Fifty Grand

Paco shrugs. The man towers over him, could pulverize him, but somehow Paco’s slouch and silence is all insolence, as if he has the power, not the tall American.

The man turns to Pedro. “I mean, seriously. Two boys, two women, and a fucking old man. This is gotta be a joke. Where’s the real merchandise?”

Merchandise. That’s what we are.

“I just bring them in,” Pedro says.

“Yeah, that’s right, you just fucking bring ’em in.”

“At considerable risk,” Pedro adds, and he can’t help but give me half a glance.

“How old are you?” the man asks Paco.

Pedro translates the question. “Twenty-eight,” Paco says.

“Like hell, and the other one’s even younger. Hold out your hands, both of you,” he says.

Pedro translates again.

Paco and the Guatemalan kid hold out their hands. He examines them for scar tissue and blisters and shakes his head.

“These are town boys. Juárez trash. Neither’s done a hard day’s work in their fucking lives. Christ… This is really pathetic. I need strong guys for construction. Not fucking children, women, and old-timers.”

He takes off his hat, a peaked cap that says DON’T TREAD ON ME, whatever that’s supposed to mean.

Without the hat he seems even taller. Six foot six. Two hundred and fifty pounds. About forty-five. I give him a cop’s look and memorize the details. Lines on his face, scar below his ear. He dyes his crew-cut hair a chestnut brown, but lets his goatee keep the flecks of gray. His voice is harsh but not strained. He’s used to having authority, to being in command. Likes it. His back is straight and his belly fat is contained. Not like the Americans of The Simpsons or the Yuma flicks. Athletic. Strong. Jaw like an axe head. He’s the type that landed on the moon when Jefe was boasting about a 10 percent increase in sugarcane production.

“You. What’s your name?”

“María.”

“María. Course it is. You know what the problem with your fucking culture is? No fucking originality. Indian blood. Fucking ten thousand years and no one invents the wheel. Shee-it.”

“María, Elizabeth,” I improvise.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“Yucatán.”

“The Yucatán. I know it. Ever been to Chicxulub?”

I shake my head.

“Fuck no. Why would you? That’s where the comet hit the Earth that wiped out the dinosaurs. Why would you want to go there? Jesus, no fucking curiosity either.”

I nod and our eyes meet and I look down at the concrete floor.

“And what do you do María, Elizabeth?” he says, coming close, his sternum an inch from my nose.

He’s wearing cowboy boots, boot-cut black jeans, and a long wool overcoat. On another man it would be a costume in lieu of a personality, but not him. This is his attire. And you couldn’t see it unless you were looking, but I am looking, and the bulge is a gun in his coat pocket.

He puts his finger under my chin and tilts my head.

His eyes are blue-gray, distant, like ash.

“I was a maid,” I say. “I worked in many of the Western hotels in Cancún.”

“This ain’t Cancún,” he says.

Pedro senses trouble. The others think I’m lucky, but Pedro knows I’m good. He’s never seen moves like that before. I’m not a cop or a federale otherwise I’d have called it in. But I am something. And the sooner he’s shut of me, the better.

“She has worked also as a nurse and she is strong and she is good with children,” Pedro says.

The man sniffs me like a bear. “Whored before?” he asks in Spanish.

I shake my head.

“Well, if you’re gonna start, you better start now. Getting too old as it is.”

He turns to Pedro. “Is she a breeder or what?”

Pedro shrugs.

“You got kids?” the man asks me.

“No.”

“A hundred a week, domestic. Hard fucking labor. But five times that giving working guys a little R-and-R. Think about it. Esteban will give you the lowdown,” he says.

He touches my cheek with his forefinger. Paco flinches, but I look at him to show that it’s all right. The man smiles and strokes my hair. I decide that-despite the plan-if he touches my breasts I’m going to kick him in the ballsack and when he’s down I’ll attempt to break his nose with the bottom of my shoe.

He looks at me for a long ten seconds.

What do you see there, friend?

Do you see the future? Or the past? The dead men in the desert, one with his head blown off, bodies black with egg-laying flies.

And what do I see when I look at you?

A hint.

A glimpse.

Before New Mexico I hadn’t so much as killed a fish. But now I know there will be more.

I’m shaking.

Maybe it should be you, Ricky. I don’t think I can do this either.

The man parts my hair to look for lice.

No, if this gets worse I won’t kick him. I’ll just go home. I’ll quit the game and go.

“She ain’t lousy,” he says.

“They are all clean,” Pedro insists.

He opens my mouth with two fingers. The smell of tobacco, leather. He nods to himself.

“You could make a lot of money… Yeah, I like this one. She could pass for white if she weren’t so dumb. Ok, you’ll do, step over here.”