THIRTY

The Lexus was purring at 75 on an empty stretch of road, and Payne could not get Deputy Dixon out of his mind. Was life so boring that the desert cop had to hassle every stranger who came through town? Or did his gut tell him that the Anglo guy in the fuck-you T-shirt and the Hispanic kid with a smart mouth made odd traveling companions?

Payne tried not to think about it as they blasted past saguaro cactus and mesquite trees and creosote bushes in the vast stretches of parched land. He swerved to avoid a raccoon waddling across the road. Turned on the radio. On a distant, scratchy station, Los Lobos were singing "The Road to Gila Bend."

Payne checked the rearview mirror. Shit. A police car, maybe half a mile back. Was it Dixon? He eased his foot off the gas.

Los Lobos turned to full-bore static, and Payne hit the dial. In a second, he heard a familiar baritone voice.

"Every wetback holds a dagger pointed at the heart of America. I no longer live in California. I live in Mexifornia."

"That's the guy who lent you his iPod," Payne told Tino.

"What a cabron, " the boy said.

"This isn't a melting pot," Cullen Quinn bellowed. "It's a cracked pot overflowing with illegals."

"That idiota talking about me?"

"If the federal government can't stop the illegals, what about us?" Quinn ranted. "The citizenry. What about the good folks who've formed well-armed militias under the Second Amendment? If a burglar breaks into your home, you can shoot him. How about aliens sneaking into our country? Should we start selling hunting licenses?"

"I don't think he got enough sleep last night," Payne said.

"And you know who's to blame?" Quinn said, picking up steam. "Everyone who hires these lowlifes and freeloaders. Right here in California, we have the biggest employer of illegals in the country. I've called him out before, and I'll do it again."

Simeon Rutledge, Payne knew. Quinn's favorite target.

"It's fat cat Simeon Rutledge in the San Joaquin Valley. Rutledge Ranch and Farms, a quarter million acres of prime valley land. He hires thousands of illegals every year. What terrorists lurk among them? What diseases do they bring with them? Rutledge doesn't care, living in his mansion, thumbing his nose at the law."

"Quinn needs new material. He's been beating this drum forever."

Payne glanced again at his rearview mirror. The cop was still there, keeping the same distance.

"Rutledge lures the wetbacks with promises of greenbacks. But you folks are the ones who pay when the illegals land in our hospitals and jails. And you foot the bill for their hordes of children in our public schools."

"What an asshole," Tino said. "A real asqueroso."

"We need to crack down on the employers as well as the illegals," Quinn continued. "Are you listening, Simeon Rutledge? I've challenged you to debate a dozen times, but all I hear from your lawyers is that you're too busy. 'Mr. Rutledge is a working man.' Yeah? Well, I've got another term for it. 'Racketeer.' Why don't the feds bust you? Because you've bought off every politician from Sacramento to Washington. If I'm lying, sue me, Mr. Rutledge. Go on. Get your high-priced lawyers to sue me, you greedy S.O.B."

Jimmy turned off the radio, looked back. The police car had picked up speed. It closed the distance, its blue bubble light flashing.

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