And she’ll never forget the morning they were walking to school with all the other kids and the two of them fell behind because they were talking so much and the sun hit his green eyes exactly right and whatever had been smoldering between them for so long finally burst into bright, billowing flame.
They were inseparable after that. If Luz wasn’t at his house, he was at hers. Carmen was as crazy about him as Luz was, and Alejandro’s parents treated Luz like a daughter. None of them were happy when Luz got pregnant, but her and Alejandro’s love was like a steamroller, flattening any opposition. In the end, both families swallowed their disappointment and did what they could to help. Isabel was born with Alejandro’s eyes and Luz’s mouth. The nose they couldn’t figure out.
Three months later Alejandro went to play basketball with some friends and didn’t come home. He collapsed on the court and was gone before he hit the ground. The doctor told Luz he didn’t feel any pain, but how could he know that?
And so she was alone again. An eighteen-year-old illegal with a new baby. The daughter of a whore with her back against the wall. She’s glad Alejandro can’t see what a mess she made of everything.
She crouches to brush a leaf from the stone and lets her fingers trace the letters carved there. Malone shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortable.
“I’m gonna wait over there,” he says, pointing to the fountain.
Luz says a prayer for Alejandro and another for Isabel.
Keep her safe a little longer.
Something is wrong. She’s always believed in a God who listens to the pleas of the wretched, but today she feels like she’s talking to herself, like the words are going nowhere. He’s turned away from her, she realizes, even Him.
She walks to the fountain. It’s not working, hasn’t in a long time. Four angels stand back-to-back blowing trumpets. The pool surrounding them doesn’t have any water in it, only dead leaves, a Burger King cup, and a condom wrapper. Malone is staring at the freeway in the distance, where ten lanes of cars and trucks crawl along under a noxious pall. To the west a few wispy clouds are starting to color as the sun drops lower.
“I better get going,” Luz says.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Malone says.
“I’m ready.”
On the way back to the truck, Malone suddenly reaches out and wraps an arm around Luz. Her first instinct is to pull away, but she stops herself, and then, just like that, folds into Malone so that he’s supporting her as they walk. She says sorry, and he says it’s okay, and it feels so good to be propped up for a second, to not have to bear everything by herself.
T
HIS LAST HOUR WILL BE THE WORST.
E
VEN THOUGH
J
ERÓNIMO
trusts that Luz is going to show up, he still can’t relax. He’s been to the window three times in the last five minutes to check the gas station. Thacker is lying on one of the beds again, pretending to be asleep, and Isabel has settled, gone back to watching TV. Jerónimo picks up a pen from the table and scribbles on a Budget Inn scratchpad. He draws a star and a crescent moon, a spaceship, and a dwindled Earth.
The cell phone ringing almost does him in. He sees that it’s El Príncipe and steps out of the room to take the call.
“You got my wife?” El Príncipe says.
“She’s on her way here,” Jerónimo says.
“So the answer is no.”
“She’s coming,” Jerónimo says. “I have something she wants.”
“What’s that?”
“Her daughter.”
“Daughter?” El Príncipe says. “She doesn’t have a daughter.”
“Yeah, she does,” Jerónimo says. “About four years old. She’s been living with her aunt up here.”
El Príncipe’s silence pleases Jerónimo. It feels good to catch him off guard. But the bastard recovers quickly. “I knew it,” he says. “I always sensed it.”
“Luz was coming to see her,” Jerónimo says. “I got to the aunt’s house first and took the girl, so now she has to come to me.”
“What balls,” El Príncipe says. “That’s thinking like a man.”
“Once I have her, I’ll take the kid back to the aunt and bring Luz to you.”
“The sneaky fucking bitch,” El Príncipe says, then goes silent again.
A woman emerges from a room on the first floor and walks to the ice machine. Jerónimo pulls back so she won’t see him if she happens to look up. Thacker was right about things getting sloppy. It’s time to tighten up and make a clean getaway.
“I have an idea,” El Príncipe says.
“What?” Jerónimo says.
“Bring me the daughter as well.”
The words jolt Jerónimo like a raw electric shock. He holds the phone away from his mouth, afraid some noise coming from him will give him away. A few seconds pass before he feels calm enough to resume the conversation.
“Is that smart?” he says. “Involving a child?”
“I don’t know about smart, but it’s what I want,” El Príncipe says. “So do it.”
“But,
jefe,
the kid has no part in this.”
“Are you—” El Príncipe begins, but Jerónimo keeps talking.
“You’ll have Luz, and she’s the one you’re pissed at,” he says. “Taking the little girl will only lead to trouble.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” El Príncipe says, raising his voice to cut Jerónimo off. “Where were you yesterday?”
“Where was I?” Jerónimo says.
“Where were you before I had my guys come get you?”
“I was in La Mesa,” Jerónimo says.
“That’s right!” El Príncipe shouts. “In fucking prison. And where was I? In a fucking mansion. So you tell me, you piece of shit, who’s smarter, you or me?”
“All I’m saying is that you should have mercy on an innocent child,” Jerónimo says.
“And your family, do they deserve mercy too?” El Príncipe says.
Jerónimo closes his eyes and grits his teeth. It’s all over. The son of a bitch has won. “Of course,” he says.
“So here’s your choice: Save the whore’s kid, or save your own.”
“I understand.”
“Make sure you do, because the next time you defy me, I’ll beat your son to death in front of his mother. I’ll break every bone in his body. And then I’ll think of something to do to your daughter.”
“You’ll have the woman and the girl by midnight.”
Jerónimo ends the call and drops into a squat, his back pressed against the rough stucco wall. He glances at his watch. Still forty-five minutes to go until Luz is supposed to arrive. He reaches into his pocket for the necklace he took from Irma’s jewelry box. Opening it, he stares down at the faces of his children. Then he makes a fist and punches himself in the head once, twice, three times. He doesn’t feel a thing. That’s good. That means he’s almost there. Not his own man for the next few hours, but another man’s monster instead.
Thacker opens one eye when the Mex pokes his head into the room and asks him to come outside. He gets up off the bed and tucks in his shirt, wonders what the hell has gone wrong now. Stepping onto the walkway, he pulls the door shut so the kid can’t hear them.
“Things have changed,” Jerónimo announces. “The little girl’s coming too.”
“What?” Thacker says. “To the border?”
“You heard me.”
“You’re batshit.”
“It’s not my decision,” Jerónimo says. “It’s what the guy I’m working for wants.”
“Well, he’s batshit then,” Thacker says.
Jerónimo shrugs. “He’s the girl’s father, and he wants to raise her over there.”
“Her father, huh?”
“It’s against the law what Luz did, bringing her up here and giving her to her aunt. It’s kidnapping.”
“Yeah?”
“My man’s got papers and everything to prove it.”
Thacker can tell the guy is lying but rolls with it because there’s nothing to stop this
ese
from cutting his throat and taking his truck if he thinks he’s turned against him. Hell, the way things have spun now, he might end up killing him anyway, to get rid of a witness.
“You know what?” Thacker says. “Fuck it. I’m just the driver.”
“That’s right,” Jerónimo says.
“I’ll take you and whoever back, get my money, and go.”
“That’s all you got to do.”
“That’s all I’m
gonna
do.”
“Then we got no problems,” Jerónimo says.
Thacker follows him back into the room, silently weighing his options. If he sticks to the original script, transporting Jerónimo, Luz, and the kid to the border, there’s a good chance he’ll wind up dead by the side of some dirt road. These people are fucking animals, he realizes, fucking apes, and he was nuts to think he could trust them. So what if he bugs out then, first chance he gets, and leaves Jerónimo stranded here? That’d be fine except he’d be giving up the money, and he really, really wants that money.
The Mex walks into the bathroom and closes the door. A few seconds later the shower goes on. The little girl is asleep now, curled around a pillow at the foot of the bed, one arm thrown over her eyes. Thacker looks at her, then toward the bathroom. A new scheme begins to come together in his head. He’s not clear on the details yet, but if it’s going to work at all, he has to get moving.
He takes his gun belt off the chair and buckles it around his waist, checks his pockets for wallet and keys, pulls on his hat. Next, he needs to put Jerónimo out of commission in order to give himself a decent head start.
He goes to the bathroom door, shouts “Sorry” as he’s pushing it open.
“What the fuck?” Jerónimo yells from the other side of the opaque shower curtain.
“I gotta piss something fierce,” Thacker says.
“Hurry your ass up.”
“I will, I will.”
Thacker stands in front of the toilet and scans the bathroom. Jerónimo’s clothes are in a heap on the floor, his gun and phone on top. Swiftly and silently Thacker gathers everything up and carries it out, closing the door behind him. Just then, Isabel, on the bed, sighs and wiggles into a more comfortable position, the very image of the goddamn lamb in the lion’s den. Thacker’s scalp is tingling as he picks her up, lays her over his shoulder, and hurries to the front door.
The sky is on fire when he slips out of the room and jogs for the stairs. His foot hits funny coming off the last step, and he staggers right, then left, before recovering his balance. Dashing across the parking lot, he points his remote at the truck and presses the unlock button with his thumb. He’s breathing hard by the time he clambers behind the wheel, all the fat in his belly pushing up against his lungs.
Isabel opens her eyes as he’s strapping her into the passenger seat, but then her head lolls to the side, and she’s asleep again. His boys used to sack out like that. A war wouldn’t have roused them. He sticks his key in the ignition and glances up at the room. No sign of the Mex. So far, so good. Sometimes one smart move can make up for ten bad ones. And with this new plan, he might even still come out ahead today.
When the fat man finishes pissing and leaves him alone again, Jerónimo shuts off the hot water and lets the cold pound his back and shoulders. El Príncipe’s phone call started his pulse throbbing in his temples, and he jumped into the shower desperate for another sensation besides rage and helplessness. The frigid drenching helps some, but he’s still close to snapping when he cuts off the stream, draws aside the shower curtain, and steps out of the tub.
Something’s wrong. His clothes are missing, the money in the pocket, the gun, the phone. Yanking open the bathroom door, he sticks his head into the other room. Thacker is gone, and so is the little girl. If they get away, it’s a death sentence for Irma and the kids.
Jerónimo is almost to the front door before he remembers that he’s naked and goes back for a towel. He bursts onto the walkway and leans over the rail. The spot where the truck was parked is empty. He hurries down the stairs and walks the entire lot, then goes to the corner to check the streets. There’s no sign of the Dodge, but a passing car honks, and the teens inside hoot and shout insults at him, a tattooed loco wrapped in a towel, dripping wet, barefoot, ridiculous.
Back in the room, a quick survey of what he has left doesn’t make him feel any better about his situation. What good are a cheap watch, a pair of socks, and some sneakers? Luz will be here in half an hour. He’s going to have to call for help. The only people he knows around here who’ll be able to get him what he needs are his old Inglewood homeboys, the
vatos
he ran with as a kid. It’s been eight years since he last spoke to any of them, but he’s got nowhere else to turn.
He sits on the bed and picks up the room phone. The first number that comes into his head is Ruben’s, who they used to call Looney. He was in on the robbery Jerónimo went down for in 2000 but didn’t get nabbed, and Jerónimo, being a righteous homie, didn’t roll over on him. It takes a few calls to track him down. Jerónimo talks to the dude’s mom, his brother, and his old lady before getting through to Looney himself.
“Apache?” Looney says. “I heard you was dead down in Mexico.”
“Not me,
ese,
I’m still kicking,” Jerónimo says. “I’ve been working for someone in TJ, and I’m up here in Compton doing a thing for him.”
“Oh yeah?” Looney says. Jerónimo hears the wariness in his voice. “And you got close to the old ’hood and decided to call me?”
“Truthfully, man, I need you to do me a solid,” Jerónimo says.
Looney pauses. There’s a TV playing wherever he is, and a couple of kids jabbering in the background. Jerónimo runs his finger over the bedspread, tracing the arc of a stitch, and waits for the man to compose a response.
“I’m not really down with too much dirt no more,” Looney says. “I’m an electrician, you know, union and shit.”
“If it wasn’t serious,
ese,
I wouldn’t be bothering you, believe that,” Jerónimo says.
“Yeah, but still…”
“Yeah, but still I did two years for jacking that motherfucker with you, took ’em like a man. You could have been in there with me real easy.”
A siren spirals past outside the motel, and Jerónimo puts his hand over the phone so Looney won’t hear it and get any more spooked than he already is. The dude sighs and clears his throat.
“This is fucked up, holmes,” he says.
“Life’s fucked up,” Jerónimo says.
“What do you need?”
“A car and a
cuete—
any kind.”
“Is that all?” Looney scoffs.
“And some clothes. Pants, a shirt. I’ll send you money to cover it when I get back to TJ, to more than cover it.”
“Check’s in the mail, huh?”
“How soon can you get here?”
“How soon do you need me to get there?”
“How about now. How about right this minute.”
Looney chuckles. “Come on, man,” he says. “Compton? Fucking Friday, fucking rush hour?”
“I know, I know,” Jerónimo says.
“Gonna be at least an hour or two.”
“Quick as you can. I appreciate it.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Looney says.
Jerónimo gives him the address of the motel and hangs up. He has twenty minutes to figure out what to do about Luz, how to approach her when she arrives at the gas station and get her back to the room. He checks the bathroom again, to make sure the gun is really gone, then looks around for something else to use as a come-along.
The pen he was drawing with earlier could work as a shank with some sharpening on a patch of concrete, or what about a piece of the bed frame, brandish it like a club. The trick will be running up on her fast enough that all she gets is a glimpse of whatever he’s carrying before he grabs her and hustles her across the street. She won’t be paying much attention anyway, worked up as she’ll be about her kid.
Malone pulls over in front of the gas station where he’s supposed to drop Luz. In the end there isn’t much to say. Good-bye. Good luck. He wonders if he should add something else, an acknowledgment of her courage in accepting her fate, but what good is that going to do? And maybe the commonplace phrases they exchange are a source of comfort to her, a well-marked path through hostile terrain where any deeper sentiment would only complicate matters.
He offers to wait nearby in case she needs him for anything, but she’s adamant that he leave right now, worried about upsetting the men holding Isabel. He reaches for her hand at the exact moment she pulls it away to grab the backpack, and then she slides out of the truck and slams the door. It’s not as easy as he’d like it to be to drive away and leave her standing on the sidewalk. He follows a sign for the freeway, takes a corner, and she’s gone.
There’s drinking to be done, but he doesn’t want to do it here. He’ll drive up to Palos Verdes, find a cliff overlooking the ocean, a patch of sand to pass out on. The phone rings as he’s approaching the ramp to the 91. Day is making its last stand against night, and the battle lights up the sky.