Echoes of a Distant Summer (12 page)

Tecate was a smudge of a town ten miles south of the California–Mexico border. Most of the buildings were single-story wood-frame constructions. Other than the huge brewery on the edge of town, there may have been two buildings in the whole community which were three stories tall. Tecate lay nestled in the arms of two hills which opened to the eastward breeze. A film of red dust covered everything in sight. Up the street from the depot, there was a neon taco sign flashing in green and red over a small, dingy restaurant that had an old, dented pickup parked out front. Across the street, a small-time concessionaire sold chalupas from a wooden cart. Jackson was hungry but he didn’t dare say anything.

Sweat dripped down his face. Even in the shadows of the depot, the heat was oppressive. It was worse inside, where the air was as still as a tomb and the flies sounded like jets zooming over a control tower. When they had first arrived, Jackson’s grandmother had parked her rented car and had attempted to wait inside the depot. However, after twenty minutes in the ovenlike atmosphere she had to abandon it for the porch. Since everything outside was covered with dust, she found no acceptable place to sit, so she chose to stand. Jackson quietly followed her example. A half hour passed without a word being exchanged. Eventually, Jackson sat down on his suitcase.

There was no movement in the shimmering heat of the street, except for a couple of timid mongrels who paused hungrily for a few cautious sniffs. Another fifteen minutes passed and Jackson’s grandmother began to pace methodically back and forth. She was wearing high heels and the prolonged standing was beginning to hurt her feet. She looked at the rented car but realized that waiting in it in this heat would be unbearable. She continued to pace.

Jackson did not remember when he first noticed that a man was standing in an alley down the street from the depot, staring at him. The man was dressed in a red shirt and jeans underneath a dirty serape. He wore a black, high-domed hat with a wide, flat brim and had a black-tipped white feather stuck in its band. The man started walking slowly toward the depot, casting glances both right and left. As he came closer, Jackson saw that the man had shoulder-length straight black hair, a brown face, and glinting black eyes. When he reached the stairs leading up to the depot, he stopped and said,
“Hola, señora.”

Jackson’s grandmother watched the man silently. She was not in the habit of talking to strangers.

He said in halting English, “We have come for the boy.”

“Where is King?” she asked evenly.

“He no come, many enemies. Send me to get boy.”

“If King didn’t come then we’ve wasted a trip down here. Tell King to arrange to come in person. Then he can have the boy.” His grandmother turned with an air of dismissal and said, “Come, Jackson.”

The man mounted the steps quickly, stepping in between Jackson and his grandmother. “Boy stays!” he said emphatically.

Jackson’s grandmother put her hand in her purse and answered in a calm, steady voice, “If you try to stop me, you’ll need a priest.”

The man saw her hand grasp something in her purse. He raised his hand in a motion of surrender then pulled an envelope from his pocket and started toward her. “El Negro said to give you this.”

His grandmother took two quick steps backward. “Put it down on the floor and step back.”

The man placed the envelope on the floor and stepped respectfully backward.

“Jackson!” his grandmother said in firm voice. “Bring that envelope to me.”

Jackson did as he was told and then waited while his grandmother ripped open the envelope and read it contents. She crumpled the papers in an unusual show of anger. Through gritted teeth she asked, “It says there are two of you; where’s the other one?”

The man gestured off into the distance with his hand. “With the truck.”

She nodded her head as she registered this information. She took the keys to her rented car from her purse and said, “You tell King to bring
him back to San Diego. I won’t cross the border again.” With that she turned and walked away. There was no word of good-bye. Jackson was left standing with a man he did not know.

The man stepped out into the street and waved his hat over his head. A pickup truck which had been parked outside the dingy restaurant started up and came rolling toward them. Jackson realized that the truck had been there the whole time he and his grandmother had been waiting. Jackson’s bag was thrown in the back and he was ushered into the center seat.

The man who was driving looked like a younger version of the man in the hat. He was handsome, in his early twenties, and his brown face had not yet become wrinkled and weathered like his older companion’s. The driver greeted Jackson with a smile, the first he had received since leaving San Francisco. The truck rocked back and forth as it was driven on the rutted dirt roads which led south on the Baja California peninsula. The two men carried on a sparse conversation in Spanish. Jackson sat in the middle and said nothing.

They had been in the truck for about an hour when the driver broke out a canteen of water and had a drink. He offered the canteen to Jackson, who had not had anything to drink for a couple of hours. Jackson accepted the canteen and promptly drained half of it. He would have finished it had the older man in the hat not taken the canteen from him. After about three hours of steady driving, the truck abruptly pulled off the road.

The sun was low in the western sky and there were long shadows cast across the land by the San Pedro Martir Mountains, which formed the backbone of the northern part of the Baja California landmass. The landscape was dotted with saguaro, stunted madrona, and sagebrush. The two men got out and urinated on the side of the road. Jackson reluctantly followed their lead. He didn’t know where he was and he didn’t want to stray too far away from the truck. The older man in the hat squatted beside the truck and rolled himself a cigarette. It was still warm but the heat had dissipated considerably. Jackson leaned against the truck and thought about hamburgers and fries. He had not eaten since the morning and now he was hungrier than he could ever remember.

On the other side of the truck, the driver was chewing on some jerky. Jackson tried not to look but his hunger overcame his willpower.
He unconsciously began to stare. The driver noticed him. He averted his eyes. The driver walked around the truck and offered him a big piece of the jerky. Jackson thanked him and grabbed the offered food. The dried meat was tough and chewy, but it made his tongue spring to life. Jackson finished the jerky so fast the driver laughed and called out in Spanish to the man in the hat. The man in the hat came over to the truck and asked Jackson, “You hungry?”

The desire to eat overcame Jackson’s fears and self-restraint. He nodded his head vigorously. He could not remember ever going all day without eating. He had no real awareness that there were many places in the world where people routinely did not eat every day. All he knew was that the refrigerator was always stocked and he could help himself at any time. He watched the man in the hat go to the back of the truck and rummage through various bundles.

The driver tapped his chest and said, “Carlos.” He tapped Jackson’s chest and made a questioning gesture.

Jackson understood him and said, “Jackson.”

Carlos pointed to the man in the hat and said, “El Indio.”

Jackson repeated Carlos’s and El Indio’s names and received a smile of approval from Carlos.

El Indio gave Jackson a dried fish and a couple of tortillas. Jackson accepted it gingerly. He wasn’t used to eating food while its eyes stared at him. Seeing his bewilderment, El Indio cut the head off and showed him how to skin it. The fish and the tortillas were gone in minutes. As Jackson was loaded back into the truck, the two men laughed briefly about the boy’s appetite. Carlos even made a joke in Spanish about Jackson’s mouth being open as wide as a fledgling’s.

Two and a half more hours in the truck and they drove into a small town lying on the edge of the Sea of Cortez. Jackson had fallen asleep on Carlos’s shoulder. He was shaken awake by Carlos, who watched him try to slough off the bonds of sleep by peering at everything with wide-eyed looks. The sun had set and there was just a band of purple above the dark outline of the mountain ridges to the west. The lights of the little town shimmered off the waters of the sea. El Indio parked the truck and several minutes were spent collecting Jackson’s suitcase and various bundles from the back of the truck and then the three of them walked down to the docks. The sound of music and the smell of grilled fish greeted them.

There was a waterfront honky-tonk blaring Ray Charles songs out over the water. It was a one-story, white stucco building with a flickering yellow neon sign written in cursive that read
Mary’s Bar
. Next to the honky-tonk there was a small store that sold cigarettes, sodas, candy, and related items. Both buildings were part of a pier. In front of the store there was a man grilling fish. El Indio and Carlos spoke rapidly in Spanish, then El Indio took the bags from the truck and headed off into the night.

Jackson had identified the store and the source of the food smells the moment they stepped onto the docks. He headed toward the store, ready to slake his thirst and eat his fill. He had ten dollars in his pocket and he was hungry. The man grilling the fish was old and wizened and had the stump of a cigarette smoldering between his lips. Jackson watched him expertly flip a whole fish from spot to spot with his tongs. His hair was tied in a handkerchief and his pants were rolled up to his knees. He looked like a figure out of a Japanese samurai movie. Jackson pointed to the fish and the man answered him in a flood of Spanish. Jackson pulled out his ten dollars. The old man shook his head and repeated a word followed by
pesos
several times.

Behind him Jackson heard a male voice with an American accent say, “What have we here, Jimmy?”

Another male voice answered, bemused, “I don’t rightly know, but he’s waving enough money to drink all night.”

Jackson turned and saw two young white men staring at him. They were wearing cowboy hats, T-shirts, and jeans. He had been taught to be suspicious of whites but not to fear them. “Do you have change for ten dollars?” he asked, his hunger impelling him forward.

The slimmer, taller man said, “Jimmy, you got all the Mex money.”

Jimmy, the shorter, more muscular of the two men, said, “Sure, little buddy, I can help you.” He reached into his pockets and pulled out a wad of money made up of bills from both the United States and Mexico. He counted out a wad of Mexican currency and handed it to Jackson.

Jackson accepted the money questioningly. “How much is this?”

Jimmy snatched the ten dollars from his hand and said, “Don’t worry about it, you got enough to get a couple of fish!” The men turned to walk away.

Jimmy’s friend laughed. “Easy money, Jimmy. You ought to go into banking!”

Jackson, concerned that he was being cheated, said, “Wait a minute! This isn’t ten dollars!”

Jimmy turned and gave Jackson a hard look. “Better shut your mouth, pickaninny. You’re lucky I didn’t jes’ take your money.”

“I want my ten dollars back,” Jackson demanded, his voice rising in volume.

Jimmy crossed the few feet that separated him and Jackson and poked the boy hard in the chest with his index finger. “I told you to shut—” Jimmy didn’t get to say anything else. Carlos struck him hard on the side of the head with the butt of a large knife. The blow knocked Jimmy off his feet. He fell in a heap on the wooden planks of the pier. His friend started to come to his aid, but the cocking of a shotgun stopped him. El Indio was standing behind him with the weapon aimed in his direction. There was a short, swarthy, balding man with El Indio. When Jimmy’s friend saw him, he paled noticeably and stuttered, “We didn’t know, Señor Ramirez. We didn’t know he was a friend of yours!”

Señor Ramirez ignored Jimmy’s friend and went right to Jackson. He knelt in front of the boy and asked with a thick Mexican accent, “Did he hurt you?”

Jackson shook his head to indicate that he wasn’t hurt. He mumbled, “He took my ten dollars and gave me this.” He opened his hand to show Señor Ramirez the wad of five-peso notes.

Señor Ramirez glanced at the money briefly and asked, “Did he touch you?”

Jackson nodded affirmatively and rubbed his chest where the man had poked him.

“Which hand?” asked Señor Ramirez.

Jackson indicated his right.

Señor Ramirez stood up and walked over to Jimmy, who was still sprawled on the ground, woozy from the blow he had received. Señor Ramirez said something to Carlos, who quickly knelt and held Jimmy’s right arm. Señor Ramirez stomped Jimmy’s immobilized hand. Jimmy’s scream shredded the night as his knuckles popped like popcorn. The foot raised and stomped again. Jimmy screamed again and then suddenly stopped.

People started to pile out of the bar. Someone even said, “That’s Jimmy.” But the sight of the shotgun quelled any thoughts of heroics. There were hostile rumblings from the bar’s clientele when an older man pushed his way to the front. He had the air of a man who was used
to being obeyed. When he saw Señor Ramirez his posture changed from commanding to solicitous. “Sorry to bother you, Señor Ramirez,” he said with a quick, respectful nod of his head. “Everyone back in the bar! This is not our business. Back in the bar!” There was a brief milling and mumbling as the patrons filed back into Mary’s. The door to the bar closed with a slam and curtains were drawn across the windows.

Señor Ramirez turned to look at Jimmy’s companion, who was shivering with fear. “What am I going to do with you?” Señor Ramirez asked as he walked toward the man.

“Please, señor,” the man begged. “It was an honest mistake! We didn’t know this kid had anything to do with you! Honest!”

Señor Ramirez gestured to El Indio, who swiftly stepped up and smashed the butt of the shotgun behind the man’s knee. The man crumpled with a wail: “I didn’t even touch the kid! Please!”

“Show me your money!” Señor Ramirez demanded.

The man emptied his pockets. A jingling sound rang out as change and keys fell on the wooden planks. He offered his paper money to Señor Ramirez, who then counted the money swiftly and threw down some bills. “There is money to buy gas or catch the southbound bus to Santa Rosalia. It leaves from the plaza at ten-thirty tonight. If you are here in the morning, you will be treated in the manner that you deserve.” Señor Ramirez walked over and said something to Carlos. Carlos knelt down and began rifling through Jimmy’s pockets. Jimmy was delirious with pain and not yet fully conscious. He began to moan. Carlos took the money out of Jimmy’s pockets and gave it to Señor Ramirez, who spit on Jimmy then threw a few bills on his supine body. Señor Ramirez went to the old man who was grilling fish and spoke quickly, then he gave him some bills. The old man accepted the money gladly and began wrapping all his cooked fish. Señor Ramirez turned to Jackson and offered him the remaining money, which was considerably more than the amount Jackson had originally been given. He took the money with trepidation. He was frightened by the decisive violence of the man and by the deference showed him by the people in the bar. He nodded his head and said respectfully, “Thank you.”