Dove Season (A Jimmy Veeder Fiasco) (9 page)

“No, that’s not it exactly. I ain’t looking for just any prostitute. I need to find a specific woman. She used to work for you, I think. Your grandfather told me you used to bring girls up to the bar on weekends.”

Tomás laughed nostalgically. “I haven’t done that myself in a long time. One of my early entrepreneurial endeavors. Made a lot of people happy. These days, Alejandro handles the girls directly. They’re scared of him, which is important.”

“You think I could talk to him?”

“We go through girls quickly. Don’t be surprised if he doesn’t remember. A couple of years? That’s a long time. Especially in Mexicali. You know if she’s still here?”

“I got no idea,” I said. It hadn’t occurred to me that she might not be in Mexicali anymore.

“What’s her name?” Tomás sat up, becoming interested.

“Yolanda. I don’t got a last name. She’s about twenty-five. Like five foot eight or nine, so she’s tallish for a Mexican. She has long, black hair and big, brown eyes, but I guess that doesn’t help. And she’s got a mole or birthmark on the left side of her neck. Like about this big,” I said, holding my fingers in a circle about the size of a nickel.

“Yolanda, tall, birthmark, got it. Sounds familiar. Why you want to find her?”

“Why do you think?” I had decided to keep Pop out of it.

Tomás said nothing for ten seconds, just staring at me.

“I ain’t the kid from across the street no more, Jimmy,” Tomás said, his eyes serious but still friendly.

“I kind of got that.” I held his gaze.

“So don’t treat me like a kid is what I’m saying. You come to me, ask a favor, but don’t trust me,” he said, looking almost hurt.

“I just need to find this Yolanda. It’s private. I can use your help. But if you don’t want to, I’ll find another way. I didn’t mean to bother you,” I said, sliding to the edge of the booth.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I just didn’t want you to think you were getting away with anything. It’s your business. I’ll respect that.”

“Can you find her? I can pay.”

“No money. I’ll ask around. If she’s in town, I’ll find her. Give me your phone number. I’ll call you when she’s found.”

“Let me pay. You’re out your time. Might be a lot of work.”

Tomás smiled. “Does it look like I need money?”

“No, but it looks like you’ll always want more.”

Tomás laughed and waved the girls back to the booth.

Tomás insisted that I stay, have a few drinks, and give the bar girls a go. Even if they weren’t Yolanda. After some back and forth, I was able to convince him that I was done for the night. We finalized our arrangements, Tomás promising to call me as soon as he heard anything about Yolanda.

I slid out of the booth and leaned over the table to shake Tomás’s hand. Walking past Little Piwi, I gave him my toughest glare, which didn’t even warrant a grin. I dragged my simultaneously drunk and hungover ass over to Bobby’s table.

Bobby’s face was buried deep in a two-hundred-pound woman’s ample cleavage. His laughter bubbled almost inaudibly, complemented by the platinum blond-wigged dancer’s seemingly sincere giggling. She squirmed on his lap, grinding into him in a playful, but probably painful way. Bobby gripped her ass with one hand in a constant struggle to maintain balance and leverage.

I stood over the table, waiting for Bobby to look up. He didn’t. I gave him a light kick in the shin. Nothing.

“Time to go,” I yelled over the music.

Bobby answered, his voice muffled by the woman’s flesh. It sounded like, “Candy bee’s inner tube knew French.” But I doubted that’s what he said.

“What?” I yelled, starting to get annoyed.

Bobby leaned back, frustrated. “I said, can’t you see I’m busy entertaining my new friend? Marguerita, Jimmy Vee. Jimmy Vee, Marguerita.”

“Come on, man. I’m spent and I stink.”

“You’re such a crybaby. I ain’t going to be long,” he said, pinching Marguerita’s ass. Her squeal pierced.

I walked to the exit, yelling behind me. “I’ll wait for you at the car.”

“It’s a truck,” Bobby said, knee-jerk defending his Ranchero, and then he returned his attention and face to the woman’s chest.

I lit a cigarette as I hit the street in front of Cachanilla’s. I inhaled deeply, wishing I still got the same light-headed buzz that I had gotten when I first started smoking. Thankfully, the night had turned the desert heat from crushing to pleasant. A warm breeze curled the smoke around my head. The thought of taking a nap in the bed of Bobby’s Ranchero didn’t sound half bad.

Alejandro walked over, giving a chin nod toward the pack of smokes in my hand. The international symbol for “Can I bum one of them there cigarettes?”

I handed him a cigarette and lit it.

“I didn’t know Tomás had friends,” Alejandro said, trying to sound casual, but there was something serious below the surface.

“Sounds like he has a lot of friends to me.”

“He knows everyone, yes. But who he trusts?”

“Okay,” I said.

“I watched you. I watched you talking. He trusts you.”

I didn’t like where this was headed. There was threat spiked in his voice.

Alejandro continued. “I don’t know you. Never seen you. In five years. Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m nobody. An old friend.”

“Nobody,” he repeated. Then he stared at me through the length of his smoke. He tossed it on the ground and crushed it underfoot.

“
Gracias
,” he said and walked back into Cachanilla’s.

I got my bearings and pointed myself in the direction of the U.S. Immigration Building three blocks away. The top of the modern bunker was visible and out of place among the older, run-down buildings along the border. I headed down the street. The alcohol and exhaustion were catching up to me. I wanted to sit down and take a nap right there.

Ask and you shall receive.

I had just reached the end of the block when something hard crashed into the side of my face. From experience I was pretty sure it was a fist. I turned in time to see that I was correct, as another fist (possibly the same one) hit me square in the mouth. It shoved my lit, now-broken cigarette into my mouth and sent me flying toward the stucco wall behind me. I hit my head hard and scraped the skin off my arm as I slid to the ground. The taste of tobacco, ash, and blood made me nauseous. I caught the sight of two red boots through my blurred vision.

Red Boots stood over me, Green Boots behind him, and three other cowboys behind them. I’m not sure what color their boots were. Serves me right to think I could piss on a guy’s cowboy boots and get away with it. I wondered what he’d do if I puked on them. I owed Bobby a big “I told you so.”

I made a futile attempt to get to my feet and reach for the knife in my boot. But what felt like fifty boots came flying at me. And all I could do to stay alive was curl up in a ball and take the punishment, one arm protecting my face, my other hand cupping my balls. It sounded like ten cursing Mexicans hitting bread dough with baseball bats. I made very little sound. It’s hard to yell when you can’t breathe. The pointy boots hit me at all angles. Luckily when the pain is distributed all over one’s body, it’s impossible to concentrate on any single location. Each new pain took my mind off the last one. Either way, the pain only lasted for a short time. Pretty soon I was unconscious. Passed out, knocked out, fainted, or all of the above. It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t feeling any pain.

When I woke up, it took me a long couple seconds to figure out what had happened. Unfortunately, the pain quickly reminded me that I had gotten my ass kicked. It made sense that my whole body would hurt. What I couldn’t figure out was why I was upside-down and moving.

“What the fuck?” came out of my mouth, slurred and drippy.

“Thank fucking God,” was the response I got.

Bobby eased me off his shoulder and set me on the ground. I pressed my face against the cool tile floor. I had never felt anything better in my life. I opened my eyes. I was inside. Somewhere lit by harsh fluorescents. I looked up at Bobby, his nose dripping blood and one eye almost completely swollen shut.

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“You should take a look in a mirror,” he said. “You going to live?”

“The tile feels good. It’s cold. Get down here. Put your face on the tile. It feels amazing,” I babbled.

“Great. They kicked you retarded,” Bobby said, trying to get me to my feet. “You never could take a punch.”

I tried to keep my face pressed against the tile, but Bobby pulled me up. I had trouble focusing, but pretty soon I had my weight underneath me. Shaky and swaying, but I was standing.

“What the fuck happened? Where are we?” I asked.

“Second question first. We’re at the border building. About to head back into Calexico. Your first question is more of a story. You okay to walk?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

We were in the Mexican-side lobby of the U.S. Immigration Building. It was a large room built to accommodate hundreds of people. The room was furnished similarly to a train station or an airport with bench seating and scattered potted palms that replaced the need for urinals. At this time of night, there were only a few people using the lobby to catch some shut-eye. A rowdy group of drunk teenagers hung out in the corner vocally comparing their pornographic discoveries.

Bobby and I walked the length of the lobby to the long hall that led to the “Welcoming Station.” I kept one hand on the wall for balance, running my fingers along the lines of a faux mosaic mural. I couldn’t tell what it was. Maybe a fish or a snake. Whatever it was, it felt out of place in the sterility of the government building. It looked like Quetzalcoatl as done by the guy who did that children’s book
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
.

There were two Border Patrol agents on duty. The white one working the desk looked like the kind of guy who works out three hours a day, but can only do it if he’s looking in the mirror while he pumps up. Upper body show-muscle. The Hispanic agent had a solid boiler for his age. I was impressed. A tight potbelly at twenty-five takes some extra work. They both looked mean and dumb.

Bobby put on his best dumb smile. “Hey, guys, how you doing tonight? Bet you’d rather be drinking, right?”

The white one gave us both a look, focusing his attention on Bobby’s face, then mine. “Jesus, what the hell happened to you two? You get in a fight with a cheese grater?” He hit his partner lightly on the shoulder, prompting some laughter.

“Good one,” Bobby said. “We got jumped. You know how it is. Head down to Chicali for a couple of drinks. Couple cowboys didn’t like the way we looked at their
chicas
.”

“Can we just get this over with?” I said, tired and frustrated.

Bobby gave me a light elbow. But considering that my entire body was a giant bruise, I couldn’t help but yelp.

“Obviously we’re done for the night. Time for bed,” Bobby said.

The two Border Patrol agents looked at each other. The Hispanic who hadn’t said anything gave him a nod. “Let’s see your passports.”

Bobby pulled his out of the back pocket of his jeans and handed it to the man.

“Where were you born?” the agent asked. He held the passport up, his eyes going back and forth between the photo and Bobby’s face.

“Right here in El Centro. Imperial Valley Regional Medical Center is what they call it now. Back then, they just called it ‘The Hospital.’”

The agent shook his head and grinned. “All right. Go ahead.” Then he turned to me. “Passport.”

I reached into my back pocket and then remembered that I had put my passport in my boot. I sat down on the ground and untied my boot, tugging at it to get it off. It was gone. I looked up at the Border Patrol agents and Bobby. They were all shaking their heads.

“Try the other one,” Bobby said.

I took off my other boot and shook it. My passport dropped to the floor. I put my boots back on. I had trouble getting the thin passport off the slick tile, sliding it around for a while. Eventually, I got a fingernail underneath and handed it to the agent. It felt like it took me a full, painful minute to stand back up.

“Where were you born?” the agent asked. He squinted at the photo and then flipped through the array of stamps in the back.

“Brawley. California. Here. What’s the point of this? You know we live here. You know we’re Americans. Can’t we just get back in our country?”

“You travel a lot. Been to a lot of places.”

“Yeah,” I said, getting even more annoyed.

“You bringing back anything I should know about?”

“Why didn’t you ask him that?” I said, pointing at Bobby.

Bobby rolled his eyes, indicating his assessment of me as the stupidest asshole in the world.

“Do you have any drugs, alcohol, fireworks, produce, or anything else that I should know about?”

“Produce?”

“Fruits or vegetables.”

“I know what produce is. No, I don’t have any drugs, fireworks, or produce, but I have some alcohol. I’m not sure if this counts, but I bought a couple of drinks and now I’m attempting to smuggle them into the U.S. in my stomach. Should I declare that?”

“Look, smart-ass. You want, I can call the cops, have them bring their breathalyzers, give you a drunk and disorderly.”

I was about to tell him that I was, in fact, acting drunk and orderly, and also that he could go fuck himself, but the face that Bobby made stopped me. I stuck with “Yes sir. Sorry. When I get tired, I get punchy.”

“I can see that. Punched in the face-y is more like it,” he said with a snort for a laugh. He turned to his partner, who joined in.

“Good one,” I said.

“All right. Go ahead. But next time you head across the border, I suggest you drink a little less or learn how to fight a little better.”

Bobby smiled, looking at me. “Sound advice, sir. I’ve been telling him that for years. You officers have a good night.”

“What the fuck was that?” Bobby said, walking back to the Ranchero. “You had to fuck with that dude. All night you’re made out of pussy, but as soon as it’s time to shut the fuck up, the time to be ‘yes sir,’ ‘no sir,’ then your balls drop and you got to be Rickles?”

“I liked your Eddie Haskell. How many times did you call that douche ‘sir’? Shit. I was going back into my country. The country I’m a citizen of. Fuck them.”

“They’re doing their job.”

“Being assholes isn’t in their job description. They were assholes. Don’t matter the job. If a waiter is doing his job and acts like an asshole, I’m going to call him on it. Their job isn’t to dick with me because they’re pissed they aren’t cops or FBI agents or some shit. Assholes like that crave that tiny bit of power. Sure they got a crap job, but it’s the one they chose. The one they’re pissed they settled for. The one that ensures them the daily duty of fucking with people, whether those people need to be fucked with or not. They get off pushing people around. They’re probably having a hearty masturbate as we speak.”

I took a breath and then continued. “I’m sorry. Am I out of line? No, you’re right. They’re heroes. American heroes. Keeping us safe on the front lines.”

“Bro,” Bobby said, “maybe wine coolers or appletinis are more your drink. Who knew beer and tequila made you self-righteous?”

“I’m fucking exhausted” was all I could get out.

“You want to go to the hospital or home?” Bobby asked, not joking.

“Home.”

As soon as my ass hit the bench seat of Bobby’s Ranchero, I dozed. The warm haze of sleep crept over my skin. But not for long. Bobby punched me in the arm.

“You probably have a concussion. To complement your preexisting brain damage. Better stay awake for a while,” he said.

“Tell that to all the alcohol you pumped into my system.” I slapped myself in the face, immediately regretting it, but waking up. I was tempted to flip down the sun visor and check out my face in the vanity mirror, but I decided to save the surprise for later.

Bobby said, “It’s just that I’m going to be a little embarrassed if you die. I’ll have to tell your dad and everything.”

“Yeah. That’d be a real bummer for you.”

“Exactly,” Bobby said, starting the car. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

We drove back a different way. Bobby took the car slowly through the quiet residential streets at the east end of Calexico. Even though it was late, a few people were sitting on their steps. The smoky remnants of barbecues wafted through the air. It’s never too late to have a couple of beers with your neighbors. The peace of the blue collar Mexican neighborhood was refreshing. It reminded me that most people led quiet lives and not everyone had just gotten a world-class beating.