Illegal

NINETY-TWO

Just after sunset, in the kitchen of his Van Nuys bungalow, Jimmy Payne contemplated the blur of the last several days. Washing down painkillers with sour-mash whiskey, he tried to divine the complex equations of the universe.

A mother dead, a boy alive.

A soulless man, facedown in the dirt.

What is the meaning of all this, and…

Where do I go from here?

Payne had read the front page story in the Los Angeles Times. The body of multimillionaire grower Simeon Rutledge had been found alongside an irrigation culvert in Kings County. He had been beaten, shot multiple times, and his skull fractured by blunt trauma. The brutal murder shocked the close-knit community. Local police chief Javier Cardenas said the investigation was focused on the Patriot Patrol, an anti-immigration vigilante group that had placed a bounty on Rutledge's head. The chief broke down in tears at his press conference as he vowed to bring the killers to justice. No mention that Cardenas was the sole beneficiary of Rutledge's estate.

Another tumbler of Jack Daniel's made the story go down easier.

Earlier today, the deputy director of the local immigration office had called, asking for Detective Sharon Payne. He had reviewed her affidavit regarding a boy named Tino Perez from Caborca, Mexico. Rafael Obeso, a well-known Mexican drug smuggler, had threatened to cut the boy's heart out. So, too, a vicious coyote who called himself El Tigre vowed to kill the boy on sight. No need to fill out a Form I-590, the deputy director said. Tino Perez would be granted refugee status by administrative order.

An hour later, Quinn called to express his condolences about Marisol and ask how Payne's arm was healing. Such a decent gesture, it caught Payne off guard. Quinn apologized for missing the funeral, explaining he had to catch a flight to New York. It's okay, Payne said. Sharon had already told him about Quinn's new job, the talk show on Fox. Payne congratulated him, and meant it. Really meant it, because Sharon wasn't going east with Quinn.

Then, just minutes ago, as Payne poured another Jack Daniel's, Rigney knocked on the front door. He had a new look. A sleek Armani suit of a gray fabric that shimmered like a wet shark. Gold nugget cuff links poked out of the sleeves of his silk shirt like shiny wrist bones. His hair seemed to be a new color, not unlike the yellowish orange of the one-ball in billiards.

"You look like shit," Rigney said. Studying the bruises, cuts, and scrapes on Payne's face.

Payne figured it out, even before Rigney told him. With Enrique Zaga dead, Rutledge Ranch and Farms needed a new head of security. Rigney had already proved his worth to Cardenas. The payoff was a job at triple his detective's salary.

"Got some good news for you, too," Rigney said. "That five grand we thought you skimmed from the bribe money. It was in the evidence room all along."

"C'mon. I took the money. You know I took the money."

Rigney lowered his voice. "You took it. I put it back."

"Why?"

"A word of advice, Payne. Don't look a gift horse up the ass."

"Doesn't make sense. Why'd you do it?"

" 'Cause Cardenas told me to. It's his money now, and he's spreading it around. Just bought four new Hummers for the Imperial County Sheriff. He's so happy he's dropping all charges against you."

Payne was flummoxed. "Why's Cardenas looking out for me?"

"He admires you. The way you risked everything for the Mexican kid."

Payne shrugged. "I had nothing to risk."

"Not the way he sees it."

Once Rigney left, Payne returned to the pleasant task of becoming reacquainted with Mr. Jack Daniel's. Just as they were getting to be buenos amigos, Payne heard footsteps in the corridor. A moment later, Sharon appeared in the kitchen.

"Tino asleep?" he asked, pouring her a drink over ice.

"Just dozed off."

She joined Payne on a bar stool at the counter. "You call Harvard-Westlake today?" she asked. Referring to the ritzy private school in Studio City.

"Seventh grade awaits. As do massive tuition bills."

"We'll split the costs."

"Yeah. But I was hoping…"

"What?"

"That maybe you'd move in. For Tino's sake, I mean."

"Slow down, Jimmy. I was engaged until twenty-four hours ago."

"Okay. Okay." Payne sipped the whiskey, let it warm his throat. "No hurry."

Sharon swirled her glass, the ice cubes clinking against one another. "Just before he fell asleep, Tino asked me to tell you good night."

Payne smiled. "He does that every night. ' Buenos noches, Himmy.'

"

"Not what he said."

"In English, then."

"Nope."

"I don't get it."

"He said, 'Say good night to mi papi. ' "

"Oh, man." Payne had not been prepared for the sheer weight of those words. The mixture of joy and obligation they conveyed. "I hope I'm up to this."

"You'll be a great father. I've seen your work, remember?" She gently placed her fingertips on his forehead, scraped raw in the fight with Rutledge.

"I know," Payne said. "I look like shit."

"The wounds will heal." She leaned close and kissed his bruised cheek. "You won't even have a scar."