Luz up any, and Malone feels dumb for thinking it would. She lifts her arms to straighten her ponytail, and the glimpse Malone catches of a red scallop of bra strap gives him a thrill that’s all kinds of wrong. Sneering at him like she can read his mind, Luz picks up her backpack and sets off for the car.

  Traffic has died down since the early morning rush. The Explorer is parked in an empty lot overlooking the one-way road leading to the Tecate border crossing, and Jerónimo sits behind the wheel, watching the occasional car or truck pass by. He scouted this vantage point when he arrived last night and has been here since before the crossing opened, knowing that Luz and the white boy driving her will have to use the road to reach the port of entry.

  He’s too close to the checkpoint to stop the BMW before it gets to the border, so what he’ll do is slip in behind it, follow it through the crossing, and grab Luz once they’re in the U.S. If she decides to come easy, fine; if not, he’ll do what it takes. Either way, El Príncipe will have his woman by noon, and Irma and the kids will be free.

  The truck heats up as the sun climbs higher in the dead-white sky. Jerónimo sips from the gallon jug of water he bought last night and eats some of the bread. His eyeballs feel like they’ve been rolled in sand, and his blood fizzes in his veins. He hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours and is slightly out of phase. It’s as if the morning is being projected onto a screen and he’s watching it brighten and busy there.

  A loud bang startles him. He ducks and reaches for the Smith & Wesson. Something hits the side of the truck, and the rear window shatters. He lifts his head above the dash and sees a ragged, barefoot boy hurl a rock at the Explorer. Slipping out of the truck, he points the gun at the kid.

  “What are you gonna do now, pendejo?” he yells.

  A rock strikes him in the small of his back and another bounces off his knee. He whirls and spots two more boys and waves the gun at them, but the barrage continues, targeting both him and the truck, until he finally raises the pistol and fires a shot into the air. The urchins scatter, five or six of them, and disappear into scrub. All that’s left behind are their taunts.

  “Fuck you!”

  “Fucking faggot!”

  “Tecate Locos for life!”

  Sweat rolls off Jerónimo’s shaved head and stings his eyes. He rubs his back where the rock hit him and walks around the truck, checking for damage. His phone rings. Freddy again.

  “The gringo called just now,” Freddy says. “They’re on their way to the crossing.”

&n
bsp; “Good,” Jerónimo says. “And you didn’t say anything to your man at the border about me, right?” He doesn’t need any kind of cop up in his business.

  “Of course not,” Freddy says. “This is between me and you.”

  “Excellent,” Jerónimo says. “I trust you.”

  But that’s a lie. Freddy’s a rat like all the other rats. The ones in prison and on the street, in the churches and police stations and government offices. More rats than men. It’s a plague.

  Jerónimo moves the truck closer to the road so he’ll be ready. He keeps the engine running. Five minutes later a battered silver BMW rattles past, a white man driving. Jerónimo puts the Explorer into gear, but in the time it takes him to pull onto the asphalt, a black Honda and a big rig get between him and the Beamer. That’s cool. It’s better that he hangs back anyway, so he can come out of nowhere when he wants to.

  Tecate being fifty miles from anyplace, there are only two lanes for passenger vehicles at the crossing, a couple more for trucks. Two lanes, two booths, two inspectors. Malone is in the left lane like he’s supposed to be, but Luz still feels anxious when she sees the backup ahead, three or four cars deep.

  A uniformed inspector is walking a German shepherd past the waiting vehicles, encouraging the dog to sniff tires and bumpers and door panels. All Luz can think about is the money and the gun hidden in the trunk. Her heart pounds as the dog approaches the car, but it merely circles the BMW twice, then moves on.

  Malone stares straight ahead, silent behind his sunglasses. He was shaky back in town—dropping his keys while unlocking the car, fumbling with the Tylenol bottle he took from the glove compartment—but he seems to be doing better now. Which is incredible, considering what a mess he was when he returned to the room last night, reeking of tequila and a whore’s perfume.