At the edge of the Everglades, the open highway became Main Street, with palm trees and gas stations, and lots of small brown people, some of them woman, wearing what looked like colorful blankets. And lots of scrawny, bowlegged Mexican men, too, wearing straw cowboy hats.
At a supermarket named Azteca Super Centro, Squires turned right past Raynor’s Seafood & Restaurant, then drove backstreets, zigzagging through a residential area, because that is what the girl told him to do.
The man had never been in a town so small with so many wetback churches. Iglesia Bautista Jesucristo. Pentecostal Church of God. Evangelica Redimidos por la Sangre de Jesus. Amigos en Cristo
.
It was like being in a foreign country, the names were so strange
.
A lot of Spanish praying went down on this plateau of asphalt and lawns bleached brown by the Florida heat, the entire city opened wide to an Everglades sky above.
Not all of the churches were busy, but a couple were, with parking lots full—pickup trucks and rusting Toyotas—church doors open, with people inside singing hymns or shouting out wild words in Spanish.
Squires could hear all this, as they idled along in his truck, windows down. A few blocks later, they came to an adobe-colored brick building with a tin roof, Iglesia de Sangre de Cristo, and the girl told him to pull in. She’d start here.
“I’m staying in the truck,” Squires said, giving Tula a look that told her
Don’t bother arguing.
“But remember this: If you try running out on me, there’ll be hell to pay. That ain’t a profanity, it’s a promise.”
Tula stared at him a moment, the door open, her wounded expression asking the man
When will you ever learn?
Then she jumped down to the ground, a girl not much taller then the truck’s tires, saying, “If the priest will let me, I’m going to talk to the congregation. I would like you to come in and listen. I wouldn’t feel as nervous if you were with me. Please? I can speak in English for you. Most of them will understand.”
Squires shook his head, and kept his eye on Tula until she was inside. After half an hour, though, he did get out and peek through a window, because it seemed strange the way people off the street were suddenly hurrying across lawns to get to the church. The place was already packed, but more people kept coming, some of them chattering on their cell phones, excited expressions on their faces, as they jogged along.
What Squires saw through the window caused him to wonder if Frankie had slipped some Ecstasy into his fresh batch of steroids, the stuff he’d just injected.
That’s how surreal the scene was.
What he saw was Tula, the skinny little girl dressed like a boy, standing at the altar, speaking Spanish in a strong voice, as the priest—a fat little dweeb with no hair—looked on adoringly. Which caused Squires to think maybe the asshole really believed Tula was a boy. But the priest wasn’t the only one giving the girl his full attention.
Sitting squashed together on wooden pews, some of the women were bawling silently into hankies, moved by what the girl was saying. And a line was forming near the altar, Mexican men with farmer’s tans, short little women—some on their knees—apparently waiting to meet the girl when she was done speaking.
But why? Squires moved to a window that was closer to find out.
It made no sense, but what the people wanted to do, he discovered, was kiss the girl’s hand, or hug her, or maybe ask her to say a prayer for them, which Tula appeared to do several times, touching her hand to a person’s head while she muttered words toward the ceiling.
My God, even the priest got in on it, hugging the girl while she touched his dweebish bald head and said something that Squires was close enough to hear but couldn’t understand.
Dumbass,
the man thought to himself.
Why the hell didn’t I ever learn Spanish?
It was frustrating hearing but not understanding, especially because he was trying to figure out why the girl commanded such respect from so many adults, all of them strangers.
Maybe Tula sounded smarter in Spanish. That might explain it, which caused Squires to spend some time weighing the possibility. It had to be true, he finally decided. In English, the girl came off as pretty damn strange, maybe even nuts. In Spanish, she must have sounded a lot smarter.
Right or wrong, it gave Squires a funny feeling to witness how famous the girl had become. He guessed it was something to be proud of, hanging out with a celebrity, even if the girl’s fans were all Mexicans.
What he was witnessing was impressive, Squires had to admit it. Being with a celebrity was new in his experience, unless he counted Frankie, which he didn’t of course. Fifteen years ago, Frankie had been a minor bodybuilding star—Miss South Florida U.S.A. once and Miss Vermont Bodybuilder three times in a row—which the bitch never stopped reminding him when they got into arguments over which steroids were best for different kinds of cycles.
But being with Tula, the strange little Jesus freak, was an entirely different experience. Squires had never seen anyone look at Frankie the way these adoring people kept their eyes glued to that little girl.
Yeah, sort of proud—that’s the way he felt. And he would have continued watching if a few tough-acting Mexicans—or were they Guatemalans?—hadn’t slipped out the church door to give him their hard-assed beaner glares.
“What you lookin’ at, man?” one of the
chilies
said to Squires as they walked toward him, all three taking out their gangbanger bandannas, he noticed.
Squires turned to gauge the distance to his truck where he’d stored the Ruger Blackhawk beneath the seat. Not that he needed a gun to deal with these little turds—even with a pulled hamstring—but it was good to know he had options.
He waited until the trio was closer before he said to them, keeping his voice low and confidential, “Hey, I gotta question for you boys. What’s that little girl in there saying that’s so important? Man, even the priest is hanging on every word. How’d she get so famous?”
Squires was trying to be friendly, strike up a nice conversation with these hard Mexicans. But no luck.
The head
chilie
was easy to pick out. He was the one tying on his blue colors, low over the eyes, as he said something that sounded like, “Choo tryin’ to be funny or what, man? ’Cause choo ain’t funny,” his Mex accent strong.
Not quite so friendly now, Squires told the dude, “You’d be laughing your ass off if I wanted to be funny, douche bag.”
The two beaners moved closer to the head gangbanger, standing shoulder to shoulder, as their leader replied, “We know who you are, man. We know all about the shit goes on out there at your damn hunting camp, too. So get the hell out of here, back to your trailer park that smells of
mierda
. This here’s a damn church, man. Why you wanna bother us here with your presence?”
Squires was surprised, at first, that the Mexican knew so much about him, but then he wasn’t. Hell, maybe all three of these dudes had lived at Red Citrus for a while. That wouldn’t have surprised him, either, because most of the illegals sooner or later showed up at one of his parks.
“Let me offer you some friendly advice,” Squires said to the men, motioning for them to lean closer. “Pay attention or I’ll rip your ears off and stick ’em up your ass. I asked you a polite question. I expect a nice answer. That girl in there is a friend of mine. Why’s the priest letting her stand up there and talk to the whole audience?”
“Right-t-t-t,”
one of the
chilies
said, feeling around for something in his pocket. “That girl in there, if you say you know her, you lying
coño
. She’s a saint, man. So you better behave yourself with respect or we’ll run your white ass outta here.”
“Is that what she claims?” Squires asked.
“She talks to God and God answers her back,” the Guatemalan replied, sounding defensive, but pissed off, too. “What proof you want? God is telling her we should return to our homes in the mountains. And not put up with
gringo
assholes like you. For what? Live in a shithole trailer park like yours? Drive a fancy truck that takes half my pay every month?”
The word “mountains” registered in Squires’s memory, which caused him to say, “I hear it’s pretty nice where some of you Mexicans come from. Even in summer, I heard it’s nice ’n’ cool up in those mountains. That true? What’s a big house and a few acres sell for?”
“A jelly boy like you moving to Guatemala?” the
chilie
said to him. “Man, don’t even think about it. We don’t want your kind dirtying up our home.” He took a step. “You say you a friend of this girl? I think you full of bullshit, man.”
Squires was looking through the church window again, trying to gauge how pissed off Tula would be if he caused a disturbance outside. No, he decided. He wasn’t going to do it. The girl had already gotten mad at him once today, giving him a look that had made him feel sort of low, like he’d disappointed her. Once was enough. He didn’t want to have that feeling again.
Squires held up his hands, palms out. “Stay cool,
amigos
. Only reason I’m here is to help the girl find her mama. Ya’ll just run along before the little saint in there makes you come back and apologize to me. Because when she was talking to God, the big guy didn’t send her to
you
. God sent her to
me
.”
Smiling, Squires limped back to his truck and waited. The three gangbangers looked at one another for a moment, their faces unfocused, then they obviously decided
Fuck it!
and went inside the church.
While he was messing with the radio, trying to find some decent news, his phone rang once, but no one was there when Squires answered, saying, “Hello...
hello
?” during a long silence.
A wrong number, he decided. It had to be.
An hour later,
a little after eleven p.m., Squires and the girl were back at the hunting camp, walking from his truck toward the RV, as frogs chirred from a spatial darkness that was bordered by cypress trees and stars. He had been feeling pretty good about things up until then, but, suddenly, Squires didn’t feel so good anymore.
Shit!
Frankie was at the trailer, waiting for them. Laziro Victorino, too, along with some of his gangbanger soldiers, who came out of nowhere so fast they had their hands on Tula before Squires had time to do anything about it.
Up until then, though, it had been the best night he’d had in a while. The big man had been feeling better and better about helping the strange little girl instead of shooting her in the back of the head. And Squires had never seen the girl so happy.
On the drive from Immokalee to the hunting camp, she had sat in the passenger seat, chattering away, sounding excited because she had found out where her aunts and brother were living. Maybe her mother, too. Or so she thought.
But when Tula told Squires about it, he wasn’t so sure.
“Aunt Vilma and Isabel are working on a tomato farm in a city called Ocala!” Tula had exclaimed as she exited the church, waving a piece of paper. “I have Aunt Isabel’s phone number. And my brother, he picked oranges this winter. He was always so lazy, but it must be true.”
As they drove down Main Street, Immokalee, out of town, the girl was laughing, telling Squires, “Pacaw has moved around a lot, but he might be living outside a city that is named Venice. He had trouble finding work because he’s younger than me, only twelve—but he acts older. Everyone I met at the church thought he was at least sixteen. The people I met tonight, they are wonderful.”
Squires had to ask. “Did they say anything about me? Some tough Mexican dudes came outside and gave me some of their tough-taco shit. But you were . . . you know, in the middle of your speech. I didn’t want to cause no trouble.”
The big man said it expecting the girl to appreciate his thoughtfulness. Maybe she did, but he had hoped for a more positive reaction.
Squires gave it some time before he glanced at the girl and asked a question that had been on his mind: “You could have run out on me tonight, sis. You could’ve had your new friends call the cops. Why didn’t you? I was sitting here in the truck, wondering about it.”
The girl had looked at the giant, shaking her head, and didn’t bother to speak the words her affectionate expression was telling him.
Instead, she said, “I’m very hungry. One of the women—she was so sweet. She asked for a lock of my hair but didn’t have any scissors. She told me there is a very excellent restaurant not far. It’s called Taco Bell. You must be hungry, too.”
They used the Taco Bell drive-through, and Squires listened to the girl chomp down about half her weight in junk food as he drove—Tula, beside him, eating like it was the best Mex she’d ever had in her life.
Squires had the taco salad and an unsweetened iced tea. He was an athlete, for Christ’s sake. In his business, diet was everything, even during a bulking cycle. The perfect male body wasn’t built in the weight room, it was sculpted in the kitchen—Squires had read that someplace.
Ten miles from the hunting camp, the girl had gotten onto the subject of her missing mother, a conversation that Squires had tried to postpone because he already suspected where it was going.
“I keep trying to tell you the best news,” the girl had said to him. “My mother was working in restaurants and cleaning houses. But then she went to work for a very rich man and has been traveling a lot—which is probably why I haven’t heard from her. She didn’t tell anyone the man’s name. But she told someone’s niece that the man’s company makes movies. That she was going to become an actress! This was about two months ago, which is probably why she had to get a new telephone. My aunts or brother will know more when I talk to them. Didn’t I tell you that my mother is beautiful?”
Squires thought,
Uh-oh . . .
understanding immediately why Tula’s mother hadn’t told anyone her employer’s name. Either no one had revealed the name to her or the woman was too ashamed to admit it. Every Mexican in Florida knew that Laziro Victorino was a badass gang leader and the only films he had an interest in were porno and snuff films.