Joyride (21 page)

Nice. He has no problem letting me ride my bike back and forth from the Breeze Mart in the dead of night, yet, to walk around a populated-by-mostly-rich-people area like Destin Commons is unacceptable. “I know” is all I say. To lighten the mood, I open up my apron and hand him my earnings from the café, rolled up with a rubber band for his jar-stuffing convenience. “It's three hundred forty dollars,” I explain, not un-proudly.

His eyes light up instantly. “Seriously?”

“Yep. And it's all yours.” Well, except for twenty dollars. That goes in my secret stash for whatever-the-heck-I-want. “We got killed today. My feet are about to fall off.” Complete and total truth.

He accepts the mass of bills in his hand gingerly, as if it were a baby bird. He looks at it for a long time. I lie next to him on the couch and hoist my feet up onto his knees. He makes room for me.

Julio smiles down at me, ignoring what I know is a pungent smell coming from my work shoes. Then he tosses the bundle of cash onto my belly. Three hundred forty dollars in ones, fives, and tens is heavy. “You can keep your earnings now,
bonita.
”

I sit up. “What?” A thrill runs through me. “What do you mean?” The thought of keeping the cash in my lap is mind-blowing. If I can start keeping what I earn, then that means I could save up for a car. Whoa. “What is going on?”

Julio scratches at a beard that isn't there. I honestly don't know if he can't grow one or if he keeps it shaved. I've never seen him shave. “You have grown up, little sister. I'm very proud of you. You've helped me so much these past months. I'm grateful for that.”

“I don't understand.”

“Because of your help, we've saved enough money to bring Mama and Papi back, Carlotta. We have an appointment with
El Libertador
tonight. Go take a shower and change. I want you to be with me. You earned it.”

My shower is quick and unappreciated. I dress for comfort instead of style. I don't know what to expect. My stomach is one big tangle of emotions. Relief, that I don't have to work as much, unless I want to. Anxiety, about what
El Libertador
will have to say. Sadness, that this part of my life—the part where Julio and I eke out a living on our own together, united—is over. Happiness, that this part of my life—the part where Julio and I struggle to make ends meet and send money to my parents and suffer—is over. Guilt, because I still haven't told Arden the truth about my parents, and now I'll all of a sudden have immigrant parents who happen to be document challenged and his dad is practically the founder of People Against Undocumented Immigrants. If that were an actual thing.

Julio knocks on my bedroom door, bringing me back to the reality: This is happening despite what I feel about it. “Are you ready, Carlotta? We have to go. I've called a taxi for us.”

It's out of character for my brother to waste money on things like taxis, so either we're traveling a longer distance than we can feasibly walk, he doesn't want to be hot and sweaty when we arrive, or we're running that late—or all of the above. “I'm ready,” I breathe.

The taxi is old and smells of body odor and fake cherries and cheap aftershave—all of which I assume belong to the driver in some form or the other. Julio sits quietly beside me, hands folded in his lap, so I do the same, even though I feel like spazzing out.

We leave city limits, and drive and drive and drive. We keep making turns here and there away from Highway 20, until I would no longer be able to find my way back to it. Which makes me feel unsafe—something I never thought I'd feel with Julio.

The cab pulls into an old abandoned office complex, the kind with glass front windows that probably used to house things like nail salons and Chinese buffet restaurants. Grass grows in all the cracks of the parking lot.

We get out of the taxi and Julio pays the driver in cash, and asks him in Spanish to stay and wait for us. The driver complies and lights a cigarette. We make our way to suite D, which I only know is suite D because the grimy outline of the missing lettering is still present on the glass door.

There is an old wooden desk with a dim lamp set upon it and two chairs in front of it. A brawny man sits behind it, and though the lamp creates more shadow in the room than actual light, I can tell he's wearing a mask. Of course he is. He's
El Libertador
.

We sit down in the chairs and Julio folds his hands on the desk in front of him. I don't know where he's gotten this new hand-folding habit, but I keep mine to myself in my lap.
El Libertador
's mask is creepier upon closer inspection. It's a clown face, and it looks like it might be made of porcelain. I wonder if he picked it to be that much scarier to his victims. I say victims, because he's practically bludgeoning us with his fees.

And I say scarier, because really, the man is terrifying. Even the black clothing he wears cannot hide the fact that he dwarfs both me and Julio put together.

“You're late,”
El Libertador
says in Spanish. His voice is muffled behind the mask.

“We apologize,” Julio says submissively. “Please forgive us.”

“Who is this you've brought with you?”

“This is my younger sister, Carlotta. She knows the importance of the situation. She helped earn the cash for our parents.” There is a tinge of pride in his voice. I imagine it sounds pathetic to
El Libertador
.

“Has the cash been dropped off?”

Julio nods. “It has.”

This surprises me. Julio has already made arrangements with this man. He has already taken our savings and dropped it off somewhere. The thought makes me nauseous. And so does the clown face. I concentrate my attention on
El Libertador
's massive hands. Even in the dim lighting, I notice an angry scar between his left thumb and index finger. I imagine all sorts of gruesome ways he could have gotten it.

Was he tortured? Did he get it in a fight? Did he get it while he was murdering someone? Something about the scar is evil, I decide.

“We will wait for the phone call after the cash has been verified,”
El Libertador
announces.

The next ten minutes are the longest in my life. Julio says nothing.
El Libertador
says nothing. I say nothing. Yet, the air is full of unspoken words. Julio, with reverence for
El Libertador
.
El Libertador,
with obvious disdain for the both of us. Me, with fear of
El Libertador
.

Relief from everyone when the phone rings.
El Libertador
says nothing when he picks it up, just listens. He hangs up without a word. Then he focuses his attention back on Julio. “Your parents will be given safe passage across the border. Customs won't bother them. My men will meet them in the desert and bring them as far as Austin. It's up to you to transport them the rest of the way.”

“And the passports?”

The clown face nods. “The passports will be provided to them as soon as they cross the border.”

“What if they get caught?”

The question isn't from Julio. It's from me. And Julio is just as horrified as I am. Still, I press on. “Well,” I say defensively, “we're paying this man a lot of money. What if he fails? Then what?”

“Carlotta!” Julio whispers.

“Your sister is foolish,”
El Libertador
says, “to question me.”

“Yes, she is,” Julio seethes.

“I think it's foolish to hand over all that money and not have any collateral,” I say. I feel Julio tense up beside me. He shifts his feet beneath the desk.

El Libertador
stands and leans over the desk. The clown face is inches from mine. I think I might be sick. “Shut. Up.” He looks at Julio. “Get her out of here.”

I don't ask any more questions. I don't wait for Julio to tell me to leave. I just get up and walk out.

As I wait in the cab for Julio, I decide two things:

One. I'm going to have to tell Arden the truth about my parents. Soon.

Two. If
El Libertador
turns out to be a fraud, and he can't get my parents back to the United States, I'm not trusting Julio with my money again.

 

Twenty-Two

Arden laces the string through the tab of the first empty soda can and Carly sucks in a breath. “I don't know about this,” she says. He knew he would need to really put up a good argument for this one. But it will be so worth it. She'll just have to trust him on it.

“It's Deputy Pardue. He won't do anything about it.” Mostly because he's lazy, but partly because Arden is the son of the esteemed Sheriff Moss.

“I seriously doubt that.”

“I've done it before. I swear, he just gets all mad and blustery. He won't talk to me for about a month. That's pretty much the extent of it.”

“Won't he get in trouble?”

“The beauty of it is, he doesn't tell because he doesn't want to get in trouble. I don't tell because
I
don't want to get in trouble. See how that works?”

She massages her temples with her fingertips and inhales again.

“What's with you?” She's been acting weird the past couple of days. Quiet. Distracted. Woefully inattentive, if Arden does say so himself.

“It's just … I've had a lot on my mind.”

“Such as?” He pulls the string through the second soda can tab and ties a knot. Then he ties the two cans together and picks up the third one. “Talk it out with me.”

“It's about Julio. I'm not sure I agree with the way he's spending our money.”

“You think?”

“It's more complicated than that, Arden. There are things you don't know about.”

“Such as?”

She shakes her head. “Forget I said anything.”

“You need some serious practice with communicating.” He smiles to himself, because he knows he's pounded on a sensitive button of hers. But what she says next surprises him—and makes him feel guilty for goading her.

“I'll tell you one of these days. I promise. When I'm ready.”

Arden wavers in his crafting. “Sounds heavy. Should I be worried? Because if you think Julio's spending your money on me—”

She punches him in the arm, but the mirth in her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, which almost alarms him. And true to Carly Vega form, she drops the subject altogether, in favor of the one at hand. “This plan of yours is insane. Tell me how Pardue deserves this.”

Arden decides to take the bait. Carly can be an ornery bit of goods, and if she's done talking about it, she's done. “I happen to know that he lets the bad guys go.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Glass told me that he thinks Pardue is a dirty cop. That he takes money in exchange for not arresting drug dealers.”

She bites her lip. Staunch disapproval is all over her face. “But you can't prove that. Besides, why doesn't Glass turn him in?”

“Because of the cop code. You don't turn in other cops. You'll catch hell if you do.”

Carly considers. But she doesn't seem entirely convinced. “Cops are beginning to sound like some weird cult. And I don't want to get on their bad side. Your dad already hates me.”

Arden shrugs. He doesn't want to rehash all the things his dad said that night, and he's sure Carly doesn't either. He'd love to say that his dad doesn't hate her, but he's positive his dad would have despised her no matter how that situation played out. So he skims over the subject. “I'm telling you, this will be harmless. You'll see.”

“I don't see this Pardue guy falling for it again though.”

“Same crime, different execution. It's brilliant, really. I've been searching the interwebs. Everyone falls prey to it. Everyone.”

She waves a hand in the air. “You think everything you do is brilliant.”

Arden pauses again. Now all three cans are tied to a string, and tied to each other. He gives it a good shake and marvels at the ruckus it makes. “It's true, I'm of above-average intelligence. But I can't take the credit for this one.”

“It's just that I can't get caught for this.”

He lifts her chin with the crook of his finger. “We absolutely will not get caught.”

*   *   *

They ditch their bikes in the woods about a quarter mile down from where Arden knows Deputy Pardue takes his 2:00 a.m. naps. The moon gives them plenty of light as they walk along Highway 20, stepping around the occasional dead possum and away from the road when the sporadic car passes by. The humid late-September air clings to them like invisible netting. Arden feels his hair sticking to the back of his neck and wonders if Carly is getting eaten alive by mosquitos like he is.

It's hard to imagine that he didn't even know her six weeks ago, when school started. It's hard to imagine a life where there was no Carly. He wonders whether she and Amber would have gotten along.
Probably would have teamed up against me
.

Arden gives the signal to slow their pace as they approach the small gravel inlet where the deputy pretends to be monitoring for speeders, but where he's actually got the windows of his patrol car fogged up in his deep slumber. Carly gives him a quizzical glance.

“You think he's got company in there?” she says.

“Nope. He gets those results all by himself.”

“Gross.”

“Yep. Your mind should pay the gutter rent.”

She laughs. “He's sleeping? Really?”

“Like a baby hedgehog.”

She slides the backpack off his shoulders as they near the car, handing it to him with the stealth of a ninja. “The cans won't wake him up?” Then she cringes as she snaps a twig beneath her feet. “How about that?”

Arden shakes his head. “Nope. That's why we brought the air horn.”