Flipping Out (28 page)

'I know, but
this doctor, he needs grown-up people who have the immunities for the disease.
I pick them up when they arrive in the US.'

'Where do you
pick them up? LAX?'

'Near the
border,' Castaneda said, 'but I don't know how they get there. Could be legal,
could be not so legal. I don't ask for who was the travel agent. I just pick
them up, three, four guys at a time, and I drive them to a medical lab.'

'Where?'

'It's a van, so
it's never in the same place.'

'And what
happens when you take them to this rolling medical research lab?' Terry said.

'I wait outside.
They go in and some nurse takes blood and tells them piss in a cup. Then they
each get assigned an ID number, and the nurse gives them a hundred bucks
apiece. Then I drive them to a safe place.'

'A nice, cosy place
with beds in the living room, like here?' Terry said.

'Yeah. Here.
Then maybe a week or two later, I get a call from this guy. Sometimes he tells
me to release them all. Just tell them to go. But sometimes he gives me the ID
number of one of them. I take that guy down to the Roadium in my van, and
somebody comes and picks him up.'

'But first he
pays you for your trouble.'

'It's no
trouble, bro. It's all for medical science. Help the childrens.'

'The guy who
pays you,' I said. 'What's his name?'

'Don't know.
This time I really swear. I call him the Professor's Assistant, because he's
not the doctor, he's just, you know...like the assistant.'

Terry had a
screenshot of Tony handing Raoul the envelope, is this the Professor's
Assistant?' he said.

Castaneda was
amazed. '
Mierda.
Where you get
these pictures?'

'They came with
the wallet when I bought it,' Terry said. 'Answer the question, asshole.'

'That's him.
That's the Professor's Assistant.'

Terry held up
the picture of Esteban again. 'And with so many border jumpers to choose from,
why was the Professor's Assistant willing to pay for this particular one?'

'I told you,
man. Esteban is one of the lucky ones who's got the immunities for this
children's disease.'

'And why is that
lucky?

'Oh man,' Castaneda
said, 'it's like winning the lottery. If you got the immunity, they give you an
operation, and they pay you big-time.'

'How big-time?'

'Twenty-five
thousand dollars, US. You know what a guy can do with that kind of money back
in Mexico? You live like King Tuck, man.'

Normally Terry
would have backed off and let me step in. Then I would go a little easier on
the guy. But Castaneda was a scumbag who didn't deserve a Good Cop.

'You're lying
through your rotten yellow teeth,' Terry yelled. 'Who pays twenty-five thousand
dollars to let them cut you open? What kind of bullshit operation are you
talking about?'

Castaneda was
both scared and pissed. 'I'm trying to explain, man.
Es verdad.
If I'm lying,
God should strike my father dead.'

'And your
mother,' Terry said.

Castaneda
hesitated. 'OK, and my mother. The operation is on your back. I don't know what
they do, but I think they cut out some cells that have the immunities, and they
make medicine for these sick little kids. I'm not making this shit up. I know guys
who did it. They say it's very painful, but for twenty-five thousand, it's
worth it, man.'

'Prove it,'
Terry said. 'We need to talk to someone who had this bogus operation.'

'Oh shit, senor,
but with all that money, they go home to Mexico. My job is to make sure they
get back safe. They call me, and I pick them up somewhere, like maybe the bus
station. Then I drive them down to the bridge at San Ysidro. My brother, he's
waiting. He has a nice little hotel in Tijuana. These guys have a pocket full
of
dinero.
They need some
pussy and tequila before they go home and give it all to the wife.'

'And they pay
you for the ride home?' Terry said.

'I don't charge
so much,' he lied. 'It's for medical research.'

'Right,' Terry
said. 'For the little childrens. So I guess we can't talk to Esteban, because
you drove him back to the border.'

'Not me,'
Castaneda said. 'This guy Esteban you looking for, he never called me. Maybe he
likes it here in LA.
Quien sabe?'

'Is he the only
one that stayed here?' I asked.

'Yes. No.'

'Pick one and
stick with it,' Terry said.

'Paco went back
to Mexico, but then he came back to LA.' Castaneda held up his hand, heading
off the next question. 'His name is Paco Saldamondo. He hadn't been home for a
year, then he gets called for the operation. He wanted to surprise his wife
with the money, so he went back to his village, but he got a big surprise
himself. The bitch was pregnant. So he kept the money and came back to LA.'

'Where do we
find him?'

'He bought a taco
stand. Eighth Street near Broadway. He's there every day except Sunday.'

'And that's it?'
Terry said. 'He won the lottery, and he's running a taco stand in downtown LA
six days a week? If that's not living like King Tuck, I don't know what is.'

'So if your name
was Paco, and you sold tacos,' I asked Terry as we drove downtown, 'what would
you call your place?'

'Shirley's
Diner.'

The real Paco, of
course, wasn't nearly as droll as Terry. He went with Paco's Tacos. It was
lunchtime when we got there, and the joint was jammed. The line outside was ten
deep, and the picnic tables that surrounded the little building were filled
with a multiethnic crowd munching and chattering away.

'Good vibe,'
Terry said. 'We might as well get some lunch.'

We walked to the
front of the line, and were immediately bombarded with a chorus of 'where do
you assholes think you're going' in two languages.

We didn't owe
any of them an explanation, but it was smarter to flash a badge than start a
riot. Even so, one woman yelled out, 'You think that entitles you to buck the
line?' Then she gave us the finger.

We stepped up to
the window, ID'd ourselves to the counterman, and asked for Paco. There was a
barrage of Spanish, and a short, roly-poly man who looked like the Mexican
version of the smiley-face icon came running to the window. He held up a framed
copy of his California health permit.

'Excellent,' I
said. 'Can we come in?'

He nodded
vigorously, waved us around the back, and let us in.

Paco Saldamondo
was all heart and no brains. Unlike the traditional
immigrant-comes-face-to-face-with-authority-figure initial encounter, Paco
seemed genuinely happy to see us, and immediately offered to feed us.

'We have a few
questions first,' I said. 'We've been talking to your friend, Raoul Castaneda.'

His face went
grim. 'He's no my
amigo
,'
Paco said.

'Good,' Terry
said. 'Because he's a dirtbag.'

That brought the
smile back to Paco's face. Nothing wins trust like agreeing on a common enemy.

'I'm US citizen
now,' Paco said. 'Pay
mucho
taxes.'

'God bless
America,' Terry said.

We explained
that Raoul told us all about the medical research, and we asked about his
surgery.

'I'm so lucky,'
he said. 'I have immunities. The doctor takes them out. They pay me twenty-five
thousand dollars.'

'Do you remember
the doctor's name?' I said.

'No.'

'Gringo?'
I asked.

He laughed. 'No.
Doctor was Mexican. He had on mask, but we speak only Spanish. Real
Espanol
, no
gringo
Spanish.'

'Do you remember
where they did the surgery?' I said.

'Of course.'

He turned around
and lifted his shirt. There was a long scar that started near the centre of his
lower back and wrapped around the front.

'Right here they
give me operation.'

Terry and I
exchanged a look. We had been to enough autopsies to recognise kidney surgery
when we saw it. Paco was either too naive or too mesmerised by the twenty-five
grand to know it, but nobody had taken his immunities. They'd cut out a kidney.

'Thanks,' I
said, 'but I meant do you remember where they did the surgery? What place?'

'Oh,
si
. Los Angeles.'

'What hospital?'

'No hospital.
Some building. Maybe East LA. But is two years ago. Long time. Sorry. You
hungry? I get you a nice lunch.' He yelled out to one of the countermen in
Spanish, and the guy hustled for two clean plates.

'You're right,'
I said. 'Two years ago is a long time. Maybe we could talk to Esteban Benitez.
He had the surgery recently. Do you know him?'

He beamed. 'Nice
boy. Good boy.'

'Where can we
find him?'

'Quien sabe?
I'm thinking he maybe would come back for his grandfather's watch.'

'You have his
watch?'

'His
grandfather's,' Paco said. 'These boys, they come to America, no money. They
give it all to the coyote who helps him across the border. So they come here to
my place to eat, maybe borrow a few hundred dollars, while they wait to find
out if they have the immunities.'

'So he owed you
money,' I said.

He grinned.
'They all owe me money.
El Banco de
Paco.
So he give me his grandfather's watch for how you call it,
collateral. Is much more expensive than what he owes me. But he never come back
after he have the operation. Not to thank me, not to pay me, not even to get
the watch. He just disappear.'

'How long ago?'

'Three weeks, a
month, something like that.'

The counterman
gave a yell, and Paco escorted us to a little table in the back of the kitchen.
There were two taco platters with rice and beans waiting for us, along with
dos cervezas.
We passed on
the beer and opted for a couple of Cokes. He refused to let us pay. It wasn't a
bribe; it was just who the man was.

He nodded
gratefully as he watched us each take the first messy bite. We both gave him a
thumbs up. I could see why the line was so deep, and so pissed to be cut into.

'Enjoy,' he
said. 'If you find Esteban, tell him Paco still has his
abuelo’s
watch. Even if
he has twenty-five thousand dollars, is still family heirloom.'

He went back to
his lunchtime customers, while Terry and I ate.

'It never ceases
to mystify me just how dumb people can be,' Terry said. 'Here, let me cut a
hole in you and remove your immunities. Oh, look what I found. A kidney. I
wonder what I could get for that on eBay?'

'I'm willing to
bet you that Esteban never went to a doctor's office in his entire life,' I
said. 'He's a poor Mexican, and someone offers him a fortune for his
immunities, which he thinks will save kids from dying. Do you think he's going
to ask a lot of questions? He's not dumb, just clueless.'

'So Esteban
Benitez got a kidney harvested and then suddenly disappeared,' Terry said. 'To
a cop, that means one of three things. He had complications from the surgery
and is holed up somewhere, he got busted by immigration, or he's dead.'