Authors: Rex Burns
“Don’t know what, Felix?”
“Maybe I should not have asked you for help, Senor Kirk. These people will maybe send me to Mexico.” He shrugged and smiled. “They think I’m Mexican. But the Mexicans will know I’m not.” He inhaled again. “Maybe they’ll just let me go. Maybe they’ll send me back to El Salvador.” He rubbed thumb and forefinger together. “It depends on how much they want.”
“Do you need—?”
“No, senor,
muchas gracias
. It’s just it could be a long time before I can get back. My wife … the baby … .”
“Give me an address in El Salvador, Felix. If they do send you all the way down, at least I can write you if we find out something.”
He smiled ruefully. “You have to write it for me—I don’t know how.”
I copied the name of his village and a priest’s name to send letters to. Felix said the village was in a war zone and he hoped it was still there, and he hoped he wouldn’t be sent there—young men were arrested and put in the army as soon as they stepped off the plane in San Salvador. But it was the best we could come up with. That and my business card, which he carefully tucked into a worn cloth wallet. “Can’t you petition to stay, Felix? Claim refugee status?”
Another small smile. “It wouldn’t do any good—and besides, I don’t have money for the lawyer. This way, they don’t know I’m Salvadoran. Maybe I’ll be lucky. Maybe they’ll just take me across the line and let me go.”
“Does your wife know anyone at all in Denver that she might get in touch with? Any names at all?”
“No one. Just Senora Chiquichano. But that woman is why I’m here.”
“What’s that?”
“How else does
la migra
know? They come to the plant, they ask for me by name and for my green card. Now my employer, he must pay many dollars in fines because I don’t have the permission. If I get back here, he will not hire me again.”
Frentanes shook his head. “How else do they know about me? Who else would tell them?”
I thought that over. “Was it because I asked about Serafina?”
“Yes, of course.” He picked at the crumpled cigarette butt. “But she will pay too—that woman. A little, anyway.”
“La patrona?”
“
Sí
. No more … .” He shrugged, unable to find the American word. “
Mordida.
”
“Graft? Take?”
“Take—
sí
. She takes from my pay fifteen percent for finding me the job. Now no more fifteen percent.”
“Every month?”
He nodded. “And maybe no
propina
from the boss for the one who replaces me.” He saw my puzzlement and explained. “I think the boss pays
la patrona
for getting us. She’s a …
cazadora de cabezas
, you understand?”
“Headhunter? She brings in workers for other employers?”
A tilt of the head. “I think so, yes. She told me the job waited for me. That’s why we came here, Serafina and me. The apartment, the job, the medical approval—all in order for when I get here.”
“What’s the medical approval?”
“
El doctor
. The examination for working with food, you know?” He fished in that frayed wallet to show me a carefully folded form that certified Felix Frentanes was medically qualified to work in food processing. An illegible signature rode over an inked stamp that said “Associated Medical Pavilion” and bore a date several months old.
“Did you work at the Apple Valley Turkeys plant with Nestor Calamaro?”
The man looked a bit shamefaced as he nodded. “But we don’t know each other real good—
la patrona
doesn’t want us to know each other. She said it’s best that way if
la migra
gets somebody, then they can’t tell about the others.”
“Mrs. Chiquichano arranged for the medical exam?”
“Yes.”
“But nothing for Serafina?”
“No. La patrona knows una partera … a … .”
“Midwife?”
“
Sí
. But it wasn’t time to call her yet.” He stared down and shook his head. “I want to find my wife. I need your help to find her. Now, maybe, I might never find her. If she was sent to Mexico … .” He looked up and wiped quickly at a wet spot that had dropped onto the oily compound of the tabletop. “The Mexican police—what they do to us foreigners from the south! Especially the women.”
“Do you think immigration picked her up already?”
“I can’t ask. What if they haven’t? Then they know she’s here, and they look for her.” He inhaled deeply again and stubbed out another butt. “Just like she would not telephone me if she had been caught. She would protect me too.”
“You didn’t tell
la migra
about Senora Chiquichano?”
“No! The others at the apartment, they would be picked up—if immigration learns about
la patrona
, she will tell them about all the others. You must not tell them either!”
The law, which was supposed to protect citizens, was, for someone who wasn’t a citizen, simply another avenue of extortion. But Felix didn’t need to be told that. We wished each other good luck, and the black warden led him down the pale green hallway toward the security fence that closed off the distance. Tall and broad shouldered in a tailored khaki uniform, the warden dwarfed the smaller figure whose bowed legs moved rapidly to keep up with the long strides of his guard.
Agent Roybal waited for me in the receiving room. “Step into my office, Mr. Kirk.” I did, and it wasn’t coffee and doughnuts he offered but my Miranda rights. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“What the hell for?”
“Aiding and abetting an illegal foreign national. You’re looking at five years in the pokey, mister. And a twenty-thousand-dollar fine.”
“Wait a minute—he didn’t tell me he was here illegally. And just what kind of aiding and abetting am I supposed to be doing?”
“I think you’re a coyote, Mr. Kirk. I think you’re one of these people who make their living providing illegal workers to employers. And I think Felix Frentanes can be convinced to tell us all about you if we don’t send him back to El Salvador.”
“How do you know he’s not Mexican?”
Roybal didn’t hide his disgust at the question. “I’ve been in this business for fifteen years, Mr. Kirk.” Then he smiled, the whiteness of his teeth contrasting with the glossy black of a thick mustache. But there was little cheer in the sight. “And, Mr. Kirk, I think I’ve got you by the balls.”
“I only met the man yesterday.”
“That’s what you say. We’ll see what he says.”
“You’ve warned me of my rights, Agent Roybal. Does that mean you’re putting me under arrest? I want to have this clearly stated: You are arresting me for visiting a detained illegal alien who telephoned me with your permission and—with your prior knowledge—asked me to come down here to talk to him. Is that right?”
The man’s brown eyes studied mine. To stop me for questioning, to use the Miranda to try and frighten me—that was one thing. But to make the legal move of actual arrest with all its related laws governing due process and entrapment was something else.
“Be damned sure you want to do this, Agent Roybal. Because a false arrest charge won’t look good on your record.”
“You’re, by God, threatening me?”
It was my turn to smile. “I’m explaining the ramifications of what you’re trying to do. Any lawyer can see the possibilities of entrapment and false arrest in this. Of course, you will be called as a witness at the trial and asked to state your probable cause for my arrest. And we both know you have none. Now, am I under arrest?”
The man leaned back in his chair, and I could see the deep anger that comes when arrogance of office is denied. His plan, so clear and effective at the outset, had suddenly been muddied and snarled by an uncooperative prey.
“Just what the hell is your relationship with Frentanes, Mr. Kirk?”
“I’m a private investigator. He asked me to find his wife.” I added, “Nobody needs a green card to talk to a PI.”
“When was this?”
I told him. “She was seven months pregnant—eight, now. Frentanes is worried that when he gets shipped south, he’ll never see her again.”
“He knew the risks—they both did when they sneaked into the country.”
“It’s the man’s pregnant wife, Agent Roybal. And you know why they came here.”
“I hear a lot of sad stories, Mr. Kirk. But my job is to catch them and send them back. And to pop anybody who aids and abets them while they’re here.” He leaned forward on his desk, heavy shoulders pushing his collar up around a thick neck. “Now, why don’t you just tell me the fucking truth and stop crapping around. You do this on commission, don’t you? You deliver people for employers to hire, don’t you? You get so much for each body you deliver and a cut of the chicken’s paycheck, don’t you?”
Deliberately I pulled out my wallet and showed him my PI identification card. In Colorado that doesn’t mean much, because the state doesn’t have a licensing program for the business. But it did look impressive and it did say I was a member in good standing of the Private Investigators Association and the World Association of Detectives. “Check the Yellow Pages, Roybal. And the DPD. Here.” I tossed him a business card. “Call my office; check with my landlord and see how many years I’ve been renting an office; check with my bank and see how long I’ve had an account. Hell, if you’re not going to believe what I tell you, then you go out and do it the hard way.”
He rested his chin on a meaty fist as he stared at me another few seconds. Then he scratched a thumb in the bristles under his jaw. “What did you find out about her?”
“Nothing, yet.”
It was an answer he seemed to expect. “That woman is an illegal alien too, Kirk. It’s your duty as a citizen to notify the Immigration and Naturalization Service if you know her whereabouts.”
“Is that how you found Felix? A citizen did his duty?”
The brown eyes narrowed again. “No. An anonymous tip. It happens all the time—some illegal gets pissed off at another illegal or owes him money, they drop a dime.” He added, “And then the deportee scrambles around with his coyote to cover his job until he can sneak back, Mr. Kirk. Or makes arrangements for his wife and kids to hide out while he’s gone.”
“I don’t know where Frentanes’ wife is, Agent Roybal. I don’t have any leads at all. She simply disappeared. For all I know, you people have already rounded her up and deported her.”
He kicked back in his chair, and swiveled to a computer terminal, and punched in a code. “Frentanes. First name?”
“Serafina.”
“Date of birth?”
“She’s around twenty, maybe eighteen, and she disappeared about a month ago.” Felix wouldn’t like it, but
la migra
either had her or they didn’t, and there was only one way to find out. If they’d already arrested her, it made no difference if I spilled her name. If they hadn’t, then it was up to me to find her before they did.
Roybal scrolled a series of names across the screen and then shook his head. “We didn’t process her, not in the last two months anyway. You have a physical description?”
I gave him as much as I knew and he searched another file, this one shorter. “No local hospital or morgue filings either. Did you check with the police?”
“Yeah. No Jane Doe matching her description.” I was tempted to mention Nestor’s name, too, but thought better of it. The agent already suspected me of running a smuggling operation; no sense letting him know I had wider acquaintance among the illegals.
Roybal shut off the terminal and swung back. “Maybe she got tired of her old man and went off on her own.”
“She was seven months pregnant.”
“These things happen. My wife, she gets a little nuts around six months.” He stood, signaling an end to the interview. “There’s a whole anonymous population out there—nobody knows how many thousands of people live out of sight totally undocumented. Until they end up in jail or a hospital or we find them, they stay that way.” Opening the door, he nodded for me to leave. “Well, Mr. Kirk, I may or may not believe what you’ve told me, but you believe this: if you find that woman and if you in any way help her to avoid arrest, you’re going to jail. No ifs, ands, or buts, mister, you are going to jail. Is that clear?”
It was clear. What wasn’t clear was where Serafina went and just how I was to find a missing person who had no official existence anywhere.
The afternoon sun lay in a warm arc on the floor of the office. I lowered the Venetian blinds and tilted them against the glare before listening to the answering machine. The first voice was a crisp reminder about an overdue bill and made polite mention of ruined credit ratings and collection agencies. That was all Kirk and Associates needed: a knock on the door from one of our competitors whose life was brightened by chasing deadbeats. Vinny Landrum. With my luck, the skip-trace would be good old Vinny, who qualified as a PI because his immediate family spent a total of five hundred years in prison. I wrote out a check, calculating it would arrive at the bank one day after the retainer from Security Underwriters.
There weren’t many other calls. A few people wanted to give us something for nothing: the chance for a free car, a trip to Aspen to see time-share condos, a six months free subscription. This last was a computer voice that must have made a conquest of my answering machine because the whole spiel was taped. Only one caller was a potential client. He wanted an estimate for debugging his office. I wrote that one out for the firm’s electronics genius, Bunch. There were also several calls that left no message and clicked into silence at the end of the tape.
I had three months left on my health club membership, which stood a very good chance of not being renewed. There was no sense wasting it. And even less sense sitting around a silent office. Besides, I and the Healey both needed a workout, and it was a pleasure to lower the ragtop and have a little fun going through the gears and letting the pipes rap against the closed glass of the air-conditioned cars we wove among. The body of the Healey 3000 showed filigrees of rust holes, but beneath the hood, a Cinderella of gleaming chrome and polished aluminum charm purred sweetly. The twin carburetors demanded a lot of tinkering to keep them in sync—all SUs did—but when they were tuned, they were very, very tuned, and the smooth, head- snapping acceleration that came from a light jab on the gas pedal made it worth the time.