California Girl

30

NICK STEERED THE RED ROCKET south on I-5 while Lobdell smoked a cigarette and looked out at the new nuclear power plant at San Onofre.

The Country Squire had two surfboards strapped to the top and food and water and camping gear in the back. Nick and Lobdell had tried to dress more like surfers than cops but Nick figured they just looked like cops in sandals. They couldn’t grow out their hair much in three days. Nick hadn’t shaved and Lobdell said he hadn’t used any Vitalis. Nick almost smiled when he first saw Lucky’s small white feet.

“Look at that,” said Lobdell.

There was a Camp Pendleton Marine Corps helicopter low over the water on exercise, dangling a single soldier by a long rope, sea spray flying, blades flashing in the sun. Eighteen thousand dead, thought Nick. Clay killed near a village. Body at Angel’s Lawn now but like he was never here. What bothered Nick wasn’t that people died but that they were forgotten. Made him shudder if he thought about it so he didn’t. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling he’d had during David’s prayer last night.

In San Ysidro they got Oscar Padilla car insurance and lunch. Lobdell wanted Sambo’s for the last American food they’d get for a day or two. Maybe longer. Couldn’t find one, though, so they settled on Denny’s. Fine with Nick, who looked out the darkened windows at the bustling border town. Kept an eye on the Country Squire. Quite a load of valuables hidden down in it, under all the surf and camp gear. A short man bent by a shoulderload of serapes shuffled across the parking lot.

Once across Nick got into the TJ way of driving. Plenty of horn work and don’t slow down or move over unless you have to. They honked and lurched through downtown, past the shopwindows of dresses and watches and jewelry and drawn chickens hanging with the feet still on. A taxi zoomed by on their right, almost picked off a guy jumping onto the curb. Nick watched an ancient Chevrolet pass with a rooftop loudspeaker blaring out the virtues of Fanta soft drink.

“Even smells different down here,” said Lobdell. Told Nick about this bar named the Blue Fox, had live donkey shows. Never been to one and had no interest but knew some guys who had.

Then up the grade out of Tijuana, past the shantytowns in the hills, past the bullring and the hospitals for cancer cures to the coast road overlooking the brown rock cliffs and the deep roiling sea.

Nick looked out at the trash fires burning and the “No Basura” signs. A pack of skinny, big-eared dogs trotted along through the fires. Nick slowed for two Tijuana cop cars off to the right, lights flashing, four tan-uniformed cops standing over a body in the gutter. Around the bend a mountain of worn-out tires exhaled a tornado of black smoke that rose and spread out over the ocean in the faint offshore breeze.

“When the hippies complain about America, I tell ’em to come down here and look at this place,” said Lobdell.

Nick watched a big rig barrel down the highway toward them, hoped the guy’s brakes were decent. Eased the Red Rocket as far to the right as he could but the truck kept drifting over. No shoulder. A cliff to the right. Nick felt the gravel under his right-side tires. His forearms locked and his car was swallowed by shadow, steel rushing past the windows, slam of wind and diesel roar, and Nick could feel how really light the Country Squire was, could feel it skittering on the gravel, wondered if the surfboards were about to tear off. Then a burst of blue sky and brown cliff as the curve of asphalt carried him into the next pass.

“Close,” said Lobdell.

“Still got my side mirror,” said Nick, hands shaking and stomach rock hard.

“Best country in the world for your car to break down,” said Lobdell. “They can fix anything with anything.”

MEXICO STATE Highway 1 led south through La Gloria and Costa Azul. Then Rosarito, Popotla, and Punta Descanso. El Morro and Santa Martha. Santini Las Gaviotas and Puerto Nuevo.

“Been there for lobster?” asked Lobdell.

“Katy won’t come down here,” said Nick.

“Two-fifty for a full dinner. Shot of tequila, complimentary. Little place called Chela. You get to pick the lobster you want. Good bugs.”

They pulled over in La Fonda, just a few miles north of Ensenada.

“Cortazar said here, because there’s tourists,” said Lobdell. “But we’re still away from Ensenada. He said park down by the hotel.”

Nick got out and stretched his legs. Imagined that truck bearing down on them again. Cooler here than in Orange County. Stiff breeze and the water crashing below. Vendors with pottery and silver and piñatas. Elvis and Rolling Stones and Beatles posters lacquered onto plywood. A boy selling small shellacked sand sharks on strings. Nick got two for Willie and Stevie. Seashell necklace for Katherine, really nice. Silver butterfly on a chain for Katy. Chiclets for everyone.

“Come on, tourist,” said Lobdell. “Cortazar is here.”

They drove down a dirt road behind a dusty brown Chevy. Then up a hillside. Cortazar was an Ensenada cop Lobdell knew from years ago. They’d met working a car theft ring in fifty-five. It was a two-country operation, real pros, but OCSD and Cortazar’s state police busted the ring on its ass and everybody came out looking good. Lucky and Cortazar stayed in touch. Cortazar moved to Ensenada policía municipal and helped Lucky get a gringo rape fugitive back stateside in nineteen-sixty. Off-the-record kind of thing, because the United States-Mexico extradition treaty was tough to work with. Friends were the only way things got done down here and the Mexicans said the same thing about the Estados Unidos. Lucky had reciprocated two years later up in O.C. on a kidnap case. Later helped Cortazar’s boy get a car wash job in Orange County, get good papeles and into a junior college. Kid was managing five car washes now, owned a home in Santa Ana.

The Chevy climbed a gentle rise, then took a sandy right turn and stopped. Nick followed and got out. Stood on the bluff top in the middle of the dead brown grass. Ocean across the highway, no clouds in the October sky. Burnt smell in the air.

Cortazar was dark and heavy. Mustache, nice smile, dark dome of head beaded with sweat. Big revolver on a thick belt, pants too big, cuffs dragging in the sand as he followed Lobdell to the back of the Red Rocket. His partner was Marcello. Young and thin and hardly spoke.

Nick swung open the door, flipped up the two small seats Willie and Stevie loved to use. Even with plenty of room up with Katherine, they’d sit back there and make faces at the motorists until Nick made them crawl back over and sit still and act like human beings. He missed the kids extra now, out here in the middle of this eternally burning nowhere.

Nick let Lobdell pull up the first burlap bag. Lobdell lifted it and looked around quickly. Cortazar chuckled but Marcello didn’t. Lobdell untied the top, took the bottom and emptied it onto one of the little red vinyl seats. Two.22 automatic handguns, six.38 revolvers, two.357 magnum revolvers, and four.45 autos.

Cortazar whistled. Marcello stared.

Nick and Lobdell had gotten them out of the property room. It was a verbal transaction, “approved” but deniable. The weapons had been confiscated from criminals. Not material to any pending cases. Not salable. Not useful. These would be listed as destroyed. One hundred seventy-four more where they came from and more coming every week. Most of them ended up in the ocean. Lobdell had said that these were destined for “undersupplied Mexican law enforcement personnel” in return for “information on an American beauty queen killer now residing out-of-country.” He told the property room sergeant they had enough on the guy to send him to the gas chamber twice. The property room sergeant had helped load them into Nick’s take-home. The truth was the Mexican cops would keep most of them for themselves because the cops in Mexico had trouble getting permits for personal firearms. And they could always use a good throw-down gun. Made Nick think of the Mexico charity runs that David’s church always made.

Nick had felt like a gunrunner bagging the weapons, then transferring the heavy, bulging bags into the family wagon under the bright lights of his garage last night. Katy had helped. And said for heaven’s sake don’t scratch my car and please be careful down there, there’s no way I can raise these kids alone. It was late after the dinner at David and Barb’s. The kids were asleep when Nick and Katy were done loading in the rifles and Katy switched off the garage light and pushed him onto the front seat of the Red Rocket and made love to him. Wouldn’t let him up until she showed him how she felt. Cried when it was over, just a little. Said please be really careful down there ’cause if you don’t come back I’ll wanna die but won’t be able to. Nick still couldn’t figure what had gotten into Katy since the Orange Sunshine extravaganza but he liked it. Miraculous, like they were eighteen again.

The second bag contained ammunition. It was good factory stuff, new and boxed. Courtesy of OCSD, said Lobdell as Cortazar smiled and nodded.

The rifles and shotguns were under the folded backseats. Nick pulled out the cases one at a time and handed them to Lucky. A Remington 12-gauge automatic, a Winchester 12-gauge pump, two Marlin.22 automatics, two old Springfields, and a nice bolt-action.30-06 with a custom stock and a good Weaver scope. And two surplus ammunition boxes, incredibly heavy as Nick yanked them up off the floorboards and carried them to the rear of the wagon.

“For ducks, coyotes, and deer,” said Lobdell.

“But of course,” said Cortazar with a chipper grin.

Marcello smiled slightly and Nick looked down into the rear bed of the Red Rocket and the twenty-one firearms and ammunition that lay there in the bright Baja sun.

“We can use these,” said Cortazar.

“You got them,” said Lobdell.

“We can use Bonnett,” said Nick.

“You’ll get him,” said Cortazar. “He will never remove another head.”

THEY BACKTRACKED to Rosarito and spent the night at the big hotel. They’d meet Cortazar the next morning and go get Bonnett. Cortazar didn’t say exactly how. But he didn’t want Bonnett’s people making two gringo cops in Ensenada. At the hotel they just looked like a couple of surfers down for the waves.

Kind of, thought Nick. They ate in the hotel dining room. Quiet on a Monday in fall. Nice view of the long flat beach. Horses and riders up and down the sand. Waves small and no surfers out. A gang of vultures and a gang of seagulls battled over a large black lump that had washed up. Seagulls seemed to be winning until the incoming tide rolled it loose and pulled it away.

Lobdell went to his room and Nick stayed in the cantina. He sipped a couple of shots of good tequila recommended by the bartender. Nick thought about Katy and the kids, then Clay, then Sharon. Couldn’t shake the feeling that the family would never be together again like the night before. Worried about David. Pale and quiet and peaceful like someone going into shock.

NEITHER NICK nor Lobdell could sleep long so they drank coffee, had breakfast, and waited for Cortazar. The Ensenada cop said there was no reason to do this early. In Mexico good things never happen early. No, go late and be relaxed.

Just before noon Cortazar’s beaten Chevy appeared behind the cantina. Cortazar waved. Marcello sat beside him, thin as a switchblade. Behind the Chevy was a low-slung black Mercury with big rust spots and mismatched wheel covers. Four more men, staring straight ahead like you might overlook them. Nick looked at each face, notched them into memory.

He fell in behind the Mercury and picked up Highway 1 south. Cortazar had explained that Bonnett would talk to him because the men in the Mercury had vouched for him. The men were not cops. They were marijuana businessmen from Nayarit. “Friends” of Bonnett. Actually, they were cops, it was just that Bonnett didn’t know this. The purpose of this meeting was for Cortazar to present himself to Bonnett as an agreeable Ensenada policeman eager to discuss a private airstrip owned by business-minded friends. Marcello was with him to establish Cortazar’s “seriousness.” Cortazar said that the six cops would control the situation and return to Nick and Lobdell with a handcuffed Señor Bonnett. Simple.

When Nick had asked him how many people were inside Bonnett’s compound, Cortazar had shrugged and frowned as if Nick had missed a crucial point.

Cortazar’s Chevy pulled off the highway at a signal, followed by the black Merc. Nick fell in behind and the caravan headed east. The road was dirt and wide and Nick clipped along at forty in a traveling cloud of dust. Saw a rock-pile memorial with plastic flowers faded by the sun. Then the road turned to washboard and Nick saw the camp gear jump into the air in the rearview and heard the shudder of shocks and the chatter of the dashboard like every nut and bolt was coming loose.

“Knock the fillings out of your teeth,” said Lobdell. “But they got good dentists down here. Cheap.”

Nick couldn’t see much through the dust. Just scrub and brown grass hills. Some skinny cattle behind a fence of barbed wire and twisted branches. A post with a hubcap nailed on top to mark someone’s driveway. A heavy old woman with her hair in a bun squinting at them as they went past.

The road got worse. A steep rocky rise. Then a long downslope carved by ruts left and right where the rain had funneled down over the years. Nick pulled down into first gear, had to get the wagon’s tires to straddle some of the ruts but fit between others. Hit the brakes too hard and you slid and ended up in a ditch. He could barely see the red hood through the brown dust.

“Funny that Cortazar’s boy ended up in the car wash business,” said Lobdell. “Must have had good training, growing up down here.”

A mile. Then two. Cortazar had told them they would stop three kilometers in. There, Nick was to turn left onto another dirt road and proceed five hundred meters, then turn around, pull off to the side, and wait. Turn off the engine. Nobody from Bonnett’s compound would be able to see them. If someone did, they’d figure lost surfers. Nick and Lobdell were to stay in the car.

Another ten minutes and the taillights of the Mercury appeared like red eyes in a mist. Nick slowed and turned left. Saw Cortazar wave, then his tires lift a fresh cloud as he accelerated toward Bonnett’s compound. The driver of the Mercury looked back at Nick with sleepy disinterest, then the back end of the black car jerked and threw a rooster tail of dust back at them.

“Prick,” said Lobdell.

Nick drove a few hundred yards, made a four-point U-turn, pulled to the right, killed the engine. Let the dust settle, then rolled down the windows. The plan was to wait for Cortazar to come back with Bonnett. Then follow them north to La Fonda. There, they would transfer the prisoner to a green and white Ensenada PM cruiser with a good safety screen and head for the border crossing in TJ. They would use the commercial vehicle gate, where Cortazar had friends who were expecting them. It would go smoothly. They’d actually push Bonnett through a chain-link gate, into the waiting arms of Orange and San Diego County sheriff’s deputies.

Happy ending, Cortazar had said.

Nick sat staring out at the dry hills. Warmer now, away from the beach. Lobdell smoked, flicked his butt into the middle of the road.

Then they heard the distant pop of gunfire. Fast and lots of it.

“What’s your call, Nick?”

“I want Bonnett.”

“You can get hurt or killed,” said Lobdell. “I can, too.”

“I can’t just sit here, Luck.”

“Me, neither. Cortazar’s a friend. Let’s dig our guns out of the back.”

THEY FOLLOWED the tire tracks for a bouncing, swerving mile. A sliding right, a left, then another fishtail of a right. Nick hoped they were following the right ones.

The compound lurched into view. A sprawling low casa. Two casitas toward the back. Three smaller outbuildings, all adobe. A big wooden barn behind. The wall around them was adobe, too, not high but lined on top with broken bottles. A practice bullring stood outside the wall to the east. On the west side was a strip of weed-sprouted asphalt and a faded wind sock. A shining Cessna prop plane waited at the far end, pointed south for takeoff, tie lines swaying in the breeze.

Fifty yards out Nick could see the compound gate was open. Saw Cortazar’s Chevy and the black Mercury parked end to end, the Merc just inside the gate, doors open. Someone slumped from the driver’s-side door. Someone lay on the ground near him. Another body in the dirt on the other side of the car.

He slid to a dusty stop and cut the engine. Heard the pop of it under the hood but no shots. Nothing else but his own heart beating in his chest.

Then, a man groaned. Pure pain. Like something from a distant hell.

Again. One long syllable, like he was trying to say something.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“Let’s get to the wall,” said Lobdell.

Nick threw open the door. Zigzagged a crazy pattern like they did at football workouts in high school. Breathing hard by the time he shouldered down against the adobe. Watched Lobdell lumbering across the brown earth with breathtaking slowness.

They lay in the hot dirt under the wall. Guns out, panting like dogs.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“It’s coming from behind the house,” said Nick.

“We can use the cars for cover going in,” said Lobdell. “You first.”

Nick crawled along the wall. Bull thorns and broken glass. Came to the open gate and the back end of the black Mercury. Looked around the corner at the driver spilled half out of the car. Faceup, arms out, blood dripping from his mouth. The windshield was shot out. Safety glass glittering on the hood and in the dirt like tossed handfuls of diamonds. The man beside him was facedown, a revolver near one hand, patch of dark blood under his chest. Nick put his face to the ground and looked past the Merc’s rear tires to the body on the other side. A big man, on his back, face toward Nick and the breeze moving his hair.

That left one from the Merc maybe still alive, thought Nick. And maybe Cortazar and Marcello. And maybe this is just a bad dream.

He heard Lobdell brake. Came up and braced his piece on the adobe gate stanchion. The stanchion crumbled and his weapon slipped but Nick saw nothing over the sights and heard nothing but Lobdell heaving to a stop beside him.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

Out of his mind with pain, Nick thought.

“Get the door open but wait for me,” said Lobdell. “Wait a second, get your wind.”

Nick took a deep breath. Got a good grip on the sweaty handle of the automatic. Hustled onto the driveway, jumped the dead man, and weaved his way to the shaded front porch of the casa. Made the portico steps in one leap, flattened himself against the cool adobe. Reached out and turned the knob and pushed it open.

Nick looked back toward Lucky. Lobdell charged up the driveway, stepped around the dead man and onto the porch.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

Nick swung his gun toward the nearest casita. Held steady on the front door but nothing moved. A bullet hole in the window glass, halo of blood around it. A curtain lilting.

Lobdell burst into the main house with his weapon up in both hands. Nick followed close behind him, scanning the dark interior. Big room. Big house. Smell of blood and gunpowder. Marcello dead on the tile floor right under them, gun out. Looked like he’d been shot eight or ten times. Two guys dead across from him Nick didn’t recognize. In the far end of the room Cortazar slouched dead on a big steerhide couch. Hands at his sides and no weapon out. Like he’d come in, sat on the couch, and been slaughtered. Another man on the kitchen floor Nick didn’t recognize. Marcello had taken down three but not enough.

Nick put his fingers to Marcello’s neck and got nothing. Lobdell tried Cortazar, then set his hand on Cortazar’s shoulder like he was consoling him. In the silence Nick heard eternity.

“We’re down to one,” he said.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“Maybe that’s him,” said Lobdell. “Go careful now, Nick.”

They checked the rest of the house. Nothing moving but the hands of a clock in the bedroom.

Out a back door then, toward the moan. Nick first and down low, Lobdell behind. The first outbuilding was full of marijuana bricks wrapped in brown paper. Stacked high as Nick’s head. A couple of industrial scales. Two small humidifiers misting away. Smell so strong Nick wondered if you could get high off it.

The second outbuilding was full of surfboards and wet suits, butane stoves, sleeping bags, tents. A rat scampered along the floor and whipped behind a surfboard.

The third building had a bloody drag mark on the front steps and an open front door. A revolver lay in the dirt. Nick could hear the fast breathing inside. He backed against the front wall.

“United States police! Come out.”

Again in Spanish.

“Can’t.”

“Bonnett?”

“Shot. Bad. Help. Ahhhhhhh…”

Cory Bonnett lay on his back, head up against the wall. Arms and legs spread. Breathing rapid and shallow. Face white and bloody, eyes heavy. His left knee was shot through from the back. Bones flaring outward, splinters and gristle and blood. Right palm blown apart where he’d tried to block a bullet and his right shoulder oozing blood where it had gone through.

Nick held steady on him. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Janelle Vonn.”

“I didn’t do it. Water?”

“I’ll get it,” said Lobdell. “If he jumps up all of a sudden, shoot him again.”

Nick saw Bonnett’s blue eyes open wider to see who had spoken, then nearly close again. Breathing faster now.

“Followed her to Tustin.”

“Why?”

“Worried.”

“Followed her but didn’t kill her?”

“Yeah.”

“Just looking out for her, like a big brother?”

Bonnett nodded and shivered.

“Stop talking, Cory, or you’re going to die right here.”

Lobdell came back with a pot full of water. Nick knelt and steadied it for Bonnett to drink.

Bonnett shivered again. Nick heard a clicking sound-Bonnett’s teeth on the pot rim. Then Bonnett jerked and drove a fist into Nick’s stomach. Hard and low. When Nick looked down he saw the switchblade in him.

“Fuck you, pig.”

Nick jumped up and back. “Lucky, this guy just stabbed me.”

Lucky kicked Bonnett in the face and pressed his gun against his forehead.

Nick couldn’t figure what to do with the knife so he just stood there and looked at it. White handle. Just like the narco jacket said. Touched it. Pulled. It came out pretty easy. Didn’t really hurt. Hardly any blood. Wasn’t sure what to do with the thing now. Pushed the button, folded the blade in, put it in his pocket.

“Sit down, Nick,” said Lobdell. “Sit down and breathe easy and apply pressure. I got this guy.”

Nick saw the violence in Lobdell’s eyes and Nick thought for a second that he’d shoot. Instead he yanked Bonnett over by his hair and got the cuffs out.

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“Yeah.”

“Ahhhhhhh…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, go fuck yourself, you long-haired fairy.”

“Ahhhhhhh.”

Nick looked down at the floor under him but didn’t see any blood. It still didn’t really hurt, either. Figured that was about the luckiest thing that had ever happened to him, the blade just hitting muscle. Was mostly muscle down there, anyway.

“If we take you to a hospital in Ensenada, we’ll lose Bonnett to the Mexicans,” said Lobdell.

“Can he make it back to California?” asked Nick.

“I don’t care one way or another. It’s you I’m worried about.”

Nick looked down again and saw one drop of blood fall from his crotch to the floor.

“It’s only an hour,” he said. “I can make it.”

“I’m going to go get a car.”

“We’ll need a trunk and a gag for Bonnett.”

“I understand that, Nick.”

THEY ENDED UP in a blue Buick Electra that Lobdell had found in the barn. Cal plates, he said, helping Nick into the passenger seat, and a valid reg in the glove box. Bonnett’s Baja car.

On the way to the highway Lucky stopped and stripped the plates and registration off the Country Squire. Took a couple of minutes to swap the plates with the Electra in case Bonnett’s car was hot with customs. Grabbed some food and water just in case. Tossed the Buick plates in the bushes a mile down the road.

Then held a steady seventy miles an hour on Mexico State Highway 1 up past Ensenada and La Fonda and Puerto Nuevo and Santini Las Gaviotas.

Nick pushed the towel harder against his gut. Figured he had a nicked vessel down there after all because the blood wasn’t stopping. Not fast, just steady. His throat was dry and he could feel the dust in his mouth. Looked down at his bloody, filthy hands.

“I can’t believe this is happening, Lucky.”

“I’d trade it in for just about anything, Nick.”

“Cortazar and all those men,” said Nick.

“Nice wife. Her name is Ynez. I’ll come back down and try to explain.”

“Fuck, man, I’m so sorry.”

“We’re going to get you to a good American doctor. You’re going to be okay and they’re going to convict that shithead in the trunk if he lives. All we can do for Cortazar now is help his wife and family. Forget what happened. There’s nothing we can do. Not one goddamned thing. You feeling okay, Nick?”

“It’s been hurting good since La Fonda.”

“It ought to.”

“I’m going to need a blanket.”

“You getting cold, Nick?”

“Not that, just to hide this mess from customs.”

Nick felt the car accelerate.

“I threw some blankets and towels in the back,” said Lobdell. “Don’t worry, Nick. Your job right now is to close your eyes and think about Katy and the family and let me get us to TJ. Try to keep your pulse down.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Try.”

Nick closed his eyes and let his head loll against the window. Road five feet from his head and vibration steady. Sun warm on his face. Thought of Katy and how she felt and knew she’d be furious at him for this but she’d forgive him so long as he lived through it. And Katherine and Willie and Stevie. What a really wonderful family.

“Think my dick nerve got cut?”

“Beats me,” said Lobdell. “Eleven kliks to TJ.”

“Man, it hurts.”

Nick tried to ease off the pain by moving. Felt his butt slide on the vinyl seat. Felt the sticky wet on his hands. Held out the towel and shook his head. Goddamned thing was heavy.

“Toss it out the window when we get past this car,” said Lobdell.

Nick did.

Lobdell gave him a ghastly smile as he reached behind his seat and came up with a clean towel.

“Take it easy, Nick. Think of something good.”

Nick closed his eyes again, leaned his head against the warm glass. Thought of Katy leading cheers for the Tillers in fifty-five and fifty-six. Thought she was the prettiest girl in the world then until she came down the aisle on their wedding day, April sixth, a year later. Remembered the class smartass telling him in the locker room back then that any guy who married right out of high school was gypping himself out of tons of good young pussy. Odd the way this had struck Nick. Probably truthful but a slap at Katy so Nick had grabbed the guy’s hair and pulled his head into the toilet and given it a flush.

“Yeah, Luck. I just shoved his head in there and flushed it. I remember the way his voice echoed. Like he was gargling in a tunnel or something.”

“That’s interesting, Nick. Quiet now.”

“Do you think there’s really any truth at all to astrology?”

“You mean that age of Aquarius horseshit?”

“Or it could be not even related. In a direct way.”

“True. Close your eyes again, Nick. Don’t talk so much. Just think about the first time Willie caught a fish.”

“Well-”

“Nicky, I don’t want to hear about it, I just want you to be quiet.”

“It was at the county fair. He tossed a Ping-Pong ball in a little bowl with a fish in it. I got Stevie a turtle painted blue and Katherine a chameleon on a string. Kids sat in the back of the Red Rocket on the way home and watched it turn colors.”

“I like it when they’re that age,” said Lobdell.

“Katy’s gonna kill me for leaving that car down there. It cost us almost three thousand dollars.”

“Maybe we can get it back when we come down to see Ynez.”

Nick felt compelled to check his watch and did so. Immediately forgot the time and why he’d wanted it. Shifted again in the seat and felt the deep stab of pain in his guts. Moved the wadded towel and looked down. Seat not blue anymore. Running down the front and into the carpet now.

“I’m not gonna die.”

“There’s the TJ bullring,” said Lobdell.

THE BORDER wait was long, though Nick had no way of knowing this. He was aware, then unaware, lucid one moment and nearly unconscious the next. Lucky had covered him with a blanket. Nick looked out through the window steamed by his own quickening breath, saw an old man in a white straw hat hold up a purple plaster Buddha bank, kept saying “One dollar, one dollar,” turning it to show the slot where the coins would go. Saw a kid with a bunch of yellow paper flowers big as basketballs. Saw a Tarahumara woman with a weaving of a man running after a stag. Then he felt Lobdell putting something between the fingers of either his right hand or his left, heard Lobdell explaining he was going to light this just before they got up to the Mexican customs guy, and if Nick could take one puff on it and nod, that would really help them out. Didn’t have to say anything or even open his eyes, just take a puff on this cigarette and maybe nod if he could and everything would be cool. Then, Lobdell said, they’d go about fifty yards and have to stop again for the American customs, but Lucky was just going to badge them, say his partner was sick and slide right through. If Nick could maybe open an eye or take a puff for the Americans, that would be patriotic, wouldn’t it? Lobdell said Bay Hospital in Chula Vista was a good place, had a friend there once for tonsils. Just up the freeway. Then a minute later, maybe an hour, Nick was aware of a burning smell and he felt the cigarette between his fingers and heard Lobdell order him to take a puff. Nick brought the thing toward his head, got his lips around it. Drew in and nodded once and lowered his hand onto the blanket. He heard Lobdell saying something about his friend getting bad lobster in Puerto Nuevo last night. And maybe too much tequila at the Rosarito. Or not enough menudo this morning.

“Tequila,” Nick said softly. Took another puff.

“Hey, he’s still alive,” said Lobdell.

“What is in the trunk?”

“Jumpers, a jack, and a spare.”

“Visit Mexico again someday.”

“Be back before you know it.”

Nick was aware of motion.

“One down, Nick,” said Lobdell. “One to go. Swim hard, partner.”

Nick never experienced the brief stop at U.S. Customs. The next thing he knew he was lying flat on his back looking up at the ceiling lights of an emergency room and someone was jabbing his arm and his stomach had burst into flames.