Triple Crossing (23 page)

Buffalo straightened with a finality that suggested that the late Supervisory Agent Arleigh Garrison of the U.S. Border Patrol
was no longer an issue.

“Va-len-tín,” Buffalo said, drawing out the syllables.

“How you been, man? We made it, huh? Thanks for talking me in.” Pescatore offered his hand to Buffalo, who gripped it mechanically.

“What went down, Valentín?
La placa
pulled you over and then what?”

Pescatore told the story largely as it had happened. The sun beat down, the four
cholos
listened. To his alarm he found himself improvising his way into another risk: He implied that both he and Garrison had shot
the highway patrolman.

“You definitely smoked him?” Buffalo asked.

“We didn’t exactly stick around to take his pulse, but he didn’t get up. I just thank God he missed me. It was a miracle.”

In fact, Pescatore had not drawn his gun. He had been about to yell a warning to the CHP officer and grab Garrison when the
supervisor made his own move. Garrison had slammed Pescatore across the side of the head with his left arm as he drew on the
Chippie with his right. By the time Pescatore had shaken off the blow, the Chippie was down. And the wounded Garrison was
pointing the smoking Beretta at Pescatore’s face and ordering him to drive.

With his thumb and forefinger, Buffalo touched the ends of his thick mustache.

“OK, wait here with Momo and Pelón,” Buffalo said. He went into the house.

Momo, the gunman, and Pelón, the motorcyclist, smoked cigarettes and eyed Pescatore like leashed Dobermans. Momo’s gun stayed
pointed at Pescatore’s feet. Pescatore stretched, yawned and sat down on a ledge jutting from the wall of the second house.
He played sleepy and disinterested while imagining escape plans. All of them ended with Momo cutting him in half with a burst
from the Tek-9.

The blood dripping onto the driveway from Garrison’s out-flung arm was driving him crazy. The corpse entangled in the seat
belt gave him the sensation they were at a twisted crime scene where Pescatore was the suspect and the homeboys were the law.

Finally, Buffalo sent his cousin Rufino to get him. The chunky yokel from Guanajuato looked eager to please. Momo and Pelón
ignored him. They think he’s a rinky-dink border brother, but he’s related to the boss, Pescatore thought.

“Come on, Valentín, my cousin Omar wants to see you,” Rufino declared, his shy and friendly tone giving Pescatore a moment
of hope.

Pescatore followed him into the house. A hallway and swinging door led into a high-ceilinged living room dominated by a glass
chandelier the size of a monster truck tire.

“What a palace, eh?” Rufino whispered. “Don’t worry, Omar will take care of you.”

The living room was busy with furry sofas, thick rugs and velvet curtains. There were crucifixes and religious art. A life-size
painting depicted a kneeling Virgin Mary at prayer, the mournful elongated face encircled by a shawl. There were reliefs and
statuettes of Greco-Roman gods, wrestlers, nymphs. Isabel had once raided a gangster’s apartment that she described as “narco-chic”;
Pescatore had an idea that this was the kind of decor she meant.

Pescatore saw a framed sketch near the well-stocked bar. The sketch was done in black and white: In the foreground was the
tear-streaked face of a lovely Latina. Behind her rose a prison wall, a gun tower with a searchlight, the moon among clouds.
At the top was the word
“Esperándome”
and below that “Mule Creek SHU.”

Mule Creek was a prison in Northern California. SHU stood for “Security Housing Unit,” the cell blocks reserved for gang chiefs,
hit men and other problem inmates.

Pescatore turned when Buffalo came in.

“Hey, you drew this?”

“Uh-huh.” Buffalo sank into an armchair.

“It’s great.”

“Thanks.”

“Nice crib.”

“My boss gave it to me a while back. Wedding present. Have a seat, Valentín.
Oye,
you been busy, eh?” Arms folded, Buffalo cracked his piratical, teardrop-decorated smile. “Last night on
the beach. Goin’ at it with the CHP today, this and that. To the curb,
cabrón.
”

Buffalo’s demeanor had changed. He looked comfortable, the man of the house at home.

“So in case you wanted to know, that highway patrolman is in intensive care and don’t look like he’s going to make it,” Buffalo
announced jovially. “He had your driver’s license in his pocket. Every local, state and federal po-lice in San Diego County
is looking for you. Your story checked out fine.”

“Jesus.”

As devastating as the news was, Pescatore was chiefly affected by the realization that the change in Buffalo’s manner was
due to relief. Pescatore’s story had checked out, so the big man would not have to kill him. Pescatore wondered what turncoat
U.S. law enforcement source had relayed the information so fast.

“What are you gonna do?” Buffalo asked.

“I don’t know, tell you the truth.”

“You need a place to hide out,” Buffalo said.” You can stay with us.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s fucked up, Garrison getting popped. But it woulda been a pain in the ass if he turned up
en El Otro Lado.
Lotta questions, federal heat, this and that. Instead, he disappears. You did us a favor gettin’ here, even if was too late
to help ’im. Showed me some heart.”

“Thanks, Buffalo.”

The big man’s forearms were interlocked in bands of tendon and muscle and tattoos, the Virgin of Guadalupe obscuring a name
that ended in
ita.

“Plus I ain’t forgetting you helped Rufino. But you gotta earn your keep. I know you can handle a
cuete.
You can do a little work for me.”

“Really?”

Buffalo made a laughing sound deep in his chest. “Ordinarily
I’d say we, uh, ain’t acceptin’ applications right now. But we’ll find something.”

“OK. Thanks.” Pescatore wished someone would offer him something to eat.

“Let’s get you rested. You look torn up.”

“Want me to bring in my stuff?” Pescatore rose, glancing appreciatively at the circular stairway past the chandelier.

“What, you think you’re staying here?” Buffalo sounded offended and amused. “Fuck that. This is
my
crib,
ese.
You crash next door with the
vatos.
”

They returned Pescatore’s duffel bag to him, but not the guns or the phones. Buffalo took him across the driveway to the second
house. The living room smelled like a giant ashtray. It looked like a frat house, a crack house and a barracks after a mutiny.
The wall-to-wall carpet was a swamp of bottles, pizza boxes, fast-food wrappers, cigarette butts, newspapers, porn magazines.
Pelón, Momo, Sniper and two other hard-core gangbanger-looking guys lounged on three couches arranged in front of a giant
television in a wall entertainment center. A coffee table held two bongs that were in active use, judging from the aromatic
haze of marijuana smoke, as well as a large round mirror.

“Welcome to the sleazoid dive,” Buffalo growled. “Maybe you’re not a slob like these youngsters. In that case, I feel bad
for you. Hey, listen up.”

The homeboys slowly separated their attention from the television, which was showing a horror movie about underground creatures
chasing people in the desert and erupting out of the sand to chomp them. Buffalo made introductions.

“So this dude was in the
Migra,
huh?” Pelón said.
“La pinche Migra.”

Pelón stood in front of Pescatore. His hands drummed idly on his whip-tight gut. His glassy-eyed and malicious smile indicated
that he had nominated himself to mess with Pescatore, a kind of jailhouse welcoming ritual.

“Now he’s wanted,” Buffalo said. “He just shot a cop.”

“No shit.”

“Cut on the news, you’ll see.”

Somebody worked the remote. Eventually, the big hair and sloe eyes of a Mexican anchorwoman filled the screen. The volume
came up during a succession of images: police vehicles, yellow tape and traffic jams on the freeway. ID photos of the CHP
officer, Garrison and Pescatore.

“That’s him,
güey!
” Pelón whooped.

The anchorwoman said the words “armed and dangerous.” They cut to Méndez talking to reporters by an open car door. Méndez
needed a shave. He said: “No matter who is protecting these renegade American agents, we will track them down like the killers
and cowards they are.”

You better bring a whole lot of backup, you conceited Mexican jackass, Pescatore thought, feeling a chill of hate.

There were more howls from the homeboys. Pelón turned back to Pescatore. “Better stay in the house,
cabrón.
Diogenes is comin’ to getcha!”

Pelón took a long swig from a beer. His eyebrows angled upward. “Now let me get this straight,
güey:
You’re in the
Migra,
right? You’re a cop?”

“That’s right,” Pescatore said. He adopted the icy tonk-thumping face he had used in confrontations with groups of aliens
at the levee.

“But today, you shot a cop?”

“Así es.”

“Chinga.”
Pelón surveyed Pescatore and then his audience. “I guess you sure enough joined the other patrol now, eh?
Ya entraste en la otra patrulla, güey.
”

The others broke up, whooping and chortling. Buffalo allowed himself a smile. Pescatore wondered what was so fucking funny.

Buffalo enlightened him.

“In TJ they got a nickname for us, Valentín,” he said. “I’m
surprised you never heard about it. They call us La Patrulla de la Muerte. The Death Patrol.”

His room was in the servants’ quarters.

It was on the third floor in the back of the L-shaped mansion. The room was dim and the walls and floor were bare: a near
closet made more claustrophobic by the slanted ceiling. But he saw no sign of rodents or insects, and the mattress in the
corner was clean.

The door had no lock. When Rufino left, Pescatore took the lone chair and wedged it under the doorknob. He placed his keys
on the edge of the chair so they would fall with a clatter if anyone tried to enter. He sat on the mattress, his back propped
on the pillow against the wall. Closing his eyes, he reviewed options.

Ever since the shoot-out on the beach, he had whirled helplessly among people and events. It was like a merry-go-round cranked
out of control. No one would be inclined to show mercy to a rogue Border Patrol agent on a cop-killing beef. Law enforcement
and migrant advocates, Anglos and Mexicans and African-Americans, they would be elbowing one another aside to fry him, and
the hell with annoying details like the truth. He had to get in touch with Isabel Puente and try to convince her of his innocence.
He wanted to figure out his next move with her help. On the other hand, he did not want the Death Patrol thinking he was anything
but guilty. He wondered whether Puente would believe him and how much she could do for him.

Thinking about her was painful. He had a fleeting erotic flashback of Isabel unleashed that night in her apartment: her voice
hoarse and urgent in his ear, her brown body coiled around him. Hard to believe it had all been an act. He wanted desperately
to think that Garrison had lied to him in order to get him across the border. But what if Garrison’s information on the impending
arrests had been accurate? What if that was the very reason he wanted to whack Pescatore? In that case, Isabel had
lied about the timing of the arrests for sure. He could only think that meant she had planned to double-cross him and have
him arrested too.

Pescatore got up and went to the narrow window. The walls of the compound below were high and coated with jagged glass. There
was at least one sentry he knew about, probably more. If they caught him escaping, he was history. No talking his way out
of that shit. If he succeeded, the run to San Diego would be dangerous. He could find the Diogenes Group and surrender to
them. But he would have to get past all the law enforcement agencies in town that were nothing more than branches of the Ruiz
Caballero organization. And another problem remained: During his obnoxious little TV appearance, Méndez had called Pescatore
a killer and a coward. He had sounded like he really meant it. Like he looked forward to questioning Pescatore, Mexican-style,
when he got his hands on him.

Pescatore flopped facedown onto the bed. He heard faraway music, a bass line throbbing up from the living room. He remembered
his first night at the Border Patrol academy in Artesia, New Mexico. The far side of the moon, as far as he was concerned.
The dormitory rooms plastered with class schedules and posters of bikini babes draped over Harleys. The legions of trainees
from Texas, Arizona, California. There had been Mexican-Americans, Anglos, a few Cubans and Puerto Ricans mixed in. Even a
contingent of Portuguese-Americans from Rhode Island and New Jersey. But nobody from Chicago or anywhere near his world. That
night had been the most alone he had ever felt in his life. Until now.

Pescatore fell asleep. He sank in a bottomless black ocean. He dreamt repeatedly about waking up, the doorknob turning, the
keys clattering, glass shattering, shots, blood, Garrison’s eyes bulging upside down. But Pescatore slept regardless. He slept
and slept and slept.

*         *         *

Over the next couple of days, Pescatore fell into the rhythms of life in the gangster house. He stayed indoors, mainly in
the living room in front of the TV, where at least a couple of homeboys could be found watching and partying at all times.
Pescatore had rarely smoked marijuana. While working hotel security he had marveled at how the doormen and bellhops he got
mixed up with started their mornings with a joint. Reefer didn’t get him going; it submerged him, staggered him. But when
Sniper passed him a joint on his second night in the mansion, Pescatore got with the program. He felt anesthetized, the world
pushed to a safe distance. He sucked down beers too, hoping to ward off paranoia about the fact that he was hanging out with
couchfuls of
cholos
who were the stuff of every PA’s nightmares. This house was the equivalent of being thrown into an immigration lockup or
a county jail. Yet the gangsters accepted him nonchalantly. If Buffalo said he was cool, he was cool. And if Buffalo told
them to torture him to death for the sole purpose of seeing him get that look on his face, they would do that too.