Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (17 page)

I turned and was surprised to find a uniformed man holding a rifle. “This is where they bury the ones they don’t know their names. Unidentified illegals, mostly. Got to put ’em somewhere.” A closer look at his uniform told me he was with the sheriff’s department. Corrections Division.

“How many are there?” I asked.

“Three, four hundred, I suppose. Maybe more. Seems like we’re always digging.”

Behind him a dozen women in bright orange prison uniforms filed out from the path. Four women carried well-worn picks, while the remainder hefted shovels on their shoulders. Two more guards followed, rifles pointed casually to the ground, laughing from some joke.

“You use lady prisoners to dig the graves?” I asked.

“Border Patrol finds the dead, but it’s all on the county to stick ’em in the ground. Feds don’t give a shit. Not like the county’s got extra money to foot the bill. We use what we got. We got plenty of prisoners. Men and women. The ladies like the exercise. Keeps ’em fit.”

The guard joined the others, barking directions to his prison labor force. The women with picks went to work, the force of their blows making little progress in the packed ground. They were definitely going to get a workout.

I headed back up the path, turning to look at the expanse of land and innumerable bricks laid out in rows. They didn’t just represent the unnamed dead, but the questions that remained for the living. The families that would never know what happened. People that would never know their loved one’s fate. This is where Yolanda would end up if nobody found out who she was. An anonymous corpse in an unmarked grave. A numbered brick.

The Bobcat had completed its job. The low mound of fresh dirt was Pop’s current marker. The army had told me that it would take four to six weeks to get his headstone. I told them to take their time.

I walked back toward the road, up the hill and past the shooting range. The range was quiet, everybody out shooting birds instead of paper targets and clay.

Just as it occurred to me that I didn’t know how I was going to get back home, I saw a wonderful sight. Angie sat on the hood of her F-150, her toes stretching to touch the bumper. She smiled when she saw me.

“Bobby called me.” She slid off the hood.

“Why do you think he did that?”

“Because you wouldn’t’ve,” she said. “He said you needed a ride.”

“I need a lot more than that.”

“You okay? With your father and all? Burying him, you know? I’m sure it’s emotional.”

“I guess. My brain’s spinning on top of my hangover. So, right now, I’m just trying to get through the day with as little pain as possible.”

We were halfway to El Centro, speeding down the Old Highway in Angie’s big truck.

“Are we going to talk about what happened last night?” Angie said abruptly.

“If you want to,” I answered. “But I don’t know that much. Bobby and I just found the body. The sheriff…”

“Body?” Angie interrupted. “What body? What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about? What are you talking about? Wait…”

“You found a body? Like, you mean, a dead body?” She whispered the last two words. Distracted from her driving and staring at me instead of the road, her truck hit the shoulder and kicked up a huge wake of dust. Angie glanced ahead for the fraction of a second she needed to steer us back onto the road. Then she was back to staring at me.

I nodded.

“Why does shit like this always happen to you?”

“Shit like this doesn’t always happen to me. Shit like this has never happened to me. Back up a second. What happened last night that you need to talk about?”

“Whose body was it? Do you know?”

“It was Yolanda. The girl I brought to Pop.”

“Jesus. Her? She was young. What happened?”

“All I can tell you is what I know—which isn’t much.”

By the time I finished the tale about the morning’s misadventures, we had arrived at Harris Convalescent. She parked her truck and stared straight ahead, her hands at two o’clock and ten o’clock.

“What a waste” was her final assessment. “What a fucking waste.”

Angie insisted on helping me box up Pop’s belongings. Even though we both knew it was a one-person job. She took the books, boxing them slowly and carefully, reading each title and on occasion skimming a few pages. I took the personal items, as scant as they were. We worked in silence.

Looking at the stripped pillows on the bare bed, I was brought back to Pop’s final moments. Trying to shake it off, it occurred to me that a conversational stone had been left unturned.

“Angie? What happened last night? What happened that we should have to talk about it?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I told you—I don’t remember nothing. I was blacked out from the moment I walked into Morales.”

“You want to guess?” she said, with a head tilt that toyed with me.

Oh shit,
I thought. “Oh shit,” I said.

“No,” she said. “Give me a little credit. You would have remembered if that had happened.”

“Then what?”

“You kissed me.”

“I did? Are you sure?”

“We had been at the bar talking for a half hour, standing near the back door. You were super drunk, but being kind of charming. I was in mid-sentence talking about my life or my job or some other bullcrap, and you just leaned in and kissed me.”

“I was drunk. You said it. Really drunk.”

“Yeah, you were.” She stopped what she was doing and turned to me. “But I wasn’t. I kissed you back.”

“Oh” was all I could think to say.

“If you took away the alcohol and cigarette breath, it was nice,” Angie said. “There was something about it. Something intimate. I know it was a kiss and kisses are usually intimate, but this—it was just intimate. It felt like it was supposed to happen.”

I said, “I don’t know what to say. Everything that comes to my mind to say sounds stupid in my head. I want to say something, but I want to say the right thing. I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I know I sound like a child, but I am a child, and I say stupid things. Every day I do stupid things, too. All the time. If this is the beginning of something, I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Yeah, neither do I.” She returned to the task of boxing Pop’s books.

“Is this the beginning of something?”

“Maybe.”

“I’m going to not talk now. Just so long as you know that I’m not talking not because I’m uncomfortable, but because I’m actually very comfortable with where we’re at. I want to keep it that way for a while. At least until I say something stupid.”

“That shouldn’t take too long,” Angie said with a smirk.

“Exactly.”

I avoided the temptation of talking to Angie again for the rest of the time we were at Harris and during the entire ride back to the house. It was Angie who finally spoke.

As I was stepping out of her truck, Angie asked, “Do you think they’ll find her family?”

“I’ve been thinking about that.”

I could see her looking out the windshield, her eyes focused on the water pump and the yellow tape that surrounded it.

“They should know. Her family should know,” she said.

“I know people that knew her. People that the sheriff and coroner won’t be able to talk to. People in Mexico that don’t like any kind of cop. I’m going to talk to them. See maybe if I can find her people.”

“Can I help? I’d like to help.”

“Pop knew her. And I’m thinking he knew her pretty good. There may be something in the house that can help me find out more. With the state of the house, I could use any help you want to give. I’ll warn you, you’re looking at the haystack and there may not even be a needle. If there was something Pop didn’t want me to know, I doubt he left anything for me to find.”

“What about finding out what happened to her?”

“Someone should pay. If someone was responsible, they should pay. But what the hell could I do? What do I know about that? That’s for the cops. They’ll handle that. I just want to find out who she was and where Pop fit in.”

“You got any kind of plan?”

“Grab Bobby and head to Chicali. Talk to the people I know. See where it leads us.”

“I could go with you.”

“You could,” I said. “But better you stay. There’s a lot of house to cover, and the sooner we start the better.”

She turned off the ignition and smiled. “Let’s get to it.”

I had never received better driving directions than the ones Tomás had faxed me. Each turn, street name, and landmark was clearly defined. Adequate warnings for each change of direction left nothing to chance. As I drove, Bobby read the directions. Both of us marveled at the level of detail and accuracy. I usually hated driving in Mexicali. Most streets are unmarked, and the grid chaotically devolves. But driving to Tomás’s porn shoot made the Mexicali streets as pleasurable as a Sunday drive to a porn shoot.

“He’s a details guy, I give him that. The next turn, he even drew a picture of like a weird, bent arrow. So I’ll bet…” Bobby looked up and out the window. “Sure e-fuckingnough.”

In front of us at a fork in the road, there was a shuttered gas station that appeared to have sold its last drop in the mid-sixties. Its sign was a rusted, bent arrow pointing to the stripped frame of the garage.

“Left, right?” I asked.

“Right. Left.” Bobby smiled, pointing to the left to make sure I wasn’t confused.

“You’re in a good mood,” I said.

“Jimmy. Jimbo. We’re going to a porno shoot. They’re making a pornography. And I’m going. I’m going to get to watch. Porno. Maybe for you that ain’t a big deal, being Mister Bohemian world traveler guy. You’ve been to Amsterdam, diddled European chicks, eaten snails. But for a farmer from Jerkwater U.S. of A., who considers Yuma the ‘big city,’ it’s a fat, fucking deal. All my favorite actresses are porn stars. And the ones that ain’t, I wish they did porn. And that includes Dame Judi Dench.”

The shadows stretched across the road, but it was still a long way from sunset. It was hard to believe that we had found Yolanda’s body only that morning.

“Tomás said he had someone that knew more about Yolanda. We aren’t here to hang out on the set.”

Bobby gave me a serious nod. “Don’t think I forgot this morning. Yeah, I’m excited and all, but that dead lady’s fucked up. I ain’t ever going to forget carrying her body out of that water. It’s been a hell of a shit day.”

“Understatement of the year,” I said.

“Why didn’t you get whatever on the phone? Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad you didn’t. I’m down with the plan. Give me some time to soak it all in, so to speak. Not literally—that would be gross.”

“Tomás said this would be faster.”

“Tomás could have killed her,” Bobby said, more thinking aloud than anything else.

“Maybe. From what little I saw of Tomás the other night, from talking to the grown him, he’s definitely capable of it. No motive I know of. But of the people that were at Morales, Tomás is the only criminal, far as I know.”

“Other than me.”

“Right. Other than you. But you’re more a bumbling no-goodnik. Like the Frito Bandito to Tomás’s Keyser Söze. Whoever the Mexican Don Knotts is, he’d play you in the movie,” I said. “I am curious to see how he reacts when I tell him she’s dead.”

“You didn’t tell him she’s dead?”

“No, only told him I had questions about her. If he knows she’s dead, he didn’t act it, didn’t mention it. Just told me I should come down.”

“So you have no idea what we’re walking into?”

“I’m not scared of Tomás,” I said.

“Maybe you should be.”

Sadly, Speedy Gonzalez stands as the only frame of reference for many Americans when it comes to Mexico. To them the Mexican landscape is all cactus, adobe, and bullrings. One trip to Señor Frogs in TJ does not an international journey make.

In reality most Mexican cities aren’t that different from Phoenix or Tucson, similar businesses and industry. And compared to most Mexican cities, Mexicali enjoyed a fairly well-represented middle class, due in large part to the profitability of agriculture in the Mexicali Valley. The further south you went, the nicer the neighborhoods. The district we drove through had groomed lawns and squat palms, far nicer than the nicest neighborhood in El Centro.

The ranch house was a stucco and terra cotta job with a rock lawn and a few succulents scattered for color. Concrete discs led through the pebbles to the front door. I rang the doorbell and waited. Bobby stood behind me, a huge smile on his face. He excitedly bounced up and down, barely able to contain himself. He quietly repeated the word
porno
.

Little Piwi swung the door open quickly. Before I could say a word, he held a finger to his lips. With abrupt seriousness he signaled for us to enter.

I silently mouthed, “Sorry.” Which he silently ignored. Little Piwi led us into the modern living room and motioned for us to take a seat on the red leather sofa. He took a seat on the armrest. We sat and stared straight ahead, forced to eavesdrop.

The sound of sex from somewhere deep in the house played as soundtrack while the three of us waited. A woman’s staccato scream, insincere male grunts, muffled Spanish direction, that unmistakable rhythmic slapping sound, and uninspired dialogue. “You like that? Take it. Fuck yeah,” all from the man.

“But I…we…” Bobby pointed toward the sound. Little Piwi held up his finger. Bobby fell silent, severely disappointed.

We had probably only waited for five or ten minutes, but sitting in a room and listening to two people fucking through a wall was surprisingly monotonous. Aside from some pauses for what I have to assume were position changes, they just kept at it. Finally after a crescendo of male bleats, the house fell silent.

“And cut!
Corte. Bueno
,” a powerful voice boomed.

Little Piwi stood and gestured for us to follow.

Bobby tried to crane his neck over Little Piwi’s bulk as we made our way down the long hall. The shag carpet was so thick underfoot it felt like wading in melted marshmallows. Bright light leaked below the door at the end of the hall. I turned to Bobby. His beaming face was ecstatic. When Little Piwi opened the door, we were momentarily blinded by white light.

It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust, but the smell was immediate and palpable. Cheap aftershave, sweat, something mediciney, and burnt dust filled the air. I could taste it in the back of my throat.

There were too many people and too much equipment in the small room. Behind a tiny digital camera on a tripod, two men watched the small foldout screen. They commented to each other in animated Spanish. Smoke drifted from the colored filters taped to the barn doors of the lighting gear. Through the forest of light stands, I saw Tomás in a director’s chair in the corner. He smoked a thin cigarillo and flipped through a three-ring binder.

A naked white man with a flattop, arm-sleeve sea monster tattoos, and shaved balls leaned against the wall at the head of the bed and chatted with Alejandro. Flattop was oily with sweat and comfortably unashamed in his nakedness. Alejandro went with a lime cowboy shirt and matching boots. He was a walking bad decision. Flattop and Alejandro were laughing to the point of tears. When Alejandro saw me and Bobby, his laugh turned to a scowl. What the fuck did we do?

I turned to Bobby. His eyes darted through the room. He looked baffled by the scene, then horrified as he focused his attention on the center of the room.

I followed his eyes to the queen-size mattress resting directly on the carpet. The naked girl we had been listening to for the last ten minutes lay spent, trying weakly to cover herself with a single sheet. She was Mexican, tiny, and crying. Nobody made any effort to acknowledge her, let alone comfort her.

As I stared at the black lines of mascara running down her cheeks and the smeared lipstick on her face, I felt my face grow hot and my fists clench.

Bobby leaned in and whispered in my ear. “If you don’t get me out of this room in the next five seconds, I’m going to beat the shit out of everyone in here.”

I walked to the girl on the bed and did my best to wrap the sheet around her. “Let’s go.
Vamos.
” I helped her to her feet. Her face sank into my armpit. My arm around her practically lifted her tiny frame off the ground.

Alejandro put his hand on my arm. “What the fuck you doing?”

I shook his hand loose and continued walking her to the door.

I could hear Alejandro behind me, but I shut out whatever he was saying. Mostly Spanglish threats. I would have walked her straight out the door, but another voice rose.

“Jimmy.” It was Tomás. The calmness in his voice chilled me. Way too fucking calm, especially in comparison to how amped I felt. I stopped, still facing the door.

“You can’t take her, Jimmy. We aren’t finished. Film production is a complex process. There are what are called pickups. Reaction shots. Over the shoulder. Close-ups. Part of the business. So the editors have sufficient material to work with. I have an arrangement with Minerva. We have not yet wrapped her, as they say.”

I turned. Alejandro had taken an aggressive stance in front of me. Bobby angled himself next to me.

“Back off, asshole,” I said to Alejandro.

“She’s not yours to take,” Alejandro said.

“
Cállete
,” Tomás said. His voice cowed Alejandro for a moment, but his scowl returned quickly.

Tomás turned to me. “I can’t let you take her. You know that. I can’t let you come in here and disrupt my business. You reacted—I understand. You’re accustomed to a different world. A world with clear rules. Mexico isn’t like that. I appreciate your perspective. But stop. Think. Jimmy. My friend. You are on dangerous ground. You are on my ground. Be very careful.”

I nodded in complete and total agreement. “Tomás, I know what I’m doing is stupid. I know. But I don’t think I can
not
do this.”

“Some battles you can’t win.”

“I like a good battle,” Bobby said, always ready with an action movie one-liner.

Tomás gave Bobby a smile. “The worst of what Minerva agreed to do has already happened. If you take her now, she would miss out on her end. Her compensation. You would be taking from her, not helping her. Making her performance for nothing. And it was an enthralling and enthusiastic performance. Her work and any pain would be wasted.” Then to her, softly yet forcefully, he said, “
Venga a mi
.”

“Bobby, take her out to my truck,” I said, my eyes steeled on Tomás.

“You are thinking with your heart. A common mistake. Use your brain. What will you do? Where will you take her? You think you are saving her, but you’re taking away whatever chance she has. Sometimes you have to do the wrong thing because it’s the right thing to do. Because it’s the only thing to do,” Tomás said.

He was right. I knew it. I hated him for it.

“
Venga a mi
,” Tomás repeated.

We stood motionless for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably about five seconds. I turned to Bobby.

He said, “Your call. Sucks any way you cut it.”

Then the girl peeled my fingers from her arm. She nodded to me and walked to Tomás, turning for a moment to say, “
Gracias
.” Tomás opened his arms for her, and she let him embrace her. Her arms stayed straight down at her sides, present but not responsive.

“Next time you challenge me, you should be better prepared.” Tomás smiled.

“Next time I will be,” I said, disgust sitting in my stomach like a fucking brick. I was pissed, but not so much at Tomás as the world he lived in. Tomás hadn’t made this girl poor and desperate; he’d only exploited her like everyone else.

“I’ll make sure she’s treated well,” Tomás said. “I am a businessman. We have an informal contract, and I guarantee that it will be respected.”

“You might say they have an oral agreement,” Alejandro said, laughing at his own lame joke. And with that, I dropped Alejandro with one punch to the jaw. A haymaker from nowhere that landed square. Alejandro crumpled, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Time momentarily stopped.

The film crew grabbed the camera and scrambled out the door. Flattop jumped into a fighting stance out of instinct, but thought better of it and put his hands down. He grabbed a robe, but didn’t put it on. He left the room naked, softly saying, “Woulda fucked you up,” as he passed me. If ever someone deserved a kick in the dick, there was a strong candidate.

“Oh shit,” I said, summing up the situation.

Tomás’s cigarillo smoldered between his fingers. “What the fuck?” he said, more curious than angry.

I felt Bobby edge closer to my side.

Tomás said, “You have any idea what this means? What you’ve started? I told you, Alejandro is batshit loco. My warning was not subtle. One guy in the city of Mexicali that I warned you not to fuck with, Jimmy.”

“Dude’s an asshole. Fuck him,” Bobby said.

“He’s going to want blood when he wakes up. He’s going to wonder why I didn’t kill you,” Tomás said, and then he whistled loudly.

I turned to see Little Piwi materialize in the doorway. He held a revolver, probably a .45, but it was hard to tell lost in his enormous paw. The gun was pointed at the ground, but it was one more gun than Bobby and I had. We were officially fucked.

“Easy, Tomás,” I said. “It was an accident. I snapped.”

“You can’t hit someone on accident,” Tomás said. “You’ve forced me to do something that I really don’t want to do.”

“You going to shoot us?”

“
Cállete
,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

Tomás looked at Little Piwi, then distractedly down at the girl. The whole time she had quietly let him hold her to his body. He took a pull off his cigarillo, letting the gray smoke drift slowly from his mouth.

“All these years I’ve known you,” I said, “and like that, for this, you’re going to shoot me? Shoot us?”

Then Tomás laughed. A big mad-scientist laugh with his head back, looking up at the ceiling. My balls retreated inside my body.

“Of course I’m not going to kill you,” Tomás said. “You’re my friend. Who do you think I am? Some kind of murderer?”

I exhaled.

Tomás pointed at Alejandro’s prone body. “I am going to have to kill
him
though.”

Alejandro moaned and stirred on the ground. Tomás nodded at Little Piwi, who put the pistol away, walked to Alejandro, and gave him a rib-shattering kick to the midsection. All that from a nod.

“You can’t kill him,” I said.