Fifty Grand

Esteban smiled at us salesmanlike, grabbed a gray-haired little man lurking by the door, and gave him a bunch of keys. “Lock the rooms, don’t let anybody touch the stuff of the arrested, we might yet be able to get some of them back out. Ok?”

“What if the federales come back?” the gray-haired man asked.

“I doubt they’ll come back. They never hit the same place twice.”

“Not yet,” the man said.

“What do you want me to do? Tell everybody to go live in the fucking woods? Just lock up their rooms and make sure nobody takes their stuff, ok?”

“Ok.”

Esteban turned back to us. “Ok, folks, look, things only appear fucked up. They’re not. There’s absolutely no reason to panic, everything’s fine, we’re fine, they didn’t hit any of my crews downtown, they sent a small team, and I think that’s it. The main raids have been in Denver metro.”

“Good,” I said, unclear what this meant for us.

“And look, guys, I know you’re tired, but I’m shorthanded. You gotta go straight to work, ok?”

“Ok,” we said.

“Excellent. Excellent, that’s the spirit, now follow me, quick tour, shower, and then out.”

He led us inside the motel.

Red concrete walls, tiles, seventies American TV vibe. Nothing broken, though, and cleaner than even Ricky’s place in Vedado.

“Shower’s to the right, María. In and out in ten minutes tops. When you’re done you’ll find a uniform on the hook. Put it on. I’ll find one for you, too, Francisco. Hey, is it ok to call you Paco?”

“Everybody does.”

“Good, we don’t have much time. Have a shower and I’ll get you something to eat. Think I’ll take one myself, it’s been one of those days.”

The shower felt good. Hot water. High pressure.

I soaped and cleaned and got out the smell of Sheriff Briggs.

I put on the clothes Esteban had found for me: a white blouse, a pair of black slacks, black shoes a size too big.

Paco came out of his shower in the same getup. White shirt, black pants. He’d shaved and slicked back his hair. He looked handsome and I told him so.

“I knew you’d succumb to my wiles, they all do,” he said with a grin.

After Paco, Esteban came out of the shower fixing his shirt.

The big winter coat had concealed his true bulk. Six foot something, nearly three hundred pounds. He looked small next to the sheriff but he was bigger than all the Mexicans. Powerful arms and chest, a pale yellowy pallor to his skin. Not an unattractive man, and I imagined he could turn on the charm when he wanted.

He buttoned the shirt, smoothed out his beard.

“That’s better, eh?” he said. “Now, follow me, my car’s around the back.”

His car was the newish black Range Rover from Ricky’s photograph. Huge. Did everyone drive boats in this land? I saw the dent above the left front light. It was still unrepaired. About the size of a dinner plate. I stared at it. I didn’t get a vibe from it. But as Hector and Díaz were always telling me, vibes were unscientific.

Ask him about it in a day or two.

We got in the back and Esteban sped out of the parking lot before we’d even got the doors closed.

“Normally I’d give you guys the speech over some tequila, but we don’t have much time tonight, so just listen, ok? You’ll stay here in the motel, you’ll work for me, and you’ll do what I tell you to do. You’ll pay me a hundred dollars a week for the room. Most weeks you’ll earn a good bit more than that. But when you don’t you still owe me the money. Understand?”

His dialect was slangy chingla Spanish but I understood it.

“Yes,” I said.

He patted my arm. “María, you were probably pretty cagey with the sheriff. Are you sure you don’t want to work as a prostitute?”

“Yes.”

“Even blow jobs? You’re not bad looking. Ad on Craigslist. Fifty dollars a pop. You get twenty-five, I get twenty-five. Small commission to the SD. Take Sundays off, still make six, seven hundred a week. Good money.”

“No.”

“All right. It’s going to be harder for you, but if that’s what you want. Anytime you wanna change your mind, lemme know, ok? Paco, you’ll be working construction here until we finish that building on Pearl Street, then I’ll probably move you to Boulder or one of the ski resorts. I’ll talk to Angel about your skills and we’ll work out your pay later, ok?”

“Ok,” Paco said.

“Fine, now both of you listen up. I’m a good guy, easygoing, but I don’t take any shit. This is the way it’s gonna be: you work real hard, you don’t complain about anything, you do what you’re told. Don’t fraternize with the locals and don’t try to fucking freelance, because the sheriff and I will find you out. He’ll beat you half to death and I’ll fucking turn you over to the INS. We don’t allow drugs in the motel. In fact, no drugs period except what you move for me. Booze is ok. Understand?”

“Yes,” we said.

“Now, where we’re going tonight is a party up on what they call Malibu Mountain or Malibu Mesa… Oh, we live on what the sheriff calls Wetback Mountain-it’s kind of a joke-but if you ever get lost, just ask for the Bear Creek Motel. That’s what the place is called in the phone book.”