The Coyote's Bicycle (35 page)

“What are these papers?” I asked.

“These are my interview notes.”

“Interview notes?”

“Yeah, my interview with the guy I'm talking about. I am a writer,” he said. “Like you.”

Then, El Negro began to read from the pages, and within a few minutes, maybe less, Watman, Ramon, El Negro, and I were walking along the gravelly roads of a leafy green Oaxacan village that boasted a dozen or more shacks, one tractor, one bicycle, and two small boys named Solo and Pablito.

25

In Roberto's estimation, Marta appeared a shade slender for a serious chef. Yet she moved about the kitchen with the confidence she'd exhibited on the ranch as a girl, even among colts in the stable. It wasn't austere so much as efficient. Her hair was up and she wore a dress for a special outing. But then she'd slipped her mother's heirloom apron on top. Below the trim of the calf-length dress, her ankles dipped into the kind of pumps she donned these days only for her dates with El Indio.

This was in fact a Tuesday, the one day she and Indio set aside for themselves. But on this occasion the couple had sweet-talked the entire household into treating the day like a traditional family fiesta. This required Roberto to take the day off as well. The hook had been Marta's promise to make her
chiles rellenos
with peron peppers. Marta's cooking was a treat. Roberto especially appreciated her
pintos refritos
, dark speckled beans she fried with a preparation of mustard and pepper. Even the smell that filled the kitchen from their cooking, he thought, was delicious. The beans and freshly chopped onion and cilantro provided the aroma, but the perons accounted for the flurry of activity. Though he never touched the raw ingredients himself, Roberto observed with such acute attention that years later
he could describe every step Marta took in preparing her labor-intensive specialty—the golden-yellow pods opened and the reedy veins and seeds removed; the waxy skin grilled on a hot
comal
, softening the flesh and giving that smoky flavor; each pepper individually wrapped in paper and set aside for easy peeling. Marta managed the pot of stewed beef with her sinewy arms as deftly as she'd later fold cheese into the tender parcels. Finally, the stuffed peppers were closed with toothpicks and a rich tomato salsa was ladled on top.

Though Marta approached the kitchen with a characteristic precision, from the outside patio Roberto noticed something additional—something cultivated and secretive. Plans; his clients carried them in their minds like the precious briefcases they'd pop open on the other side. And he recognized the look even as he hefted charcoal into the grill and tussled with an order of
carnitas
that he'd carried into the house like a fat child. Music played from the stereo. Their mother padded
masa
into tortillas and tossed them onto the
comal
. Roberto could make out the voices of other family members in the driveway. They admired a vehicle El Indio had purchased just that week. There were many distractions that afternoon. And still, Roberto mulled over Marta's demeanor. He wondered if his instinct hadn't been tainted, maybe by wafts of a less-than-noble emotion he'd experienced in recent times. It wasn't outright jealousy—he and the entire family were happy for Marta. They felt blessed, even. But Roberto recognized a feeling of displacement. The lovers Marta and Indio commanded the attention of his entire household. All conversation touched on the activities of El Indio, his business, and the success of what was called, in shorthand, “his idea.” At this moment, Roberto could hear a rather casual discussion between his own father and the young man he'd introduced to the family. And now his sister blissfully swayed to music while presiding over his wife's kitchen with a matron's confidence.

At the time of his courtship with Chedas, Roberto's people were still living far off in the mountains of Sinaloa. Tijuana was strange
and new and blossoming before them. The frontier city was always unpredictable. The couple built this home from almost nothing but their imaginations. They filled it with children, relatives, friends, and strangers. And now that foundational achievement was serving as a humble stage for a more dazzling romance.

Yet Roberto's family was content, which had not always been the case. And Roberto believed that his power, in business as well as in the home, derived from his big-tent mentality. There was more to be gained by including others in one's own successes and supporting them in their individual endeavors than in jealously guarding one's little tract of plenty. He'd seen more than one smuggler chase off potential allies. So Roberto cooled his thoughts. His own time in the sun had been long and fruitful. The present belonged to Indio and Marta.

Roberto caught the cascading sounds of more guests arriving—friends and associates. His children spilled onto the back patio like small gusts destined to slam shutters and open doors. Roberto lit the coals and they came to life with a small roar. Stereo volume increased, and chatter rose to meet it. The table was set. Lupita made trips to the kitchen, returning each time with new plates of colorful snacks. And no sooner had Roberto finished preparing the grill than he spied his father at the kitchen stoop, waving his arms for silence.

“Everybody listen,” the old man said. The guests turned to see the patriarch in his straw hat and plaid short-sleeved shirt. He'd stepped out of his normally reserved persona. “I have something special my wife Lupita and I would like to share. New things, good things.” He looked around him and called, “Dear Marta and Pablo, come please.”

Drawing the apron from her shoulders, Marta emerged from the kitchen. In view of the gathered, she was immediately shy. Indio broke from the center of the crowd to join Marta and the old man. His smile commanded his entire face—chin lifted, eyes alight. The father took their hands. The people hushed.

“Pablo has quickly become a natural member of the household, and one week ago, he came to me and he asked my permission to marry our youngest daughter, Marta. Her mother and I agreed, and more importantly so has she. So I present to you the news that Marta and Pablo will soon marry.”

The guests burst into cheers. Marta's eyes widened, a girl surprised by her own dreams said aloud. Indio looked to her, willing a glance, a ray of her attention.

The food was served. Some guests sat; some stood. Each party waited and circled around to congratulate the couple, who barely had an opportunity to eat or drink. Watching the pomp, Roberto thought, amusing himself,
So my baby sister is going to be a “Mrs.,” and he a “Mr. El Indio.”

“The announcement filled us with joy,” he said later. “We drank beer. We drank wine. You know, we put the music up and we danced and sang.”

At work on the borderline, El Indio carried the news of his engagement close to his heart. With Solo at the helm, the operation was running smoothly. Bright new workers had been brought in by Javy and Juan. Marta's network of
enganchadores
delivered
pollos
almost trouble-free, and for the time being, the group was well stocked with bicycles. Though he'd backed away from guiding migrants for strategic reasons, El Indio decided to take the next group. It had been some time since he'd connected with his brother Martín, who'd taken on the duties of pickup and liaison to distant cities. He hadn't seen the rest of his family for an even longer period. And this, likely, was a sticking point. Indio hesitated to share his joy and good fortune with his parents. He must have understood that his unannounced appearances and swift departures caused them to be guarded in his presence. He would have caught the raised eyebrows and the shrugging of shoulders. The family left a child behind in a faraway place, and now
this man came and went at odd hours, always with strangers in tow. It was almost certain, had he shared his news with his mother and father, his joy would have been met by village nail biting and skeptical glances. The very nature of his work precluded the open and honest disclosures expected of a son. El Indio comported himself as if this trip were like any other, a mere business run.

He and a young guy called Apolo had the
pollos
“nailed up against the fence.” This is what they called it when they put the migrants under or over the fence and ordered them to stand with their backs to the wall until the signal was given. Indio didn't like the look of their traditional point of entry. The two Border Patrol agents, each parked on the nearby mesa tops in their kilo trucks, weren't sticking to the expected schedule. “The action had gotten hot,” Apolo said. Something had occurred down at Playas that was pushing independent
pollos
east. “Things were always changing,” he said.

This was a busy time for Simon,
el checador
, whose job it was to divine the movements of
la migra
and keep tabs on floating migrants. Depending on the variables, Simon's report from the heights of Summit Canyon could force El Indio to choose from a few less-than-advantageous options. He might order a worker to approach privateering migrants and offer the bicycle service. Unaccompanied
pollos
, however, often did not have the means to pay. Or having crossed through the area in the past, they might have opted to chance it themselves. In this case, the
polleros
could ask the independents to hold off. But if they refused, or looked unreliable or sketchy in any way, the bicycle
polleros
could simply wait. Foot migrants would often provoke a chase through the bush, and depending on the number of Border Patrol agents involved, the field for El Indio could be left wide open.

El Indio's group was small that day and the seven bicycles had already been lifted over the primary fence and were resting on their sides. Indio also stood against the fence. He'd decided to let the
independent migrants attempt their crossing. Then he'd assess the area of operation. The cell phone's walkie-talkie soon beeped and Simon's voice came across. “They're on the inside,” he said, “and they're heading for the river mouth.”

Twelve thousand eight hundred ground sensors lay buried across the length of the border. Several hundred were said to exist in the five-mile stretch from San Ysidro to the ocean. These sensors were triggered by seismic disturbances—earth-shaking temblors, heavy construction, horses, running and walking people—and they were placed near known entry points and migrant trails. Their sensitivity could be calibrated according to location. Each device was associated with a number. When triggered, the sensor emitted a signal that was bounced off a repeater and then sent to dispatch. The receiving agent at HQ would pinpoint the sensor location using its number. That agent could then radio officers in the field to investigate the cause of the trigger. Faith in the sensors did not run high among rank and file, as they could be tripped by anything from rodents to corrosive elements in the soil. Or the sensors might be tripped by nothing. Sixty-two percent of their signals fell into the category of “unknown causes,” as opposed to the thirty-four percent known to be a false alarm.

El Indio had no way of knowing whether or not the independent crossers Simon followed with the binoculars had tripped a sensor. But at that moment, the Border Patrol agents surged into action and trundled down off the mesa tops. Indio waited. The dust trails settled. The wind kicked up again. Minutes later Simon called, “They're going for the river.
La migra
is after them. The way is open.”

The
polleros
ordered the clients to mount their bikes. “Remember, single file,” Indio said. “Keep your eyes on me; don't look behind, don't look to the sides.” The cyclists followed the team leader down a bumpy foot trail that eventually led onto a wide and grated dirt road. Apolo brought up the back. Indio increased the tempo to a fast
but sustainable pace. The pack elongated, then pulled in again—forming a train that stirred little dust. Simon's voice came over the walkie-talkie in Indio's breast pocket. “Still clear,” it said.

“And the paved road?” he asked.

“Clear for now.”

The bottom of the gulch road degraded into a dry wash that lapped up on a bend of Monument Road. Before the juncture rose a brace of pale and dusty cypress trees. Nearly eclipsed by the undergrowth was a small cement marker set in place by a forgotten Boy Scout troop. Its plaque designated this location as the entry point of Father Junípero Serra, founder of Alta California's mission system. Indio brought his bicycle to a slow stop and raised his fist into the halt signal. He turned in the saddle. “Stay here,” he said. Then he crept out to get a glimpse of Monument Road. It was empty. Indio waved the riders across, where they met a dirt farm lane that carried them off to the ample brush cover of the Tijuana River.

26

There are two central facts about the bicycle. First, it is the most efficient device ever created for the conversion of raw human power into locomotion. And second, there is something special about the people drawn to tinker and wrench on them. The proof is all around us—from freeways to airports to factories of mass production. The greatest by-product of the instrument that Susan B. Anthony called the “freedom machine” is the diaspora of remarkable people who had been inspired by bikes and, as a result, created a lot of remarkable things.

Many of these we just don't notice anymore. When I was about six or seven, I rode a hand-me-down bicycle with a metal seat and solid rubber tires. I loathed the tires because they spun out, absorbed little, and set me apart from the older kids on their pillowy and sleek pneumatic tires. But it turns out that solid rubber tires were an important gift, a great improvement over wood or steel wheels, given to us in the mid-1800s by Clément Ader—a Frenchman with a reedy mustache and eyebrows like a Muppet, who would go on to improve Alexander Graham Bell's telephone, install the first telecommunications system in Paris, and build three airplane prototypes that looked like nefarious and great-winged bats.