Illegal

TWENTY

The huge American woman held a rusty machete, her arm plump as a chicken. "C'mon. Git inside."

She pointed the machete at the five women and motioned toward the door of the wooden cabin.

The Americana was the largest woman Marisol had ever seen. Her skin was the bluish white of milk drained of its fat. Her stomach spilled out of purple nylon basketball shorts, and her bleached yellow hair was tied around rollers, like steel cables looped on spools. She must be the owner of the clavo, the stash house, Marisol concluded. The house was actually half-a-dozen dilapidated cabins next to railroad tracks outside the desert town of Ocotillo, a few miles north of the border. A sign out front read Sugarloaf Lodge, but there did not seem to be any lodgers.

"What you waiting for?" the woman bawled at them. "Git your brown butts inside now.?Vaya!! Vaya! "

Dutifully, the women climbed the three sagging steps and, like cattle, shouldered their way through the open door.

"Not her." El Tigre blocked Marisol's path.

The woman waved her machete. "Don't be messing with my wets, dickwad."

"Yours?"

"Till Ah get paid, you bet your ass."

El Tigre cursed her in Spanish. She shouted that he owed her money. He yelled that the money was owed by the repartidor, the labor contractor who would take these worthless peasants to the farms and factories waiting for them.

They argued for several minutes, El Tigre boasting that only his brilliance and bravery got them here at all. They were nearly captured at the border. A Border Patrol helicopter missed seeing them on the mountain, as he had cleverly placed the group so the sun would block them from view. Despite great odds, the courageous El Tigre located the trailhead and waited for the driver of the Duster to bring them here.

He grabbed Marisol's arm and tried to pull her to him.

The woman pointed the tip of the machete at El Tigre's groin. "Ah got no problem chopping your little pecker into chorizo and feeding it to my dog."

"?Bacalao!" Calling her the filthiest name a man can call a woman.

The woman barked a laugh that made her fleshy arms quiver. "Listen to the Frito Bandito. Pissy as a skunk."

El Tigre still had a grip on Marisol's arm. "This one owes me money."

"That don't give you the right to lay your hands on her. Ah've known men like you all my life, and Ah've drawn blood from more than a few. All without a god-damn regret."

She jabbed the machete between El Tigre's thighs. He hopped back a step and released his grip. Cursed once more, then stomped off.

Marisol nodded a thank-you to the large woman and climbed the steps to the cabin. Bare wooden floors, no furniture. An open toilet, one sink. Perforated metal screens sealing the windows. She sat on the floor, cross-legged, the fatigue and terror of the night seeping into her bones.

"Don't know if you gals speak American, but doncha worry," the huge woman said. "Wanda's got you covered. Welcome, one and all, to the promised fucking land."