On The Grind

Chapter 51

The highway changed to a bad stretch of pitted road. We were bumping along, and the pain from the rough ride shot through my body and jolted my senses, bringing me fully awake. I was still on my back trying to deal with it when Rocky spoke.

"I think we're almost there."

"Seems so," I groaned.

I rolled over on my side. If I puked, I didn't want to choke on vomit. Those were the kind of choices I was down to.

"We still need a plan," Rocky said. "I don't think we've crossed into Mexico yet, because the truck hasn't made a border stop."

After a minute, I realized I might have a better chance of keeping my stomach down if I was upright. With my hands still cuffed behind me, I tried to scoot across the floor to the far wall of the trailer and push myself up into a sitting position. After four or five pain-filled minutes, I finally made it. Once I was settled, I was able to look across the trailer at Rocky and see him better.

"These guys aren't going to chance a Customs stop" I said. "It would give us too good a chance to call for help."

I took several long breaths and again tried to block out the pain.

"They're also not going to be able to drive this thing into Mexico " I said. "That means we aren't going to be crossing the border in this truck."

"How, then?"

"I don't know. We've got to wait until we can see the layout of the place where they take us. We have to guess at their plan and then do this on the fly. We need to find a way to get these cuffs off. A con I know showed me once how to pick police cuffs with a nail or a straight pin. Start looking around for something I can›› use.

Of course, we couldn't move far, so inside the trailer we found nothing.

After another half hour, the truck came to a stop and began backing up. The driver was jackknifing a reverse turn. Finally, I felt the back bumper tap a loading dock. A minute later the rear door was unbolted.

"We'll make this happen, amigo," Rocky said bravely. I wasn't as optimistic.

The trailers rear doors opened and I was surprised to see Manny Avila standing there wearing an expensive leather coat and wraparound shades. The sun was coming up over his shoulder. While we'd been rolling south, night had turned into morning.

"Get em out. lake 'em into the warehouse," Manny ordered.

Two Mexican thugs I'd never seen before moved into the truck and pulled us out. They were young bangers with 18-L tattooed in gang-style lettering across their chests like meatpacking stamps.

Rocky and I were hustled onto a large loading dock where big sliding doors led into a newly constructed concrete tilt-up warehouse.

"Put 'em in the back," Avila ordered. As I was pulled forward, I saw the white Escalade pull into the parking lot.

There were at least twenty more 18th Street Locos inside the warehouse. Some were pushing dollies, others were driving fork-lifts loaded with boxes of canned vegetables. They were all wearing wife-beater tees and baggy pants. There was lots of gang ink on display.

It was going to be hard to make a move with this many esse hitters standing around.

We were shoved inside an empty windowless storage room and the metal door was slammed closed and locked. There was nothing to do but wait.

"I think we're pretty close to the border," Rocky said. "I crossed near Mexicali when I was four. You can smell the sulfur and human waste that floats in the Rio Nuevo River. I remember it as a boy-a smell you don't forget."

"We won't get more than one shot at this," I said through broken teeth. "My guess is they aren't going to keep us here long. You gotta help me find something I can use to pick these cuffs."

"If I can, I will," Rocky said, looking around the empty room. "What is this place? What's with all the canned goods?"

"The produce is just cover. If I had to guess, I'd say we're in the Avilas' main transshipping point for all the Russian machine guns, Mexican dope and immigrant labor they're smuggling into L. A."