Illegal

TWENTY-FIVE

Tino's appetite was amazing. Five eggs, scrambled. Half-a-dozen slices of bacon. Four slices of toast slathered with butter. And black coffee, no tequila, thank you very much.

Sharon watched the boy gobble his food, deriving nearly as much pleasure as he did. Maternal instincts are forever, she thought.

Cullen had tromped back up the stairs, leaving the three of them alone in the kitchen, all granite counters, marble floors, and shiny steel appliances.

The phone rang. Rigney again. Said he'd been driving north from LAX when a tractor trailer jackknifed on the

405. Now he was working his way on city streets to La Cienega. Running late, he'd be there as soon as he could. "If Payne tries to escape, you have my permission to shoot him," Rigney said.

"Thanks, but I shot him before with no one's permission."

She hung up and turned back to her guests.

"Why'd you take the five thousand, Jimmy?"

"I was pissed at being used. I wanted to stick it to Rigney."

"Smart. Really smart."

"Just let me go to Mexico. When I come back, with or without Garcia's scalp, I'll turn myself in."

"Your problems are here. Nothing you can do will bring Adam back."

"Maybe there's something I can do that will bring me back."

"Not something evil. Not killing Garcia."

"Who's Garcia?" Tino demanded, between gulps of food. "And why do you want to kill him?"

"None of your business," Payne said.

"I am not afraid to kill a man," Tino claimed. "Some cabron hurts my mother, I'll slice his neck like a goat."

"That's the spirit," Payne said.

"Stop it, both of you." Sharon turned to the boy. "Tino, tell me about your mother."

Wordlessly, the boy reached inside his shirt. Hanging from a cord around his neck was a plastic envelope. He handed it to Sharon. It held a photo, apparently taken at some formal event, a wedding or a quince party. Tino's mother wore a frilly turquoise dress. She had almond-shaped eyes the color of obsidian rocks in a mountain stream. She was not quite smiling, her full lips betraying no emotion. Her hair, which cascaded over bare shoulders, was as dark and lustrous as a river shimmering under a full moon. Her jawline was carved from granite, a Salma Hayek look.

"Your mother's beautiful," Sharon said. "What's her name?"

"Marisol." Tino's voice wobbled.

He tried to be tough, Sharon thought, but he was still a little boy.

"What's really bad," he said, his eyes watery, "it's all my fault."

"What is?"

"That we had to cross over. That Mami 's missing." Tears tracked down his cheeks. "I'm the one who ruined everything."