Fifty Grand

5 WETBACK MOUNTAIN

When 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.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you retarded? Stop staring at that and help get the rest of the stuff back into the van. We’re contracted until midnight and I’m not paying overtime to anyone.”

Susan was a thirty-year-old American with an efficient black bob, a twitchy nose, a pretty face, and an unpleasant demeanor.

“Sorry,” I said in English.

“Sorry? Sorry? Fuck sorry. I didn’t hire you as a conversationalist. We don’t have time for sorry. Get a fucking move on. Come on.”

Close to midnight. The food portion of the party was over. Four hours had gone by slowly.

Paco and I had been confined to the kitchen, washing dishes, emptying trash, taking food and drink to and from Susan’s van. Her staff, white girls and boys, did the serving, and when they weren’t doing that they stood there gossiping and watched us at the mucky muck.

“This is how Spartacus got started,” I muttered to Paco as I picked up the fruit bowl.

“Who?”

A girl nudged me and I stumbled in the too big shoes. Gravity worked the fruit bowl, oranges, pears, and kiwis trundling over the floor. I bent down and started putting them back.

“Trash,” Susan said.

“Pardon?” I replied.

“Basura. Fucking basura. They’re soiled now. Put them in the trash,” Susan said.

“The bananas have a, uhm…” the word escaped me. “La piel de banana, it, uh, it protects it.”

“What’s your name?” Susan asked.

“María.”

“You I won’t hire from Esteban again. Now shut the fuck up and put the soiled fruit in the trash bags.”

Susan went into the living room and announced the departure of her catering team. There was a brief discussion before she came back into the kitchen.

“We’re done, but there’s some tidying to do in the living room, a spill. You, er, wouldn’t mind awfully staying until it’s done,” she said to me with bogus conciliation. “I’ll tell Esteban to come for you in twenty minutes.”

“Of course,” I said and added “hacete cojer” under my breath.

She and her minions filed out the back door and Paco and I went into the living room to look for the spill.

Dim lights, smoke, half a dozen men sharing a joint and listening to Pink Floyd on a gigantic silver stereo. The men were all in their thirties or early forties. They didn’t notice when we came in but I could see immediately why we were required. Someone had spilled red wine on a Persian rug. We went back into the kitchen and got a sponge and a bowl of hot water.

When we returned, the movie actor Brad Pitt was at the front door waving to the party guests.

“I can’t stay. I just popped in to say hi,” Pitt said.

“Oh, come on, man,” someone replied.

“No, no, I really can’t stay, I was up at Cruise’s and now we’re going to Vail. I just thought I’d say hi,” Pitt went on.

I stood there looking at him, covered in grime, dripping sweat, holding a sponge and a bowl of filthy water-the dissonance between this moment and the encounter of my fantasies was quite marked.

Of course, I had seen Brad Pitt many times on Chinese bootlegs. Troy was the last movie Ricky and I had watched together-that’s the one where Pitt plays Achilles, son of Zeus. Tonight he had a beard and was wearing an ugly wool hat, but he still looked like a god.

“What’s the matter?” Paco asked beside me.

“Brad Pitt,” I hissed.

“Who?”

“Mierde, haven’t you heard of anybody?” I muttered.

Pitt grumbled something, waved, and was gone. The rest of the men went back to their marijuana.

We started cleaning the stain but it was heavy going. The carpet was thick and it looked like a whole bottle had gotten spilled on it and soaked there for a while before anyone noticed.

When the music ended the men’s conversation drifted over.

“Where’s Doctor Marvin?”

“He’s gone.”

“Thank Christ. Shrink with a chip on his shoulder, last thing we need when Cruise comes in.”

“Cruise isn’t coming.”

“He’s coming.”

“Dude, it’s after midnight, Cruise isn’t coming now.”

“Fuck.”

“Hey, did I ever tell you that I was in Mission Imp-”

“Only a million fucking times.”

“Jesus, no need to jump down my throat.”

“Nice of Pitt to drop in.”

“Yeah, he’s like that. Probably the whole clan with him, out in a fucking minivan or something.”

“Spacey was here before you came.”

“Shit, was he? He’s the fucking bomb.”

“Jesus, update your slang, why don’t ya?”

“They were good together in that movie.”

“Yeah.”

The marijuana smoke came our way and I began to feel light-headed. It was strong stuff, much stronger than the black rope they sold on O’Reilly.

“Yeah, fuck Cruise.”

“Fucking Scientologists.”

“Hey, careful.”

“You never see that many Jewish Scientologists. Go to one seder and you’ll know why. It’s all about the dialectic, the interpretation; Jews ask too many questions.”

“Tambor.”

“Exception proves the rule.”

“Worse than the Scientologists are the fucking born-agains and the-”

“Oh, I saw this bumper sticker today, ‘Come the Rapture, Can I Have Your Car?’ ”

“Man, that’s funny, I got to get one of those.”

“No, dude, it’s only funny if you got a shitty car. You drive a fucking Porsche, that’s not funny.”

Paco looked at me. “We need more water,” he said. I didn’t answer. The pot was tripping me.

“María,” he said and snapped his fingers in front of my face, his gesture the reversal of me to him, yesterday.

“Sorry, I was listening to their conversation,” I told him.

“Dope bullshit,” Paco said with contempt.

Paco took my arm and helped me back to the kitchen. I opened a window and breathed cold air.

“Where’s the garbage bag with all those bananas and oranges?” I asked Paco.

“Why?”

“I would love an orange.”

Paco fished out the oranges, the kiwis, and the bananas and washed them off.

“Take them with us. We’ll have them later,” he said.

We went back into the living room with clean water and a new sponge. Two of the men had now gone and there were only four left. I recognized one of them from Ricky’s photographs. Jack Tyrone, a minor film star and, more important, someone on Ricky’s list. I wondered if this was his house. I looked around me. Was this the home of a movie star? It was hard to tell in the dim ambient light. It was certainly huge but weren’t all American houses huge? The apartments on Friends were fucking enormous.

Tyrone’s picture didn’t do him justice. He was more charismatic and certainly more handsome than Ricky’s snap, even now when he was stoned and obviously on the verge of passing out.

We got back to the stain. More snippets:

“Yeah, you don’t fucking know.”

“I do know. I am a connoisseur.”

“Just as Christopher Hitchens is no George Orwell, so Beth Gibbons is no Sandy Denny.”

“Yeah, the way Cruise is no Gary Cooper.”

“Shut up, he might still come.”

“Fucker’s not coming.”

“The way you talk, I should tell your mother.”

“My mother’s from Brooklyn. Outswear you any day.”

“Well, he’s no actor.”

“Sure he is. You ever see that Oliver Stone one?”

“He can’t be a good actor because he holds back. You gotta give everything. You gotta commit to the truth. If he’s gay and he’s not out how can he give us anything but a shadow performance?”

“That’s bullshit. Spacey’s not out and he’s a hell of an actor.”

“Dude, pass that over… thanks… Shit, can you get me some of that?”

“Maybe. What’ll you do for me?”

“I’ll get you a part in the new J. J. Abrams.”

“Really? I’d do anything to be in a Star Trek movie.”

“He’s shitting you.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“Yeah.”

“You fucker. Christ, Jack, you’ve got more mood swings than Robin Williams backstage at an awards show.”

“Leave him alone, he’s just a kid.”

“Jack’s not that young. On his headshots he says he’s twenty-nine. And on Wikipedia it says he’s thirty, but really he’s thirty-one.”

“Damn it, Paul, you’ve got a big mouth.”

“I think that’s it,” Paco said, looking at the stain.

It was it. The stain was mostly gone. Baking soda might have done a faster job, but muscle and hot water can do just about anything.

We went back into the kitchen. Paco couldn’t stand to listen to any more of their dialogue so he closed the shutters to the living room. I sat on a stool at the marble breakfast bar and got a glass of water.

“What now, do you think?” Paco asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

We killed ten and Esteban came in through the back door.

“All set?” he asked.

I could see by his watch that it was nearly one in the morning. No wonder Paco and I were both exhausted.

“We’re done,” I said.

“You did well, guys. I threw you right into the fire and you did well,” Esteban said with a wide, expansive grin.

“Can we go home now?” Paco said.

“Yeah. I’ll say our good nights.”

Esteban went into the living room and after a moment he came back with Jack Tyrone. Jack’s eyes were red and his face puffy.

“I want to thank you for helping out tonight. You guys were probably on the go from early this morning,” he said.

You don’t know the half of it, I thought.

We nodded and Esteban said, “Well, good night, Señor Tyrone.”

But Jack wasn’t ready to let us go just yet. “Wait a minute,” he muttered, then yelled “Paul!” back into the living room.

Paul was another giant. This was the land of the giants. I wondered if this was Paul Youkilis from Ricky’s file?

If so-

“What is it?” he asked Jack.

“Tip?” Jack wondered.

“Oh God, yeah, fantastic job. Where’s what’s-her-name? Left already? You guys did the hard work, I’ll bet,” Paul said. Jack opened Paul’s wallet and gave us each a fifty-dollar bill.

“Oh, come on, Jack, a hundred bucks?” Paul complained.

Paco took the bills quickly. We nodded a thank-you.

“Job well done, even if fucking Cruise or Travolta didn’t show. Pitt came and he can buy and sell those guys,” Jack said and leaned against a door. He shook Esteban’s hand. “Esteban, is it?” he asked.

Esteban nodded.

“Yeah, I swear to God, I’m on your wavelength, man, Mexicans are just like us Micks, we’re Catholics, we have lots of kids, we’re religious. Difference is that you guys work harder and, truth be told, you have better food.”

Esteban faked a laugh and Jack started laughing. The laugh turned into a hacking cough. Paul got him a glass of water and led him back to the others.

“Let’s go,” Esteban said with disgust.

We grabbed the fruit and went outside into the cool mountain air.

At the side of the house I noticed a white Bentley. The white Bentley. No chills this time. Over that.

“Whose car?” I asked Esteban.

“Señor Tyrone’s, I think,” he said.

It was too dark to examine the paintwork but I’ll bet the garage had done a good job. Invisible mending. All traces gone.

“Home?” Paco said to Esteban.

“Wait a minute,” Esteban muttered, then took one of Jack’s fifties from Paco and pocketed it. “I take fifty percent of all tips. You two can split the other.”

Paco was too tired to complain. I was hypnotized by Jack’s car.

Esteban drove back to the motel and showed us to our room. Clean, small double with two beds, a shower, and a heater that you had to feed with quarters.

Beat as we were, we were too pumped and hungry to go to bed just yet and we found ourselves in the second-floor communal kitchen.

“Beer?” Paco asked and passed me a Corona.

I knocked it back in one and he cracked me another.

“What’s there to eat around here?” he asked.

“Let me see,” I said.

I opened up cupboards. An embarrassment of riches. Cilantro, chives, tomato, onion, garlic, peas, lettuce, peppers, and a fridge full of meat and cheese and beer. Like the house of a Party member.

I found that I wanted to cook for him, this kid, this man. I wanted to provide, the way you couldn’t in Havana.

“Put some rice on,” I told him. “And look for tortillas.”

While he did that I chopped an onion, mashed the garlic, diced a jalapeño, and fried them in olive oil. I threw in some cooked chicken and chicken stock and when they had all gotten to know one another for a while I slid in chopped tomato and minced cilantro and let them cook. When the chicken was brown I added a can of black beans and a can of red beans and let it reduce while the rice finished. Finally, I took a couple of tortillas and placed them in the oven.

“Man, this is good. What do you call this?” Paco asked.

“Havana chicken stew.”

“Havana?”

“Oh, I mean, just a regular chicken stew, that’s all it is.”

“Well, it’s good.”

It was good. The ingredients were fresh and plentiful and we were famished. It made me feel good. This was how life was supposed to be. Not scrimping and saving and fighting over scraps.

We ate by the window and looked out at the street. No cars, no snow, just trees and vague distant lights on the highway. We talked. He told me about Nicaragua. He’d been orphaned early, begged in Managua, ran off to the jungle to be a soldier, drifted to Guatemala and then Mexico.

I made up lies about Yucatán, bringing in things from Santiago and Havana. Paco nodded and was so kid sincere it made me feel terrible.

For dessert we had more beer and I ate the orange, the kiwifruit, the banana, and an apple. I couldn’t figure out the kiwi and Paco had to show me how to prepare it. He took the skin off with slender cuts and sliced the inside into five pieces. It was delicious. All the fruit was delicious and it made me hate the Party bureaucrats who deprived us of fruit so that it could be exported for foreign currency or turned into juice or made available only in the off-limits beach hotels.

One more beer and we staggered to our room and before I even hit the pillow I was gone, gone, gone.