Bewere the Night (50 page)

(“Rising Star Falls,” cried the Reporter. “Exotic Eva Disappears—Have We Seen Her Last Film?”)

I hope that’s not the case. I’m not out to harm anyone. When she comes back to bargain, I’ll be happy to bargain.

She knows who makes a star.

COYOTAJE

MARIE BRENNAN

The coyotes of Mexicali were bold. They did their business in cantinas, in the middle of the afternoon; the police, well-fed with bribes, looked the other way. Day by day, week by week, people came into Mexicali, carrying backpacks and bundles and small children, and day by day, week by week, they went away again, vanishing while the back of the police was obligingly turned.

If the people could afford it. “The price is twenty-five thousand pesos,” the coyote repeated, and drained the last of his beer. “If you can’t pay, stop wasting my time.”

Inés bit her lip, looking down at the scratched Formica tabletop. “I don’t have twenty-five thousand. I only have—” She stopped herself before saying the number. Mexicali was far from the worst of the border towns, but it was bad enough, if you went looking for the wrong people.

The coyote shrugged. “Try El Rojo. He might take you for less. Especially if you have something else to offer.” The quick downward flick of his eyes made his meaning clear.

“Where can I find El Rojo?”

“La Puerta de Oro, in Chinesca. Ask for shark-fin tacos.”

Inés nodded and got up. She heard footsteps following her as she left the cantina, and whirled once she was through the door, prepared to defend herself.

Her pursuer held up his hands, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Relax. I only followed because I heard what Ortega said. Don’t go to El Rojo.”

The sun was like a hammer on Inés’ back, trying to pound her into the dust. But it meant she could see the other man’s face, broad and pocked with the occasional scar, seamed where he squinted against the light. “If he’s cheaper, I have to. Notold me it would be this expensive.”

The man—another coyote—shrugged and pulled sunglasses from his pocket. “Can’t help it. With all the new laws, it’s a lot riskier for us, and you need documents on the other side. Look, I’ll take you for twenty.”

Inés shook her head. “I don’t have twenty, either.”

“Then stay here a while. There’s jobs—not good ones, but if you’re patient you can save enough to get across.
Safely.
El Rojo . . . he isn’t safe.”

None of it was safe; even the honest coyotes could get a migrant killed. “I don’t have any choice,” she said.

With the man’s eyes hidden by the sunglasses, she couldn’t be sure, but she thought he gave her a pitying look. “Go with God, then. And be careful.”

Caution had gone out the window when Javier died. Shading her eyes against the desert sun, Inés went in search of La Puerta de Oro.

It lay in Mexicali’s Chinatown, its garish red and gold faded by the elements. The interior was blindingly dark, after the street outside. “Shark-fin tacos,” she said once her eyes adjusted, and the hostess jabbed her thumb toward a table in the back corner.

Two men sat there, both facing the door. The bigger one grinned as Inés approached, licking his lips in an exaggerated gesture, but it was the skinnier one
she
watched. He had a predator’s eyes.

She cast her gaze down when she got to the table. “I want to get across the border,” she said. Quietly, but not whispering. “I heard El Rojo could take me.”

“I can,” the smaller man said. He was wiry more than slender, hardened to rawhide by the desert sun. Other Mexicali coyotes took migrants in secret truck compartments, sneaking them across into Calexico or up to State Route 7, then onward to San Diego or Phoenix. El Rojo, according to rumor, went a more dangerous route, through the Sonoran Desert. Less risk of being caught by the Border Patrol, but more risk of dying, whether from thirst or the guns of militia. Or coyotes, of the four-legged kind.

Inés sat, eyes still downcast; the last thing she wanted was for him to take her stare as a challenge. “I can pay ten thousand.”

The bigger fellow laughed, a barking sound in the quiet of the restaurant. “That and a bit more will do, girl,” he said, laying one hand on her knee as if she might not catch his meaning.

She controlled her revulsion; pulling away too fast would make her look like prey. It was the other man who mattered, anyway. El Rojo, the red one. There were many possible explanations for the nickname, few of them reassuring.

His method of bargaining showed a sharp mind. From money, he would switch without warning to questions about Inés: where she was from, why she was emigrating, what kind of work she thought she would find. She told him she came from Cuauhtémoc in Chihuahua, and had a brother who crossed at Nogales two years ago; if she could get to Albuquerque, he knew a man who could get her a job as a maid. Seventeen thousand, El Rojo said, and if she was coming from Cuauhtémoc and going to Albuquerque, why had she come to Mexicali? A man had brought her this far, promising help, Inés said, but he’d tried to rape her; she would pay fifteen thousand and no more.

El Rojo smiled, thin, lips closed. “That’ll do. Half now, half when we get there, and Pipo here will show you to your room.”

“My room?” Inés asked, alarm rising in her throat.

Now he showed a glint of teeth. “I’m your coyote now. Full service, from here until your trip is done. Wouldn’t want you getting picked up by the cops.”

Or telling anyabout his business. This was his reputation, that he was shrewd and careful, and utterly without human morals. If she gave him reason to cut her throat, he would, without hesitation.

She’d hoped to send a letter, in case she didn’t survive this trip. “Do you think I’m stupid? I didn’t bring the money with me.”

He gestured at his companion. “Pipo will go with you to fetch it. We have a deal, and until it’s done, you’re mine.”

The “room” Pipo showed her to was a basement elsewhere in Chinesca, though Inés, blindfolded, only knew it by the smell of spices. What sort of deals had El Rojo struck, that he chose to do business out of this part of Mexicali?

Maybe the police just paid less attention to the Chinese district. Certainly Pipo felt comfortable enough to lead her blindfolded through the streets, by a very roundabout path. When he shoved her off the last step and yanked off the bandanna, Inés found more than a dozen people in the basement already, sitting in the light of a single dim bulb, watching her with wary eyes.

“Tomorrow night,” Pipo said, and left.

Inés brushed her hair from her face, nodded at the migrants, and found a place to sit by the wall, where she leaned against a broken piece of tabletop. Nospoke; she didn’t expect it. Right now they were all strangers, in an unknown place, taking an enormous risk. Talk would come later, when shared trials created a sense of bonding; then she would hear about relatives on the other side of the border, or the hope of work—whatever dream or desperation sent them on this journey.

She studied them, though, out of the corners of her eyes, taking care never to stare at anyone. Most were a bit younger than her: in their teens, maybe early twenties. A few women, the rest men; three of the women were cradling children too young to walk. One man was substantially older—maybe his fifties, though with his face so wrinkled by the sun, she could be off by ten years. He made no pretense about not staring at her, though when Inés returned the look he glanced away, scratching his fingers through hair like gray wire.

Fifteen thousand pesos, Inés had promised El Rojo. Assume the same for everyone here; some maybe bargained better, some worse, and she didn’t know if he charged the same for little kids. Seventeen people in this basement, counting her. Assume that was average. Two hundred fifty-five thousand pesos—more than twenty thousand dollars. How often did El Rojo do this? Every month? Less often? More? However she did the math,
coyotaje
was a profitable business.

One for which many people paid the price.

Javier would’ve told Inés she was an idiot for coming here, for putting herself into El Rojo’s hands. But Javier was gone, and she was the only one who could do this.

She laid down on the hard concrete and tried to get some sleep.

When the basement door slammed open, half the people there were already awake; within seconds, all of them were on their feet, and one mother stifled her daughter’s wail. Pipo grinned at them, blunt face monstrous in the dim light, and jerked a thumb toward the door. “Time to go.”

Inés sneaked a glance at her mother’s old watch, with its extra hole punched in the band to fit her smaller wrist. An hour past sunset. They would make their move in the dead of night.

Last chance to run.

But it was a lie. She’d passed up that chance when she sat down at El Rojo’s table—maybe when she came to Mexicali in search of him. Inés followed the others upstairs and into the narrow alley behind.

A truck waited there. Inés didn’t see El Rojo, but three other men were helping Pipo, and one climbed into the back with the migrants before the door was rolled down and locked into place. No secret compartment, not here; this was only to get them out of town. Most of the journey would be done on foot.

More waiting, this time in near-total darkness. Inés sat with her backpack in the hollow of her crossed legs, arms wrapped around it, swaying into the gray-haired man or the young woman on the other side every time the truck slowed or accelerated or hit a rough patch of road. The young woman sat in much the same position, only it was a little girl she held, a year old at most. The infant, of course, didn’t understand what was going on, and burbled loudly to herself in the darkness.

“Shut her up, already,” one of the young men said abruptly, breaking the stifling silence that overlaid the noise of the truck. “That brat’s gonna get us caught.”

Inés felt the mother shrink back in alarm. “Hey!” Inés said, glaring into the darkness, as if the complainer could see her. “She’s happy. Would you rather she was crying?”

By the voice, she guessed him to be one of the younger ones—probably the weedy kid, fifteen at most, and twitchy with nerves. “I’d rather she shut up. Do you have any idea how far noise like that’s gonna carry, once we’re out in the desert?”

Better than you do.
Instead she answered, “Let her tire herself out now; then she’ll be quiet later. The hard part’s still ahead of us.”

“Noasked you,” the boy said, but it was sullen rather than threatening. When noelse spoke up in his support, he made a disgusted sound and fell silent. The mother was stiff at Inés’ side, but she made no protest when Inés held her fingers out blindly, for the baby to play with. A bump in the road sent her backpack toppling from her lap, but an anonymous hand pushed it back into place.

Some time after that, the truck slowed, turned, left the paved road. Inés guessed they had been driving for maybe three hours; presuming they were going east, that put them well past Yuma, into the harsh desert of Sonora. So far, at least, the rumors were true.

Knowing still didn’t prepare her for what greeted the migrants when the truck rattled to a halt and Pipo let them out. All around was hard dirt and scrub brush, blue and gray beneath the brilliant canopy of the stars. Inés found herself suddenly, irrationally reluctant to leave the truck; it was the only human thing in sight, and once it was gone, they would be completely at the mercy of the coyotes.

Where is El Rojo?

He appeared without warning, from what Inés would have sworn was an empty patch of desert. The coyote sauntered toward them, hands comfortably in his pockets, but she wasn’t fooled by the show of relaxation; the wary grace of his movement said he was very much alert. “Any trouble?” he asked.

Pipo bent to murmur in his ear. Inés, straining to hear, caught a scrap about the baby. El Rojo’s lip curled in annoyance, and her muscles tensed. But the mother had paid, and a coyote who abandoned his cargo too easily would soon get a reputation that destroyed future business. He waved Pipo back, and turned his attention to the waiting group.

“Listen carefully,” he told them, in a quiet voice that raised the hairs on Inés’ neck, “because anywho dies from not paying attention won’t be my problem.

“We’re going over the fence. Pipo and the boys will show you how. Anywho makes a sound while we’re climbing over will pay for it. Anywho hesitates gets left behind. When I run, you run until I stop. Anywho can’t keep up, gets left behind. We’ll go until midday, rest for four hours, move again. I say ‘quiet,’ you shut up or pay for it. I say ‘hide,’ you go straight for the nearest cover, get low, don’t move until I tell you. Me and the boys leave, you stay where you are, unless you feel like dying. I give you any other orders, you obey, and don’t ask questions. Got it?”

He waited until every migrant had nodded. Nodared make a sound, not even to say yes. When he had agreement, El Rojo said, “Let’s go.”

The fence was a black scar across the desert’s face, looming high overhead. No cameras or lights out here, Inés knew, unless vigilantes on the other side had installed their own—but she trusted El Rojo to be canny enough to know if they had. Didn’t trust the man any further than that, but to be competent at his business, yes. He had a good system for crossing, too. Pipo made a cup of his hands and lifted his boss to the top of the wall, where El Rojo balanced easily and unfurled a rope ladder, which one of the other men staked down in the dirt. It seemed considerate, until Inés saw how much more quickly people climbed, not having to rappel; and the ladder was more portable than a rigid one, less permanent than a tunnel. It fit everything she knew about him: quick, simple, and above all, efficient.