When he was out of the chair, he studied his reflection in one of the mirrors, turning his pretty head this way and that, not quite sure what to make of himself. I stood behind him, resting my hands on his slender shoulders.
“You look like a prince.”
He smiled, just a little.
“I wish my papa could see me, even if I got no mustache now.”
*
Chucho slept while I showered, shaved, and changed clothes. Twice I brushed my teeth, getting rid of the putrid taste that lingered from riding the porcelain bus.
After he woke, we spent the better part of two hours practicing English pronunciation. I warned him that the border agents might greet us in Spanish, probably with
buenos días,
and that Chucho must respond only as if he were a gringo.
“How’s it goin’?”
“How is eet going?”
“No, Chucho. Not
eet. It.
”
“How is
eet
going?”
“Eat is what you do with a fork.”
His eyes flashed angrily.
“OK, I do not speak so good, so what?”
“This is important, Chucho. No accent, no more Spanish. Not until we get across the border. Try it again. Put your teeth together when you say it.”
He spread his lips and closed his teeth as he spoke.
“It.”
“Good. Practice that a few more times.”
He did, getting better at it.
“Now, try the whole thing: How’s it goin’?”
He pronounced each word precisely, like tiptoeing through a minefield.
“That’s better, but don’t say
how is
and don’t say
going.
Be more casual.
Howz.
Howz it goin’?”
“Howz it goin’.”
“Good, just like that. Again.”
“Howz it goin’.”
“Now, with a little nod, real cool.”
Instead of a nod, Chucho smiled, gave a cool little wave, threw in an extra word, all on his own.
“Howz it goin’, man?”
I laughed, and so did he.
“Muy bueno, Chucho.”
“Gracias.”
I smacked him lightly on the top of his head.
“No Spanish! That was a test.”
“Sorry, I forget.”
“Buenos días.”
“Howz it goin’, man. Howz it goin’. Howz it goin’, man.”
*
I rewarded him by taking him to dinner, and let him pick any restaurant in Tijuana he wanted. He chose Sanborn’s, which was located on the upper end of Avenida Revolución, near the motel, part of a larger business that included an American-style gift shop and pharmacy, in the manner of a fancy Rexall. It was a formal place, with square tables scattered plentifully around the tiled floor, curtains in the French windows, fresh-cut flowers in the vases, modern Mexican art on the walls, menus in both Spanish and English. Yet there were at least a dozen more elegant restaurants in Tijuana that Chucho might have chosen, with pricier menus and more impressive reputations.
It wasn’t until we were seated that I understood why he’d picked Sanborn’s. As I looked around the room I noticed several groups of men, or couples made up of an older gentleman with a good-looking, younger male. There were also a number of families at the tables, as well as straight couples, but Sanborn’s was clearly a favorite gay spot, and I was certain that Chucho had brought me here to show me off. For all the contempt he felt for gringos, for all the ways they had used and abused him, there was still status to be gained for a
joven
who was seen in the company of a blue-eyed blond with enough money and class to bring his date to a nice place like this, instead of just straight to bed.
We shared a plate of
tecolotes,
toasted rolls topped with refried beans and chilaquiles, and Chucho ordered mole enchiladas for himself, while I got the chicken fajitas. He continued to work on his English while we ate, trying to smooth out the rough spots in his accent, and working on a few optional phrases that might be needed:
Just down the weekend. I enjoyed my stay very much, thanks. No, nothing to declare.
By ten, we were back in the motel, where I set the clock for six and turned back the covers on the big bed. Chucho was across the room, with his back to me, stepping out of his clothes, folding or hanging each item carefully. I did the same with mine. When we were both wearing nothing but our undershorts, we found ourselves at the sink, brushing our teeth, avoiding each other’s eyes in the mirror. He rinsed his mouth first, and had crawled under the covers on one side of the bed by the time I was turning out the light on the other. When I was beside him, pulling up the blanket, he finally spoke.
“What you want me to do? I do whatever you want, if you got condoms.”
“I want you to get some sleep, Chucho. We have an early day tomorrow.”
“It is OK. I give you sex. I know you want it.”
“Go to sleep, Chucho. That’s what I’m going to do.”
I settled back on the pillow and closed my eyes. He turned away from me, and a moment later I heard him quietly crying.
“Chucho, what is it?”
“I guess you do not like the way I look. You no like Mexican guys.”
“No, that’s not it.”
“It is because I have HIV, yes? You do not want me for that, even though you got it too.”
“You don’t have to have sex with a man just because he gives you something, Chucho. You don’t have to trade your body to get someone to like you. Not anymore.”
He stopped crying but continued sniffling.
“But you do not even touch me, not even a little.”
I scooted close to him, settling against him until we were two spoons. I worked my arms around him until each of us was snug and comfortable. His skin was smooth and warm, and it felt good having him close like that, so close I could feel the slight heaving of his torso each time he took a breath, reminding me that there was still life in him, and strength.
I kissed his bare arm, on the tattoo of his mother’s name.
“Good night, Chucho. Sleep well.”
I drifted off quickly. Maybe it was the steady pattern of his breathing that lulled me, or simply the cumulative exhaustion of the past few tumultuous days and nights. I can’t say for sure, but I do remember that on that night, as I lay there feeling Chucho’s warmth, sensing the perfect rhythms of his heart and lungs, no suicide scenarios presented themselves to me out of the dreaded darkness, not a single one.
Waking Chucho was like trying to rouse the dead. He flailed at me with his hands and feet, mumbling but still asleep. I resorted to carrying him to the shower and turning on the cold tap, which finally got his attention. He was mad at me for about half a minute, then remembered the new wardrobe that was waiting from the day before. After that, all he cared about was how he looked.
I went out for
café con leche
and
conchas,
leaving Chucho in front of the mirror, trying to decide if he should fasten the top button of his shirt or leave it open, showing a little chest. He was still there when I returned with the coffee and Mexican sweetbread, trying to get his hair just right, giving it some gleam from a jar of gel we’d purchased the night before on our way out of Sanborn’s. When he finally had exactly the look he wanted, he took a step back and faced his new image in the glass, adjusting the Polo spectacles a little higher on his nose. He looked more like a rich-kid Florida playboy than a Mexican
ilegal
about to make a border dash.
I stood behind him, pointing to my Timex.
“Vámonos, muchacho.”
He dipped his head slightly, gave me the little salute, added a sly wink.
“Howz it goin’, man.”
*
At half past seven, we were on Calle Ocampo, where the ball peen hammers were hard at work, clanging in the new week, and the air was already misty with paint fumes that stung the eyes. Armando arrived a few minutes after that and personally brought my car around from the back, rubbing out a final spot with the elbow of his jacket before handing over the keys. The old Mustang looked like a completely different automobile—gleaming cherry red with a fine white dual pinstripe running parallel to the contours; classy black upholstery in deep-cushion tuck and roll; a new top that folded down as neatly as the lid of a Neiman Marcus baby carriage; all the dents pounded smooth; and every bit of chrome polished to a fare-thee-well. Armando had even cleaned up the hubcaps and blacked the worn tires, making them look almost new.
Chucho looked the revamped Mustang over, inside and out.
“This your car, Mr. Justice?”
I told him it was, for the past fifteen years or so.
“Pretty cool, man.”
I glanced at my watch and said it was time to go. Armando pressed a handful of business cards on me and wished us a safe trip home. On the way to the border, I pulled briefly into the Mercado de Artesanias, where I purchased a showy piñata and a terra-cotta birdbath that I swathed in newspaper and propped on the backseat to make it look like Chucho and I had nothing to hide. Then we followed the simple signs and arrows—
TO THE U.S.
—and fell into line with a couple of thousand other vehicles at a quarter past eight, just as I’d planned. Half a mile ahead, I could see a big sign stretching across the lanes:
UNITED STATES BORDER INSPECTION STATION
. Agents were waving most of the cars through with a minimum of words, sometimes little more than a glance. Now and then, a panel truck or van with Mexican plates was directed to the inspection area off to the right, where agents swarmed over the vehicles, some with trained canines.
I surprised Chucho with a pop quiz.
“Buenos días.”
“Howz it goin’, man.”
If Chucho was nervous, I didn’t see it. Maybe it was the time-honored Mexican attitude—that it made no sense to worry until it was absolutely necessary. Or maybe he just figured he had nothing to lose. Me, I was as jumpy as a frog in a forest fire. Getting arrested for attempting to smuggle in an illegal didn’t worry me that much—I figured I could wiggle out of that one with the right story. It was losing Chucho that had me concerned, losing him and losing what he knew. Charlotte Preston was on my mind again, and Jimmy, the blond kid in Mandeville Slayton’s limo, and all the other boys Freddie Fuentes seemed to be feeding into the pedophile pipeline. And Mike, the kid who’d picked up the wrong trick on Santa Monica Boulevard and ended up butchered like a side of beef, after Slayton and his crowd had tossed him out on the street like a toy they’d grown bored with. I didn’t yet know how they were all connected—how it might answer the question of who put the needle in Charlotte Preston’s arm—but if Mike was right, Chucho might be the one who could put a lot of the pieces together.
First, though, I had to get him across this damned line, this arbitrary border that separated me from lies and truth and Chucho from life and death.
“How long have you been in Mexico?”
“Just down for the weekend.”
He said it without a trace of his Mexican accent.
“Any valuable artwork to declare?”
Suddenly, the accent was back, cartoon-style.
“No, señor, we just bringing in lots of cocaine.”
I looked over; Chucho was grinning.
“Not funny, Chucho.”
The grin faded. He chewed his lip.
“Yeah, OK.”
“By the way, they’ve got cameras all over the place. They watch every car for anything that doesn’t look right.”
He reached into a pocket, slipped on his Polos, assumed a cool, carefree posture.
“How’s that?”
“Better.”
Traffic was bumper to bumper, moving at a turtle’s pace. In my rearview mirror, I could see more cars constantly joining the end of the lines behind me. They stretched another half mile, hundreds of idling cars with impatient drivers at the wheel, jobs and destinations up the road. We passed a sign:
PREPARE TO STOP ½ MILE
. A few minutes later, we crept by another posted notice, this one from the Red Cross:
PREPARA TU DONATIVO—GRACIA
. Men draped with curios weaved among the cars, looking for last-minute impulse shoppers, and a legless beggar in a wheelchair rolled from driver to driver, asking for money. As we moved closer to the inspection stations, the warnings became more ominous:
EXIT CONTROL SYSTEM ACTIVE
, which meant that if you tried to run, you wouldn’t make it. A few minutes after that, a question with legal implications:
DO YOU KNOW WHAT IS IN YOUR VEHICLE?
Then we were three car lengths away, closing in on the man in the dark blue uniform. “Remember, Chucho, no Spanish.”
The agent was a trim, tanned guy about my age, completely bald, not bad-looking if you liked the military type. He glanced at the papers of the Mexican driver in front of us, then handed them back and waved her through. I pulled forward, I slipped off my dark glasses so he could see my eyes.
He smiled as he spoke. They often did.
“Buenos días.”
“Howdy.”
His eyes shifted to Chucho, who performed his nonchalant salute.
“Howz it goin’, man.”
The agent’s eyes slid back toward mine.
“Anything to declare? Expensive artwork, fine jewelry?”
“Nope.”
I hooked a thumb toward the backseat.
“Just some souvenirs.”
He looked again at Chucho, his eyes narrowing a little.
“Been in Mexico long?”
Chucho shrugged ever so slightly.
“Just down for the weekend.”
He picked an imaginary piece of lint from one of his stylish Italian lapels. I smiled pleasantly.
“My sister’s stepkid, on spring break. She asked me to chaperone.”
“Smart lady.”
He looked over the Mustang.
“Looks like you had some work done on Calle Ocampo.”
“Armando Ornellas’s shop.”
The agent grinned.
“That’s where I take mine. You two have a nice day.”
And that was it. The agent was looking at the driver behind me, motioning him forward, and I was pressing on the accelerator ever so gently, trying not to show my relief, trying not to burn rubber.
We eased into converging traffic, all of it pointing north. Then we were moving at forty, fifty, sixty, with the inspection station and the border-patrol cars receding in my rearview mirror. There was one inspection stop forty or fifty miles ahead, along the freeway just south of San Clemente, but it was strictly routine. Cars like mine were automatically waved through, while the vans and big trucks were pulled to the side for closer examination. Chucho was in America, on American soil, breathing American air.
I’d just broken a federal law, and there were surely plenty of people who would condemn me for it. Personally, they might have compassion for Chucho and his situation. But the law was the law, they would say, and the law must be obeyed—it was the argument one heard again and again when the issue of illegal immigration was discussed. I was certain some of those people were sincere and above reproach themselves—they had never cheated on their income tax, or gotten behind the wheel of a car while intoxicated, or padded an expense account report, which was the same as theft. I was sure they had never lied under oath in a divorce proceeding, stolen office supplies at work, collected rent from a bootleg apartment, watched television off an illegal cable hookup, violated statutes against sodomy or adultery, been deceptive in a business deal, failed to repay a debt, or dumped motor oil into the gutter or the ground. No, those people who would run Chucho out of the country and have me jailed for bringing him in were all saints, who followed the letter of the law to a
T,
and I owed them a deep apology for not rising to the fine standard they set. The rest, however, could all go to hell.
*
“Will they both want sex with me, or just one? Because I do not like to do two guys at same time, you know?”
“You don’t have to service them, Chucho. That’s not what this is about.”
He looked skeptical as I pulled into the driveway on Norma Place.
“They let me stay in their house and they no want nothing?”
“They’ve got a spare bedroom. They’ll be happy to let you crash there for a while. That’s the way they are.”
“They both queer, right?”
“Sharing the same bed for almost fifty years.”
“Fifty years? Go on, you pull my leg.”
“I’m telling you, Chucho. They’ve been a couple longer than I’ve been alive.”
He dropped his eyes a moment, and when he raised them again, he looked solemn.
“You sure I don’t got to do nothing with them? ’Cause older guys, you know, they all want something.”
We climbed from the car, but Chucho stayed behind, looking unsure. The door opened as I mounted the steps and Maurice stepped out, fresh from the shower in a silk kimono, tying back his long white hair. Behind him, Fred was pulling on his pants and buttoning them around his big, hairy belly.
“Is my timing bad?”
Maurice flushed.
“Ten minutes earlier and it might have been. Fred was feeling frisky this morning.”
Then he looked at my face more closely and raised a hand to touch my bandaged forehead, where I’d gotten cracked with the cop’s baton.
“Benjamin, what have you done this time?”
He took my chin, turned my head this way and that.
“You’ve gotten yourself into trouble again, haven’t you?”
“Nothing too serious.”
He clucked his tongue at me.
“Yes, and isn’t that what you always say.”
The cats wandered out, finding places in the sun.
“I brought home a guest, Maurice. I was hoping you and Fred could put him up for a while.”
Fred stepped up behind Maurice and they looked across the porch and small yard to the driveway, where Chucho stood waiting, hands in pockets, head down. Maurice folded his slim arms across his chest, looking thoughtful.
“And where did you find this one?”
“Tijuana—goes by the name of Prettyboy.”
“He’s certainly aptly named, isn’t he?”
Fred grunted in agreement and Maurice gave him a gentle swipe.
“Get your eyes back in your head, Fred, before I do it for you.”
“He’s sick, guys. Sick and a little scared, I imagine, though he probably won’t admit it. He’ll need some TLC.”
“He’s come to the right place then. TLC, we happen to have in stock. Not much else, maybe, but we’ve always got plenty of that.”
*
After the introductions, Maurice and Fred showed Chucho the extra bedroom and acquainted him with the cats and with Maggie. Maurice informed me that he and Fred had not turned up any sign of Mei-Ling and admitted they had pretty much given up looking, although they still had ads running in the local papers. I told Maurice to forget about the lost dog, that right now we had to get Chucho into an HIV treatment program as quickly as possible. Maurice and Fred were longtime volunteers with the AIDS Healthcare Foundation, and Maurice told me he might be able to pull a string or two and get Chucho an appointment that very day.
“What about you, Benjamin? As long as I’m on the phone…”
We were standing alone in the backyard, where the sunlight fell gently on Maurice’s blooming bulb garden, and lightly humming insects rode the playful breeze.