Fifty Grand (12 page)

“I’m an American, Briggs, I’m a citizen just like you, you can’t—”

“I can do anything I damn well fucking please,” the sheriff says. Veins throbbing. Knuckles white.

Esteban looks at the sheriff and the gun. He doesn’t flinch. Makes me think that Briggs has pulled this one before or else Esteban is made of sterner stuff. Hasn’t been a murder in five years, he said. I wonder if that includes dead Mexicans?

Finally Esteban smiles. “You want an apology? Of course. I apologize. We’re friends. We work together.” He even forces a laugh. “Oh, Sheriff, why do you have to be so dramatic?”

Briggs puts the gun back in his coat pocket, satisfied. “Good. Now take a look at what I got ya at the auction block.”

Esteban turns and smiles at the pair of us. “Two hard workers, I can tell,” he says.

“We’ll see. They better work hard. I make this a tough town for slackers. Now let’s circle back to your motel and deal with these fucking feds and see what’s going on,” Briggs mutters.

“Welcome to Fairview,” Esteban says, and adds with a grin, “Don’t worry, it’s not always this exciting. It’s normally very dull.”

Yeah, I’ll bet, but I’ll do my best to change that.

W
hen we got back it was all over, the feds high-fiving it back to Denver with a couple of little fish for the TV news. As we got out of the Escalade half a dozen people besieged Esteban, waving their arms and venting in fast, barely intelligible Mexican Spanish: “Sudden raid. No warning. They took Susanna, Juanita, Josefina, two others.”

“Where did they take them?” Esteban asked.

“Who knows?”

“I’ve got other things to do. You got this under control?” Briggs asked.

Esteban nodded. “I’ll get my lawyer on it.”

“Then I’m gone. You two, nice to meet you, remember everything I told you, keep your noses clean,” he said to us.

We got out of the vehicle and we were glad to see the Escalade depart.

The remaining population of the motel had surrounded Esteban now. “They took my money. They broke my door. Josefina’s daughter is at day care . . .”

Everyone talking at once and pantomiming particular parts of the events in case Esteban didn’t quite understand.

Esteban’s phone rang in the middle of it. He turned to Paco. “Keep them away from me,” he said in Spanish.

Paco took charge like he was born to it and herded the petitioners back to the motel.

Esteban answered the call. His English was as fast as his Spanish. “Yeah,
I know. . . . I’m here right now. . . . Page them, call them, whatever it takes, and if they come to the construction site remind them that it’s a violation of safety regulations to allow anyone on-site who does not have a warrant from OSHA. . . . Doesn’t matter if it’s the fucking pope. . . . Yeah, keep ’em working.”

He made two more phone calls and then turned to Paco and me.

“Names?” he asked.

“María.”

“Francisco.”

“Ok, María, Francisco. I’ve got a room for you upstairs. You’ll have to share for a couple of days but if we really have lost some people then I suppose you’ll have your own room.”

I nodded and looked at the dreary motel. It wasn’t pretty but at least it had a roof and four walls, which was more than you could say for some of the apartment buildings I’d lived in.

Ricky had taken a few photographs of the place but they didn’t quite square up in my head. It wasn’t that important, anyway. As far as we know Dad had never lived here.

Most of the illegals in Fairview, however, either stayed here or at another motel farther up the mountain.

Esteban was still talking, selling us on the gig. “Yeah, you’ll be living high on the hog. Your own room. Money. Maybe even get you a car. Can either of you drive? Juanita had a car, won’t be much good to her now.”

I looked at the collection of ratty pickups and junk cars in the lot. These
were
as bad as Cuban vehicles, maybe worse.

Esteban flipped open his cell, took another call.

“Yes? . . . Now? . . . Who for? . . . Ooh, yes, he’s an important client. . . . No, never say no, no matter what the circumstances. . . . I’ll be right up. I got two right here. They just got in. You got uniform requirements? . . . Ok, tell them I’ll be there in ten.”

Esteban smiled at us salesmanlike, grabbed a gray-haired little man lurking by the door, and gave him a bunch of keys. “Lock the rooms, don’t let anybody touch the stuff of the arrested, we might yet be able to get some of them back out. Ok?”

“What if the
federales
come back?” the gray-haired man asked.

“I doubt they’ll come back. They never hit the same place twice.”

“Not yet,” the man said.

“What do you want me to do? Tell everybody to go live in the fucking woods? Just lock up their rooms and make sure nobody takes their stuff, ok?”

“Ok.”

Esteban turned back to us. “Ok, folks, look, things
only appear
fucked up. They’re not. There’s absolutely no reason to panic, everything’s fine, we’re fine, they didn’t hit any of my crews downtown, they sent a small team, and I think that’s it. The main raids have been in Denver metro.”

“Good,” I said, unclear what this meant for us.

“And look, guys, I know you’re tired, but I’m shorthanded. You gotta go straight to work, ok?”

“Ok,” we said.

“Excellent. Excellent, that’s the spirit, now follow me, quick tour, shower, and then out.”

He led us inside the motel.

Red concrete walls, tiles, seventies American TV vibe. Nothing broken, though, and cleaner than even Ricky’s place in Vedado.

“Shower’s to the right, María. In and out in ten minutes tops. When you’re done you’ll find a uniform on the hook. Put it on. I’ll find one for you, too, Francisco. Hey, is it ok to call you Paco?”

“Everybody does.”

“Good, we don’t have much time. Have a shower and I’ll get you something to eat. Think I’ll take one myself, it’s been one of those days.”

The shower felt good.
Hot
water. High pressure.

I soaped and cleaned and got out the smell of Sheriff Briggs.

I put on the clothes Esteban had found for me: a white blouse, a pair of black slacks, black shoes a size too big.

Paco came out of his shower in the same getup. White shirt, black pants. He’d shaved and slicked back his hair. He looked handsome and I told him so.

“I knew you’d succumb to my wiles, they all do,” he said with a grin.

After Paco, Esteban came out of the shower fixing his shirt.

The big winter coat had concealed his true bulk. Six foot something, nearly three hundred pounds. He looked small next to the sheriff but he was bigger than all the Mexicans. Powerful arms and chest, a pale yellowy pallor to his skin. Not an unattractive man, and I imagined he could turn on the charm when he wanted.

He buttoned the shirt, smoothed out his beard.

“That’s better, eh?” he said. “Now, follow me, my car’s around the back.”

His car was the newish black Range Rover from Ricky’s photograph. Huge. Did everyone drive boats in this land? I saw the dent above the left front light. It was still unrepaired. About the size of a dinner plate. I stared at it. I didn’t get a vibe from it. But as Hector and Díaz were always telling me, vibes were unscientific.

Ask him about it in a day or two.

We got in the back and Esteban sped out of the parking lot before we’d even got the doors closed.

“Normally I’d give you guys the speech over some tequila, but we don’t have much time tonight, so just listen, ok? You’ll stay here in the motel, you’ll work for me, and you’ll do what I tell you to do. You’ll pay me a hundred dollars a week for the room. Most weeks you’ll earn a good bit more than that. But when you don’t you still owe me the money. Understand?”

His dialect was slangy chingla Spanish but I understood it.

“Yes,” I said.

He patted my arm. “María, you were probably pretty cagey with the sheriff. Are you sure you don’t want to work as a prostitute?”

“Yes.”

“Even blow jobs? You’re not bad looking. Ad on Craigslist. Fifty dollars a pop. You get twenty-five, I get twenty-five. Small commission to the SD. Take Sundays off, still make six, seven hundred a week. Good money.”

“No.”

“All right. It’s going to be harder for you, but if that’s what you want. Anytime you wanna change your mind, lemme know, ok? Paco, you’ll be working construction here until we finish that building on Pearl Street, then I’ll probably move you to Boulder or one of the ski resorts. I’ll talk to Angel about your skills and we’ll work out your pay later, ok?”

“Ok,” Paco said.

“Fine, now both of you listen up. I’m a good guy, easygoing, but I don’t take any shit. This is the way it’s gonna be: you work real hard, you don’t complain about anything, you do what you’re told. Don’t fraternize with the locals and don’t try to fucking freelance, because the sheriff and I will find you out. He’ll beat you half to death and I’ll fucking turn you over to the INS. We don’t allow drugs in the motel. In fact, no drugs period except what you move for me. Booze is ok. Understand?”

“Yes,” we said.

“Now, where we’re going tonight is a party up on what they call Malibu
Mountain or Malibu Mesa. . . . Oh, we live on what the sheriff calls Wetback Mountain—it’s kind of a joke—but if you ever get lost, just ask for the Bear Creek Motel. That’s what the place is called in the phone book.”

It was pitch-black outside but as we climbed up the hill I could see huge houses on either side behind elaborate gates and stone walls. It was familiar.

Another of Ricky’s black-and-whites.

Yes.

And this time on cue:
the fucking chills
.

“What’s the name of this road?” I asked.

“This is the Old Boulder Road, some of the locals call it Suicide Stre—”

Rushing sound in my head.

The Old Boulder Road.

The very place.

Blood, ice, death.

“Are you ok?” Paco asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s the matter back there?” Esteban asked.

“We’re very hungry. We haven’t eaten anything since New Mexico,” Paco said.

“Forgot about that,” Esteban muttered and rummaged in the glove compartment for a moment. He found a couple of candy bars and passed them back to us.

“Ok, eat fast, we’re here,” Esteban announced.

Here was one of the houses from the seventies that people back then thought were futuristic. A curved roof, brushed concrete walls, concrete pillars under a wide deck, big glass windows that would make it an oven in summer and an icebox in winter.

“You’re going to be working for Susan. She’s good. She’s CIA.”

My face paled again.

Esteban laughed. “Hyde Park, not Langley.”

I still didn’t get it.

“She’s a caterer. A chef. Come on, wake up, María. You’re overspill, nothing more. Do what she tells you to do. Don’t talk to the guests. When you’re finished she’ll call me and I’ll pick you up. And really, don’t talk to the guests, they’re big shots, but if anybody asks you for drugs, you tell them you can get them quality stuff. Canadian pot, cocaine from Mexico, and we got a new type of meth from Japan. Are you listening? What did I say?”

“Cocaine from Mexico, local pot, and meth from Japan,” I said.

“Good.”

“What about heroin?” Paco asked.

“Good question. I like you. Thinker. We don’t sell heroin in Fairview. We’ve had supplier problems. If anybody asks for heroin, of course tell them you can get it. If the price is right I’ll send someone to Denver to buy it. Ok, in you go, around the back, Susan’s waiting for you, she’ll tell you what to do. Do everything she tells you to do, don’t give her any fucking grief.”

A bowl of fruit. Oranges. Pears. Bananas. Kiwi. I’d never seen a real kiwifruit before. A day of firsts.