I doubt that I’ll be able to find one person who won’t turn me over in exchange for all of that cash.
I call him after three that afternoon, again using Mallory’s phone, which I forgot to give back to her.
“I got something,” Big Dipper says. “But you’re not going to like it.”
21
Nicholas
When I have an option…
I already know that.
Of course, it’s not going to be something fun or glamorous or safe. That’s not the kind of jobs that Big Dipper is known for.
Yet, the fact that he is introducing it with that kind of preface makes my hands ball up into fists.
My heart jumps into my throat and I wait for him to explain
“I need a clean cut guy to drive some meth across the border from Mexico. A gringo with a white wife that the border agents won’t stop because they have nothing to hide.”
Fuck.
“You there?” Big Dipper asks.
“Yeah,” I say after a moment.
“It’s not the best option for you as you already know but that’s all I got. Take it or leave it.”
“Where would this be? Who am I going with?” I ask.
About a hundred more questions pop into my head but I keep it to two.
“I can’t give any details until you commit to it. Why don’t you think about it for a bit and let me know?”
I want to. I want to buy some time and try to figure something else out but I need papers. I need identification. My old source is compromised so Big Dipper is it.
“How much?” I ask.
There’s a pause on the other end.
“How much meth or how much money?”
“Both.”
“One hundred pounds of meth. I can pay you one fifty for it.”
I do quick math in my head.
“The street value of that is about one point three million. Getting it across the border for one fifty is a bargain.”
“To some, it’s enough to start a new life.”
“I need at least two fifty,” I negotiate. “And a whole new identity. Clean. Established. No dead people.”
One way to get new social security numbers is to go through the list of the dead and just use their names hoping that the credit card companies won’t notice.
It works in the short-term but that’s not the kind I need.
I need a spanking new social security number that has been around at least thirty years and has no records or issues with it.
Then I need a whole new identity to go with it.
I need the Louis Vuitton or the Bentley of the identity business. And just like high end bags and cars, this one comes at a steep price.
“The best I can do is one seventy five and the ID. Take it or leave it.”
I tap my foot on the floor.
The Mexican border is one of the most patrolled and highly secure places in the US. And trying to sneak over it with one hundred pounds of meth is about as stupid as anything I can think of. The only problem is that I don’t have another choice.
I head straight to a hair salon across town. I found it on Yelp with good reviews. The owners are Japanese and they hire mainly Europeans to work there to cater to the expats in the area.
In broken Spanish, I ask for a whole new look and show the hairdresser pictures of celebrities with the kind of style I want.
He asks me a few times if I’m sure that this is what I want before getting started.
My hair is short but not army short.
It’s thick and dark and I’m going with a look that’s the exact opposite, dirty blond and long to match the sun-kissed tan that my skin recently acquired.
The color job along with the extensions takes a few hours. In America, I wouldn’t be able to afford it but here I will still have a lot of my money left even with a tip. In the meantime, I search on my phone for a place I can get colored contacts in the city.
I thought I would need to go to an optician but they sell them right in the open in beauty supply stores.
I haven’t shaved in a few days and I plan to keep that look going. When I look at myself in a drugstore mirror, I look like a completely different person.
Older somehow and a bit of a slob, which is kind of in line with the part that I’ll be playing: an expat living in Mexico.
Still, something feels off.
The hair that’s coming in around my neck and face makes me look disheveled and a bit like a druggie, which is the last thing I want.
I head to a barber shop and show them pictures of freshly trimmed facial hair with an attractive mustache and a well-cared for beard.
They explain the details of the look to me in Spanish, most of which I don’t understand.
At the end, they lay me back in the chair and give me a shave. When they hand me a mirror, I see a completely different person, upscale, put together and relaxed, the perfect look for my gringo persona.
All I need to complete the look is a few Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts. I send Big Dipper a selfie of my new face so that he can get his guy to make me a passport.
I’m glad that it’s going to be a day or so before I cross the border as it will give me some time to fill out my beard.
Big Dipper sends me a hysterical laughing emoji with a thumbs up sign in response.
A few hours later, he calls and tells me that there has been a change of plans.
Now, instead of crossing into Texas, I have to cross through California.
Tijuana is probably one of the most heavily controlled border points along the entire border.
“That’s not a good idea,” I say.
“The other shipment fell through,” he says without offering much of an explanation.
“What do you mean?” I ask, even though it’s in my best interest to know as little about his dealings as possible.
“Confiscated.”
My heart skips a beat.
“You want to do this or not?”
“When do I meet the woman?”
“In Tijuana. She’ll have your passport for you.”
Tijuana? I look it up on my phone. It says it’s 4100 km away. How far is that?
“Twenty-five hundred miles?” I ask. “How am I supposed to get there? I don’t have a car and the roads around here are shit.”
“That’s up to you. But you better be there in seventy-two hours or else. Oh, yeah, and get a new fucking phone. Call me when you’re there and I’ll tell you about the meet-up place.”
Big Dipper hangs up and I stare at the screen dumbfounded.
I don’t have anywhere near the amount of money I would need to buy a car and I doubt that I can hitch all the way there in time. I don’t have any identification so I can’t take a flight.
What a fucking shit show!
I guess the bus is the only way, I say to myself, gritting my teeth.
I’ve already taken one bus from Belize and even though some of them can be quite comfortable, it’s not the best way to spend two days.
But given the time crunch, I’ll have to get on the next one available, otherwise there’s no fucking way I’ll make it.
I look up the bus schedules online but don’t buy my ticket electronically.
Mexico is still a heavy cash country and that’s good for me.
I get rid of Mallory’s phone but take out the SIM card and put it in one trash can and the rest of the phone in another, more than a mile away.
I do the same thing with mine.
I exchange my dollars for pesos and hope to God that it’s enough for a one-way ticket to Tijuana.
There is no direct route and I’ll have to change buses in Mexico City.
Honestly, I’m kind of surprised that I don’t have to change more than that.
At the station, I buy a cheap disposable and untraceable phone and board the bus.
22
Nicholas
When I commute…
The bus is much more pleasant than I e
xpect. It has air conditioning, comfortable seats, and a television.
It’s in Spanish but they keep showing American movies from a few years ago so I’ve either seen them or can follow the basic plot.
I grab the seat in the middle and keep to myself.
Luckily, the other people do, too.
The only time I ever even make eye contact with someone is when we’re both waiting to use the restroom at the same time.
The bus makes occasional stops at various stations and I follow the rest of the passengers out to get homemade tamales and other things that the local venders stands are selling.
When I need a pick-me-up, I opt for the fresh-squeezed juice, mango and mandarin are my favorites.
The journey is long and boring and at one station I spot a few paperbacks in English.
They are dirt cheap so I splurge on four. They are mostly by authors I’ve never heard of, but I don’t care. Without a smartphone, I don’t have access to my audiobooks, podcasts, movies, books, or music.
It has been thirty hours of nothing but listening to the thoughts in my own head. That’s enough for me.
Most of my thoughts are just those of regret and what-ifs.
The majority come back to Olive.
I need something to entertain me.
Finally, we arrive in Tijuana. A dusty border town that’s known for its hookers and drugs. I’m surprised to see that there’s a whole other part of Tijuana as well. There are expensive coffee shops, restaurants and boutiques, and high rise condos gentrifying neighborhoods.
The bus station is a new beautiful building with glass walls and murals on one side.
It’s a bustling place full of vendors and all sorts of people coming and going.
Expecting a dusty outpost at the edge of the world, I am pleasantly surprised.
I call Big Dipper as soon as I step off the bus and find a quiet corner. He is happy to hear from me.
“Another few hours and you would’ve lost the job,” he warns.
“Why is there such a time crunch?”
“I’m a subcontractor. There are a lot of people vying for this job. If I can’t deliver, they move on to another group. There is no holding it. Not for you, not for anyone.”
He didn’t have to say this to remind me that we are not friends. We’ve met a few times in Vegas, had a few good times, but we are nothing but business associates.
“Don’t forget that I saved your life once.” I remind him of the debt that he owes me.
In this line of work, your word is your bond.
“That’s why I offered you the opportunity in the first place,” he says. “You’ll meet Dorothy at the Starbucks upstairs in half an hour. She’ll have the rest of the details.”
“What does she look like?” I ask, but Big Dipper already hung up.
I find the Starbucks, get a cup of coffee, and take a seat by the window. I scan each face that comes in and out and search them to see if they are looking for me.
As you would expect, most women getting coffee in a bus station are frazzled and in a hurry.
No one is just hanging around and waiting.
I leave my spot for a few minutes to use the restroom and when I come back, I see her.
Is that her? No, that can’t be her. She’s in her forties, or maybe fifties even.
“Are you Liam?” she asks.
For a second, I forget the name that Big Dipper has assigned me.
“Yes, I am. Dorothy?”
“Oh, yes, what a relief!” she says, collapsing into the chair across from me.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I offer.
“Yes, of course. I’ll have a latte.” I don’t have much money left, and the few dollars deplete my savings considerably but I don’t want to be an asshole. Not off the bat.
I need to talk to her. I don’t want to make pleasantries but I need to speak to her about what we’re about to do.
When her drink is ready, I ask her to take a walk with me.
On the off chance that someone is following us, we will just look like two people taking a stroll around the bus station.
If they were to try to listen in on our conversation, that would be even more difficult. Unless…
Of course, I need to protect myself. I lead her out of the bus station and duck into a nearby alleyway.
“I think it would be best if we show each other that we are not wired,” I say. “Before we talk.”
She thinks about it for a moment and then gives me a nod.
She pulls up her shirt, exposing her black bra, and I let out a sigh of relief. I show her my torso and she gives me a nod.
We exchange phones and check them for recordings as well, also finding nothing.
“Okay, let’s walk,” I say.
We decide to call each other by our given name in order to shroud ourselves in an additional level of protection. Without a name, there’s no one to turn on.
“So, what’s their plan?” I ask.
“You don’t know?”
I shrug. “Big Dipper said you would tell me.”
“Basically, tonight, during rush hour when all of the other expats are coming back into the US, we’ll get into the RV that they got for us and get over the border.”
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s all I know. They said the details are up to us. We can be a married couple or girlfriend and boyfriend or whatever, just as long as we cross the border successfully that’s all they care about.”
“Of course, that’s all they care about. They aren’t going to be the ones facing years in prison if they get caught.”
“Years?” Her mouth drops open.
“Yes, of course! That’s one hundred pounds of methamphetamine. That’s going to be one hell of a loot if they catch us with it.”
Dorothy hangs her head and slouches her shoulders, suddenly aging thirty years.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispers.
23
Nicholas
When I try to convince her…
My heart starts to pound but I don’t let it show. I need her to do it and, if I want to convince her, I can’t look desperate.
“It’s going to be okay, Dorothy. We’ll have a great cover story—“
“Which is?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest.
“We’re dating. We’ve been dating for a while. You want me to propose but I don’t want to be tied down. I’m not a cheater but I’m just one of those guys who doesn’t need a piece of paper to define who he loves.”
She leans against the wall and props up her foot as well. Dressed in flip-flops and a long flowing dress, she looks exactly like someone who would vacation down in Baja.
“Why are we coming back?” she asks.
“Your mother fell down again,” I say without missing a beat. “We’re coming to check on her.”
“Where do we live most of the time?”
“The RV. We’re full-timers. At least, for the last year and a half. We love life on the road. We love meeting new people and seeing new places.”
I tell her all of this and a lot more. The story comes out of my mouth so easily I feel like I’ve told it a million times before.
“How do you feel now?”
“I still don’t feel too good about having so much …of that stuff in there,” she says in a quiet whisper.
I shrug. “Me either, but no one else is going to pay us that much money to drive an RV across the border.”
My confidence and my story seems to put her at ease and she shows me the address that she got from Big Dipper.
When we look it up, it’s just a few streets over. The RV is not particularly big but, luckily, it looks like it has been through a lot.
With our story, we need our home to look like it has more than a few miles on it. The inside is filled up with clothes and junk, just enough so that it looks like it’s well lived in.
“This thing is perfect,” I say, sitting behind th
e wheel. The door is unlocked and there are two men in a car a block away watching us. They must’ve been the ones who dropped it off.
“Where is it?” Dorothy asks.
I shrug.
“I thought you would know.”
“I don’t.” She shakes her head.
A part of me is tempted to look for it, but another part just wants to drive and get this over with.
“They wouldn’t have left it somewhere that is easy to find, would they?” Dorothy asks.
“Not if they don’t want it confiscated. The dogs will also be making their way around.”
Dorothy’s eyes get big and I realize that I’ve said enough.
“Typically with marijuana they hide it with coffee. I’m not sure what they do with meth but they want it to arrive there safely. They aren’t setting us up.”
My voice is confident, but on the inside I’m full of doubt.
There is a warrant out for my arrest.
What if this is just a big ruse?
No, Big Dipper wouldn’t do that.
Why would he want to lose one hundred pounds of meth in the process when he could just call the Feds and report on me directly?
Or what if that’s a lie, too?
It’s rush hour and, according to Google Maps, it’s going to take at least two hours to cross the border at this pace.
Everyone is crawling.
The sun is beating down on us and the air conditioning in this thing leaves much to be desired.
Suddenly, I’m not at all charmed by all of this rig’s imperfections.
“I had better AC on the bus on the way here,” I say.
Dorothy looks out in the distance, barely registering what I’m saying.
I try the radio but none of the upbeat Mexican music appeals to me so I turn it off.
“So, how did you get into this line of work?” I ask after we come to a complete stop once again.
She slowly turns to me, brushing her hair out of her face.
Tell me to Fight Page 9
