Big Maria (3 page)

Frank shook his head and climbed into the bus.

In an effort to be as far away from the hens as possible, Frank sat in the front of the bus across from Ricky.

Ricky took Ogilby Road for part of the way. It took a little longer than the highway and the view was identical, but he knew the old locals preferred it. His passengers liked to be reminded that although the old road might be long in the tooth, it hadn’t lost its function if you were patient.

Frank alternated his attention from one window to the other. The Mule Mountains to the west, the Cargo Muchacho range to
the east, and the Chocolate Mountains behind them. Mostly rock and scrub, there was no visual difference between the ranges. It all used to be his people’s land, but it was hard to lament having something that ugly stolen from you.

“So what kind of Indian are you? There’s like a whole lot of kinds, right?” Ricky asked without taking his eyes off the road.

It took a second for Frank to realize that Ricky was talking to him.

“What kind of white are you?” Frank said.

“Gosh. Don’t know. Didn’t know my parents. Don’t even got their last name. Got my first foster parents’. Thinking I’m just regular white, I guess.”

Frank nodded. The kid was hard not to like. “I’m Chemehuevi mostly. But all the River Indians got a little of everything else in there. Mojave, Hopi, Navajo. Everyone’s mixed red. Some Mexican in there, too. How old are you, Ricky?”

“Twenty-four.”

“And you got your own business. Good for you.”

Ricky gave Frank a glance and a smile. “I got a daughter. In the first grade. Trying to make things better for her than they were for me.”

“All you can do.”

“You got kids?”

“I got a daughter myself. Two grandsons.”

“I never see your wife. She don’t like Mexico?”

“Used to love it, but she passed on. Been gone for”—Frank counted slowly on his fingers—“six years now.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“No reason to apologize. Used to being on my own.”

F
rank could remember when Los Algodones was a quaint and quiet border crossing, mostly produce trucks and even mule traffic in town. Now the foot traffic was entirely blue hairs and wrinkled white men. The chipped stucco buildings looked the
same, but the businesses inside had changed. They had become doctor and dentist offices, but mostly pharmacies, every other shop competing for the best discount.

Frank went to four different
farmacias
before he found the best price on his cancer medication. He would have to wait until the following Tuesday for the cholesterol pills, vitamins, and less important crap. By then, his casino check should have arrived. The small allotment that he got for being an Indian was just enough to keep him from burning the neon monstrosity to the ground.

The heat and walking took more out of him than he wanted to admit. What was it with Mexicans and their hate for shade? He couldn’t remember seeing a single tree in all the Mexican cities he’d ever traveled to. Frank took a break on a low wall and looked over his list. Sweat dripped from his nose onto the folded paper.

Finished with his medicine shopping, Frank wanted to pick up a couple of Cuban cigars with the cash he had left. He wouldn’t smoke them, but having them would make him feel good. At the very least, he could chew the ends.

He swayed a little as he rose, light-headed and dizzy. He took a knee. A fifteen-year-old Mexican boy approached and put a hand on his elbow.

“
Está bien?
” the boy asked.

Frank shook the hand away and rose without the boy’s assistance.

“
Estoy bien. Yo no necesito su ayuda,
” Frank said sharply.

The boy smiled and shrugged. He hit Frank with a solid right cross to the chin. As Frank fell over the low wall, the boy grabbed for Frank’s bag.

The boy was too young to have an effective punch. Enough to knock Frank off-balance, but not enough to hurt him. Frank landed on his ass but held on to the bag, pulling the boy toward him.

Frank got to his feet, ignoring the aching in his hip and knees. The boy continued to pull at the bag. Despite the pain, Frank felt
energized. The kid wanted a fight, he’d get the horns. Messed with the wrong goddamn redskin. Frank threw his best haymaker.

And missed horribly. The boy pulled the bag from his grasp and kicked him hard in the stomach. Frank collapsed to the ground with his wind, his pride, and his breakfast knocked out of him.

Frank no longer cared about his bag. All he wanted was air. Sweet, delicious air. Thirty painful seconds later, he had his breath back. His throat tasted like Jimmy Dean and piss.

When he looked up, Ricky stood over him with the Mexican boy’s neck tucked into the crook of his enormous arm. The boy struggled but eventually went slack when he realized he was beat. Ricky’s size made the boy look small and defenseless. It made Frank feel worthless. This scrawny child had gotten the better of him.

“Got your bag, Mr. Pacheco. You okay?” Ricky reached forward with his free hand.

Frank stood on his own and took the bag from Ricky.

“Thanks.”

“You want to get a punch in? I’ll hold him still. Sometimes a kick in the butt is the best lesson. Or should I bring him to the cops?”

Frank looked at the frightened boy.

“Let him go.”

“You sure?”

Frank brushed off his pants. He wanted to hit the kid. Bloody his face. Beat the youth right out of him. But he knew it wouldn’t be satisfying.

“Yeah. No harm done. Let’s forget about it.”

N
one of the seniors ever had problems with the border agents when crossing. While buying Mexican prescription drugs and sneaking them over the border wasn’t exactly legal, even the
Border Patrol didn’t have the heart to stop an eighty-year-old grandma from getting her arthritis meds.

Back at the bus, Ricky finished his head count. Two of his seniors were AWOL, but Ricky wasn’t concerned. There were always a few stragglers. He’d give them another fifteen minutes before he went looking.

Frank approached him at the back of the truck.

“Thanks for the help back there.”

“Kid sucker-punched you. Next time it will be you that’s got my back.” Ricky smiled, knowing the old man was embarrassed. He was like a hundred years old. What did he expect?

“Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Thanks, Ricky.”

“No problem, Mr. Pacheco.”

“Call me Frank.” Frank walked a few steps, and then turned. “You smoke
mota
?”

“What? No. I mean, not while I’m driving. I mean. What are you talking about?”

“Calm down, kid.” Frank laughed.

Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic baggie. He unrolled it, opened it, and removed a couple thin joints.

Ricky looked both ways and took the joints. He gave them a quick sniff.

“Homegrown,” Frank said. “My grandsons are entrepreneurs like you. You ever need more, just ask. We all got a little glaucoma.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

Ricky put the joints in his shirt pocket.

“You had these on you the whole time? You went into Mexico and back with a bag of grass in your pocket? You could’ve got caught.”

“At my age a little excitement is welcome.”

“N
o porn,” Ricky said.

“You got a dirty mind and a low opinion. Didn’t even dawn on me,” Harry said. “Just going to research and get out of your hair.”

Harry would have to catch some naked-lady photos when the kid was in the can or something. He needed fresh imagery for his midevening solo. The women in his current stack of nudie magazines had become so familiar that Harry practically thought of them as sisters. His lady lineup had grown pornographically stale, the honeymoon long over.

Harry had cleaned up, but even he was aware of the rough tang of unwashed clothes and alcoholic that rose from his body. If Ricky smelled it, he didn’t say a word.

His mind drifting, Harry wondered if people ever lost their sense of smell. Like a deaf or blind person, but their nose didn’t work. He remembered hearing that that was one of the things that happened when you got struck by lightning. If you lived. Maybe while he was online, he would find out.

They sat on folding chairs and faced the computer in Ricky’s trailer.

“You have about an hour,” Ricky said. “When Flavia and Rosie get home, we’re done.”

Harry nodded. “So how do you work it?”

“What? The computer?”

“I ain’t used one much.”

“Never?”

“The one at the prison for work, but only to type in names and stuff. Play solitaire. Minesweep.”

“Why don’t I type? It’ll go faster,” Ricky said. He was concerned that his trailer might absorb Harry’s stink. The sooner he left, the better.

“What if I don’t want you to see what I’m looking up?”

“There ain’t no secrets online. If it’s there on the Internet, anyone can see it. What’s it matter?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look, I can’t just explain how to use a computer. Little as I know, there’s still a lot to know. It’s your call. Either I help or you find some other place to do it. I’m not being a jerk. I don’t know how else to help, but to help.”

Harry thought about it for a while. He looked at a child’s drawing on the wall above the computer. A house and a sun and purple grass in Crayola. He could draw better than that.

“You have anything to drink?” Harry asked.

“Water.”

Harry made a face like Ricky had offered him iced urine.

Harry finally nodded. “All right. You help. Look up something called the California Desert Protection Act.”

“And my twenty bucks?”

“You want it up front?”

“Yeah.”

“Why not after?”

“Because you’re less trustworthy than me. Just fact. Ask anyone. People trust me. They don’t trust you. If there were a ref or ump or whatever, he would tell you to pay first.”

“Fair enough. Probably right.” Harry dug in his pocket and handed Ricky a wadded twenty.

F
ifteen minutes later, Harry was bored sober. Ricky had found a copy of the California Desert Protection Act online, but it
was all governmentese. Who could read all of those heretofores and insomuches?

“Forget this. Can’t make head or tail. Search ‘gold in the Chocolate Mountains.’” Harry unconsciously whispered, “gold.”

“Which Chocolate Mountains?” Ricky asked.

“What do you mean? The ones out here. The Chocolate ones.”

“Don’t you know nothing about around here? There’s two Chocolate Mountains. The ones by the Salton Sea and the bigger ones in Arizona.”

“Yeah, but they’re the same, right?”

“Nope. Two different states. Not connected. We’re actually sitting in the middle between them.”

“All I want is the ones with the gold in them.”

B
y the end of their computer research, Harry learned that both of the mountain ranges had gold in them. And the gold was no secret. He also learned that Conspiracy Todd was mostly full of crap, a less-than-surprising fact that he should have taken into account before he had gotten overexcited. Like all Harry’s schemes, this one had quickly gone south.

The California Chocolate Mountains were the ones Conspiracy Todd had been referring to. The government had sold the mineral rights to a big corporation for a bunch of desert land. That part he had gotten right. What Conspiracy Todd had failed to mention is that the gold was in the middle of the US Navy Aerial Gunnery Range. A still-bombing-all-the-time aerial gunnery range. The corporation had bought the rights on a gamble. They could only mine
after
the land had been decommissioned. And then cleared of all ordnance. If they ever decided to close the range, it would take decades to make it safe for mining. There were billions of dollars in gold in those mountains, but they would have to wait years and years before anyone could get to it.

The Arizona Chocolate Mountains had gold, too. And it had mines. And miners. People had been finding gold in them
thar hills going back two hundred years, since even before the Gold Rush. The Chocolate Mountains had the oldest known gold mines in the West, and Harry was just hearing about it now. Those mines had been tapped out. Harry was only a couple hundred years late.

Harry needed a drink. The whole thing was a wash. Instead of getting rich, he was twenty bucks poorer. He had gotten his hopes up. As usual, reality needed to stomp his groin with its stiletto heel. What had he been thinking? As if one of CT’s rants was going to open the door to riches. He felt like a tool.

“You thinking about prospecting for gold?” Ricky asked.

A little too curious, always with the questions, thought Harry. He shrugged.

“Some of the seniors I drive, they go out with their metal detectors. Show me the flakes and stuff they find. Sometimes little nuggets. I could ask where they go.”

Harry watched Ricky click from website to website, barely able to retain what he was seeing. There were dozens of gold sites with books and maps and tools and all manner of equipment for sale. If any of those sites knew where the gold was, they would get it themselves. Apparently the real gold came from suckers looking for gold. He wasn’t going to be a sucker this time. Not like Amway. Not like those vitamin supplements. Not like all the others. He wasn’t going to spend a million dollars to find a thousand dollars’ worth of gold.

That didn’t make Harry want the gold any less. It was gold. Treasure. Buried treasure. And it was out there. Nothing told him different. Cruel world, he thought. He finally knew what he wanted, but he had no way of getting it.

“You ever heard of Iron Eyes Cody?” Ricky asked out of nowhere.

“Yeah, sure. The Indian who cried at the litterbugs.”

“Someone mentioned him today. I wanted to look him up. We done?”

“Yeah. We’re done, I guess.”

Harry left without thanking Ricky. He had paid him. No reason to thank him too.

R
icky put the crumpled twenty-dollar bill with the rest of the loose bills in the New Bus Fund and put the mayonnaise jar back in the deepest part of the fridge. Only two thousand so far, but the down payment on a new bus wasn’t out of reach if he kept doing two runs a day.