Illegal

FORTY-EIGHT

On her second day in Hellhole Canyon, Marisol sat in the shade and watched the Nazi argue with a Hispanic man who wore work boots, jeans, and a T-shirt printed with the name of a raisin company. He was about forty, with a sun-creased face.

"You're one pollo short, Chitwood."

Chitwood. The Nazi's name. Marisol pledged to remember that. If the time ever came, she would help bring the man to justice for shooting the Honduran man through the forehead, instead of the apple through the core.

"You can't count, Guillermo." Chitwood scratched at his goat's beard with a filthy fingernail. "Must be them inner-city schools."

"If Zaga don't kill you, Rutledge will."

"Fuck them." Chitwood's rifle was slung over a shoulder. Marisol thought Guillermo was either very brave or did not know that Chitwood was an insane drogadicto.

Guillermo dug the toe of one boot into the dirt. Came up with a wet clump. Blood. "You shot one, didn't you?"

"What's the matter, Guillermo? Feeling sorry for your countrymen?"

"My family's lived in California for five generations. My ancestors owned ranches when yours were in debtors' prison."

"You're still a greaser to me."

"Eres un basurero humano." Spitting out the words, calling him a human garbage dump. "I don't like the pollos any more than you do, Chitwood. They embarrass me, give my people a bad name. But I do my job and get stoned on my own time. You're a fucking lunatic."

"I don't have to take your shit. I don't work for you."

Chitwood fingered the rifle butt. Marisol felt herself stiffen. She pictured him whipping the gun around, killing Guillermo, then shooting all the migrants, herself included.

"Zaga's in Calexico," Guillermo said. "If I call him, he'll be here in two hours."

"Like I give a shit. Just load your goddamn van and get going."

"Maybe I'll call Mr. Rutledge directly. He'll have your ass."

"Then who'll live out here with no hot water, chickenshit up to their ass? Rutledge can't afford to lose me."

"Rutledge can afford to lose anyone he wants."

Chitwood lifted the rifle and fired a burst into the air. Marisol winced. But Guillermo stood in place, never moving. "I'm taking the pollos, you stupid shitkicker. But this isn't over."

Five minutes later, Marisol and the others were herded into the back of a windowless white van. A sign on its side read, Sweet Valley Raisin Co. Maybe that was where she would be working. The dark, windowless compartment stank of sweat and dust and urine. Nineteen men, women, and children packed inside, shoulders scrunched against one another, arms across knees.

Packed like animals in a pen, Marisol thought. Like the cattle at the slaughterhouse. As the van pulled out and headed to an unknowable destination, she said yet another prayer, not for herself, but for her son, wherever he might be.