Fifty Grand

Esteban turns. “What are you talking about? Where are the others?” he asks in perfect English with no trace of an accent at all.

“I just took these, the others didn’t look good,” the sheriff says.

“Are you fucking crazy? We’re shorthanded as it is, we need every hand we can get. There was supposed to be five coming in. We need them all.”

“I said I didn’t like the look of them.”

“You didn’t like the… Shit, you fucked up, Briggs, the INS has grabbed God knows how many of my men and now you-”

But before he can finish the sentence, Sheriff Briggs takes a 9mm out of his pocket.

He doesn’t point the gun at Esteban. Drawing it is enough, and face red with fury, he can barely speak. “Listen to me, you wetback motherfucker. This is my town. You’re here on fucking sufferance. I can fucking disappear you anytime I fucking want. Never talk to me like that again. Do you fucking understand, bitch?”

“I’m an American, Briggs, I’m a citizen just like you, you can’t-”

“I can do anything I damn well fucking please,” the sheriff says. Veins throbbing. Knuckles white.

Esteban looks at the sheriff and the gun. He doesn’t flinch. Makes me think that Briggs has pulled this one before or else Esteban is made of sterner stuff. Hasn’t been a murder in five years, he said. I wonder if that includes dead Mexicans?

Finally Esteban smiles. “You want an apology? Of course. I apologize. We’re friends. We work together.” He even forces a laugh. “Oh, Sheriff, why do you have to be so dramatic?”

Briggs puts the gun back in his coat pocket, satisfied. “Good. Now take a look at what I got ya at the auction block.”

Esteban turns and smiles at the pair of us. “Two hard workers, I can tell,” he says.

“We’ll see. They better work hard. I make this a tough town for slackers. Now let’s circle back to your motel and deal with these fucking feds and see what’s going on,” Briggs mutters.

“Welcome to Fairview,” Esteban says, and adds with a grin, “Don’t worry, it’s not always this exciting. It’s normally very dull.”

Yeah, I’ll bet, but I’ll do my best to change that.

5 WETBACK MOUNTAIN

When we got back it was all over, the feds high-fiving it back to Denver with a couple of little fish for the TV news. As we got out of the Escalade half a dozen people besieged Esteban, waving their arms and venting in fast, barely intelligible Mexican Spanish: “Sudden raid. No warning. They took Susanna, Juanita, Josefina, two others.”

“Where did they take them?” Esteban asked.

“Who knows?”

“I’ve got other things to do. You got this under control?” Briggs asked.

Esteban nodded. “I’ll get my lawyer on it.”

“Then I’m gone. You two, nice to meet you, remember everything I told you, keep your noses clean,” he said to us.

We got out of the vehicle and we were glad to see the Escalade depart.

The remaining population of the motel had surrounded Esteban now. “They took my money. They broke my door. Josefina’s daughter is at day care…”

Everyone talking at once and pantomiming particular parts of the events in case Esteban didn’t quite understand.

Esteban’s phone rang in the middle of it. He turned to Paco. “Keep them away from me,” he said in Spanish.

Paco took charge like he was born to it and herded the petitioners back to the motel.

Esteban answered the call. His English was as fast as his Spanish. “Yeah, I know… I’m here right now… Page them, call them, whatever it takes, and if they come to the construction site remind them that it’s a violation of safety regulations to allow anyone on-site who does not have a warrant from OSHA… Doesn’t matter if it’s the fucking pope… Yeah, keep ’em working.”

He made two more phone calls and then turned to Paco and me.

“Names?” he asked.

“María.”

“Francisco.”

“Ok, María, Francisco. I’ve got a room for you upstairs. You’ll have to share for a couple of days but if we really have lost some people then I suppose you’ll have your own room.”

I nodded and looked at the dreary motel. It wasn’t pretty but at least it had a roof and four walls, which was more than you could say for some of the apartment buildings I’d lived in.

Ricky had taken a few photographs of the place but they didn’t quite square up in my head. It wasn’t that important, anyway. As far as we know Dad had never lived here.

Most of the illegals in Fairview, however, either stayed here or at another motel farther up the mountain.

Esteban was still talking, selling us on the gig. “Yeah, you’ll be living high on the hog. Your own room. Money. Maybe even get you a car. Can either of you drive? Juanita had a car, won’t be much good to her now.”

I looked at the collection of ratty pickups and junk cars in the lot. These were as bad as Cuban vehicles, maybe worse.

Esteban flipped open his cell, took another call.

“Yes?… Now?… Who for?… Ooh, yes, he’s an important client… No, never say no, no matter what the circumstances… I’ll be right up. I got two right here. They just got in. You got uniform requirements?… Ok, tell them I’ll be there in ten.”