*
It was midafternoon when we finished our meal and walked out of Rosa’s Cantina. The thermometer hanging on the wall of the post office read ninety-nine degrees. We strolled the street, sweat trickling down my temples like the crawl of flies. I thought about home, about how, when a summer day got too warm, you could just dive into a clear, clean, cool lake, and it was all better. We crossed a narrow bridge in the shade of cottonwoods, and were south of Sulfur Creek. Gallina Town. The main street was paved, but those that cut off from it right and left were all gravel or dirt. The houses along them were small and shabby looking, some built of adobe but more prefabs. A number of mobile homes were set among them, mounted on cinder blocks, and dogs peered out at us from the shadows under them, too tired or hot or disinterested to move as we passed. The reason for the name was clear. The only signs of life were the chickens and the colorful roosters that strutted and scratched in the yards and roamed freely in the dirt streets.
We passed a little taqueria with an old Coca-Cola sign hanging out front. From inside came the muffled sound of music.
“Mariachi?” I said.
Rainy laughed. “White North Americans think it’s all mariachi. That’s norte?o. Hear the polka beat?”
From behind a shade-covered window came the high laughter of children, and from a distance, insect-like, the buzz of a small gas engine.
“This is the El Dorado so many people risk their lives for?” I said.
“They keep going, Cork, to Tucson or Phoenix or L.A. or Chicago. But bleak as this seems to you, it’s better than what so many of the refugees are leaving behind.”
We returned to the pickup, but before we got in, Rainy’s cell phone rang. She glanced at the display.
“I have to take this.” She walked away.
Across the street at Rosa’s Cantina, the young waitress stood in the shade of the porch awning, fanning herself with a menu. I walked over to her.
“Took the grand tour of Gallina Town?” she said.
“Pretty quiet place. Didn’t see anyone, not even children.”
“They’re around. Their parents are off working, so they’re staying with their abuelas or their tías. Hottest part of the day now. They’re inside, probably napping. Siestas aren’t just a quaint joke out here. Me, I could use one about now.” She looked south across Sulfur Creek. “You come back in the evening, it’s different. People are outside, visiting with each other, catching up. They’ll gather in the street in front of the taqueria, play dominoes, music, maybe even dance a little.”
“Sounds like a good place.”
“People with money, they think wealth is happiness.”
“You don’t?”
She laughed. “I’m an artist. If I believed that, I’d really be screwed.”
“If undocumented immigrants came knocking at a door south of Sulfur Creek, would it be opened to them?”
“Depends on the door. Like everywhere else, there are people whose hearts are great and others, well, not so much.” She saw something behind me and her face changed. “Back to work. See you around.”
I turned and watched the town’s police car pull up beside the pickup. Rainy put away her cell phone and walked to meet the cop when he got out. I headed that way, too.
“Afternoon, Officer Sanchez,” I said.
He wore sunglasses and a brimmed hat. He leaned against his cruiser and folded his arms across his chest. “Heard about what happened this morning. Surprised to see you’re still around. Still looking for that son of yours?”
“Still looking,” Rainy said.
“In Gallina Town?”
I hadn’t seen him there, but somehow he knew.
“Just sightseeing,” I said.
“You folks sure must’ve pissed somebody off.”
“Maybe somebody named Rodriguez?” I said.
“If that’s the case and I was you, I’d skedaddle just as fast as I could.”
“You told us yesterday that you’d ask around about Peter,” Rainy said.
“True to my word, ma’am. Nada. Nobody here knows that name. Sorry.”
“You have any problem with White Horse in Sulfur Springs?” I asked.
He removed his sunglasses and wiped sweat from his forehead. “I know about White Horse, sure, but I can’t say they’ve caused any trouble here.”
“Maybe they don’t cause it, but maybe they bring it. As in a car bomb.”
“You heard about that, did you? Then maybe you heard the sheriff’s people still don’t have a clue what that was about.”
“We heard it was about the Rodriguez family and White Horse.”
“I’m betting you didn’t hear that officially.”
“What’s your official line?”
He shrugged. “Shit happens. Will we be seeing more of you folks around here?”
“We like the food at Rosa’s Cantina, so maybe,” I said.
“Try the chiles rellenos. To die for.” He tipped his hat and put his sunglasses back on. “You folks take care.” He left us and headed toward the cantina.
I reached for the handle on the pickup door, and it was like touching a branding iron.
“You learn to be careful,” Rainy said. “And to park in shade whenever you can.”
I cranked the air conditioner as soon as we were in the truck, but it took a while for the heat to drop below broil. I started out of Sulfur Springs.
“Who called?”
“A friend,” she said. “Wondering how things were going.”
“I know this friend?”
“No.”
I waited, got nothing more.
Then my cell phone rang.
“You left your number,” the voice on the other end of the line said.
“Old Turtle?”
“Who is this?”
“My name’s Cork O’Connor.”
A long pause followed, then: “I can’t talk now. I’ll call you again later.”
“When?”
“Later.” And he hung up.
“Old Turtle?”
“Yep.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he’d call again later. But I think we’ll talk to him before that.”
She gave me a questioning look.
“I recognized his voice,” I said. “Old Turtle also goes by another name that’s not really his own. When we met him yesterday, he told us to call him Jocko.”
CHAPTER 11
* * *