The Rules of Wolfe (18 page)

Pico smiles and cocks his head. You think the kid took it.

Without looking up, Martillo purses his lips.

Makes no sense, man, Pico says. According to this report, he didn't take the segundo's phone. Probably knows Sinas phones are wired, at least suspects it, so why take the chance? You can buy a throwaway anywhere.

Very true, Martillo says. But, my little friend, are you aware that all Luna Negra phones have a homing device in them? A tracker?

How do you know that?

Martillo puts the fingertips of one hand to his forehead and closes his eyes and says in the sage tone of a stage magician, I know many things unknown to the minds of mortal men. I have cosmic mental powers that—

How the fuck you know?

A captain of Luna Negra told me, and he is not one to lie for simple pleasure.

Pico smiles. The kid didn't want the
phone
. He wanted the tracker.

The device is not on the phone's menu, but genius is not required to find out if it has one. The kid maybe knew how to look for it.

And he wants a tracker because . . . ?

You're running for your life. Your only chance is to get across the line. You're from way the hell the other side of the country and don't know anything about the desert except it can kill you quick. You're going to have to cross with a bunch of peons and a guide who might desert you at the first sign of trouble. Everybody knows the stories. But if you have a tracker . . .

Of course, Pico says. If you get lost or in trouble you turn it on and hope like hell somebody picks up the signal and finds you before you cook. Even if it's the Border Patrol, at least you're alive.

Exactly, Martillo says. However, the tracker in these phones is a very interesting kind. The Sinas get them from South Africa or Israel or some damn place. Its signal can't be picked up except by a pair of connected receivers that have to be tuned according to the kind of phone the tracker is in. Not very complicated, actually, and the weather can interfere with it the same as with any other electrical gadget. But it's one of the best for avoiding interception of its signal.

And you know this because . . . the Luna captain?

He was very informative and highly appreciative that I was paying for all our drinks.

But Porter doesn't know the kind of tracker he has or he wouldn't have taken it. The only ones who know how to pick up its signal are the people after him.

Your quickness of understanding is admirable, Martillo says with a benign smile.

And this Luna captain told you how to tune to the signal.

No. He said the Luna phones are programmed by a communications crew before they're issued. But I'll bet the technicians at Azteca can provide that information. They know everything in the world about such devices.

You are a wise and clever man.

Martillo's wide grin exposes a row of four gold teeth. That is why they pay me so well, he says. My wisdom and cleverness.

And me? Why do they pay me so well?

Because you are with me, of course.

Ah yes, of course.

Listen, if the Sinas had bothered to give some careful attention to this inventory, they would know all of this too. And this very minute they could have receivers set up along the border and ready to find him the minute he turns the thing on.

But they don't know. And we do. And we are not going to tell them. Fuck them. We deserve the Boss's reward.

You are very eloquent and persuasive and have convinced me entirely.

But, Pico says. What if he doesn't turn the thing on? He might not have to.

That is sadly true. Actually, the odds favor that either the Sinas will get him or he'll make it over the line and to the pickup point. In either case, he won't be turning it on.

Actually,
for all we know, the other Sina didn't even have a fucking phone.

Martillo makes a wry face. That too is possible. Actually.

So if the kid doesn't have it, or has it but doesn't turn it on, we got no more chance of finding him than anybody else. All we can do is wander along the border with our thumbs up our ass, looking for crossers and hoping he's in some bunch we run into. What are the odds of finding him that way?

On the other hand, Martillo says, if he does have the thing, and if he does have to use it, it won't be until he's on the other side. Assuming, of course, he gets past the Sinas. All things considered, we ought to wait for him on the other side and hope he gets across and has some reason to turn the thing on.

Pico drums his fingers. That's a lot to hope for, he says.

Yes. But even if he doesn't have it or turn it on, if he gets to the other side he'll still be in the desert, and we just have to find him before he makes it to the pickup point. And if he
does
turn it on . . .

He's ours, Pico says. Assuming of course he gets past the Sinas.

He's smart. He might do it.

Think he will?

Martillo shrugs. What is life but constant hope?

Pico sighs. Glances around. Leans forward on his elbows and says, I think maybe we should call the Azteca people and tell them what we need and what we need to know. Just in case.

I think that's a very fine idea.

Glad you like it.

21

Eddie and Miranda

They go through another village and then have to halt while two young boys drive a raucous herd of goats across the road. One of the boys stares hard at the windshield, then points at it and calls something to Eddie.

He rolls down his window. What?

The kid points again and says, Who shot you?

Eddie tells him they were hunting rabbits but one of the rabbits had a gun and shot back.

The boy finds this hilarious and shows his white teeth in laughter. He goes to the other boy and points at the truck as he speaks to him, and the other boy laughs too.

A few miles farther down the road, Eddie stops the truck and gets out. He searches the ground, picks up a large rock and tests its grip and heft, tosses it aside, then finds one shaped roughly like an oversize house brick and affording a solid grip on one side. He tells Miranda to get out of the truck and then starts smashing out the windshield. It is no simple task to break apart its laminated safety glass and he is drenched with sweat when he knocks out the last clung-together shards into the cab. He scrapes off the remaining glass ridges from the windshield frame and they sweep the glass out of the truck with their hands.

Then drive on, the inward flow of hot air woven with weak threads of coolness from the air conditioner ducts.

p

The sun is more than halfway down the sky when they crest a rise and see quadrate green fields in the distance ahead, and past them the indistinct form of Caborca. But they are well acquainted now with the illusory effects of desert expanse and they know the town is farther than it looks.

They come to a dirt road of smooth grade and the countryside transforms. They drive past fields of cotton, fields of corn. Low green vineyards. Long rows of irrigation furrows and white sprinkler pipes. The air gains vapor and is much less hot. It smells of wet earth and feels wonderful on their gritty faces.

How incredible this is, she says. All these good things growing. Think how much water must be under this ground. This is like a great big what-do-you-call-it, what you see in desert movies, where there are palms and pools of water.

Oasis, Eddie says.

p

While Miranda continues to study the passing countryside, he considers his plan—and now sees the folly of it. He has of course been expecting the Company to have lookouts at Sasabe and Sonoyta, but only now does he truly appreciate what that means. Both places will be
packed
with lookouts. They'll be on every street corner. They'll have descriptions, probably pictures. The Company will certainly have posted a bounty. What's the chance in either place of finding a coyote who isn't in the service of the Company one way or another? Or even an independent who won't turn him in for the reward? To look for a guide in either place is more than just risky—it's enormously stupid.

What had he been thinking? He berates himself for a dunce.

The wiser thing to do, he now reasons, is arrive at the border in hiding among a group of crossers. Under the eye of an independent coyote who will naturally want to avoid attracting attention. Hook up with an independent in Caborca and go with him to the border.
That's
the ticket. At the border, the coyote or somebody who works for him takes you over the line. And there you are.

Except nobody really needs a guide to cross the border in the desert. What you need is somebody to get your ass
out
of the desert once you're over the line. That's what you're really paying for. But what if after he takes you across, the guide lights out? Been known to happen. Plenty of stories.

What you need, he tells himself, is a backup plan. And you've known it all along. It's why you bought those phones, why you took the tracker. So quit the bullshit and make the call. Tell them where you are, what you got.

Nope. No way. They'll tell me go fuck myself. That's what I told them, that's what they'll tell me.

Maybe, maybe not. But even if they do, so what? Even if they say fuck you, you're no worse off than now. Nothing to lose by asking.

Hell there isn't. I won't give any of them the satisfaction of telling me no.

Well, you better be damn sure that's how you want it. You've had a good look at that map. That desert's one big dead zone. Forget finding a cell connection out there. Shoulda bought a satellite in Hermosillo.

Yeah. Shoulda coulda woulda.

So? No backup plan?

Yeah there is, Eddie thinks. Stick close to the guide. He cuts out, cut out with him. He objects, put the gun in his face. That's the backup. Simple's always best. Basic rule.

All right then. Find a coyote in Caborca. Bus station's a sure place. Of course, it's also a sure place for lookouts. But they're not likely to give this heap a very close look. Or make Miranda for a woman. Just a couple of guys clunking along in a work truck, if they take a look at all.

“Oye,” Eddie says.

She turns to him from the window and he tells her what he has in mind.

Whatever you think best, she says. You're the one who says he knows all about smuggling.

p

If they connect with a coyote in Caborca, they'll abandon the truck there. But because you never know, he takes the precaution of filling the truck's tank at a Pemex just south of town. In a little café beside the gas station, they buy chicken empanadas and cold bottles of orange soda and eat their food at a stand-up counter, fending off flies all the while, then wash up at the sink in the grimy restroom. She inspects his wound, which has scabbed nicely and shows no sign of infection, then reseals the bandage. They get directions to the bus station from the woman at the register. In the truck he withdraws five thousand dollars from the money belt and puts two grand in one front pocket of his pants and three in the other. And they head into Caborca.

p

It's a small town but a busy one this late Sunday afternoon. Dusty and spare of trees. Its chief shade the shadows of buildings against the low sun. The traffic heavy and slow. Nobody seems curious about their lack of a windshield. Eddie finds the 6 de Abril Plaza, and a few blocks past it the bus station.

The street fronting the depot is chockablock with honking, racketing vehicles, the sidewalks crowded. The stop-and-go pace of the traffic is an advantage, affording Eddie a careful look around.

The truck is almost abreast of the station's entrance when he feels a sudden hollowness in his belly. Over there, he says, and juts his chin toward the front doors, where people are streaming in and out. The two in the cowboy hats.

She leans forward to look past him. The men stand to either side of the doors, giving the eye to everyone entering. Their hats white, their clothes denim, necklaced sunglasses dangling on their chests, open jackets bulging slightly under one arm.

“Sinas? Estás seguro?”

He nods. And bound to be more of them inside, he says.

She shrinks down in her seat and he tells her to sit up. Look hot and bored.

The hot part is easy, she says.

They follow the creeping traffic past a taxi stand where people are cramming themselves into a dilapidated green cab expelling a blue cloud of exhaust smoke. Up ahead and near the corner, a bus pulls up, “Caborca” in the destination window above its windshield.

A stocky man in a long-billed fisherman's cap bobs out of the sidewalk crowd and begins addressing himself to the men filing out of the bus—at the same time casting nervous glances toward the station doors, craning his head to see through the crowd. It's clear to Eddie that the man is aware of the Sinas and is fearful of them. An independent poaching on their turf, reason enough for his nervousness. But the man is adept at using the sidewalk traffic to screen himself from their view, and Eddie admires his daring. The Sinas seem unaware of him.

Most of the men the stocky guy speaks to shake their heads or ignore him, but now three of them stop and nod, and the man points them over to the wall, where they go and wait while he turns his attention to the last of the men coming off the bus, a guy in a short-brimmed Panama, and gets him too to join his group.

The one in the fishing cap, Eddie says. That's our guy.

Miranda regards him as they creep past. He's a coyote?

A hook. He sends crossers to the coyote.

Eddie takes a left at the corner and finds a curbside parking spot near the end of the street and leaves the engine idling. He slips the Taurus into his pants under his shirt and uses the side mirror to watch the corner behind them.