The Coyote's Bicycle

by Kimball Taylor

  “Who was that man?” I asked.

  “What man?”

  “That man.” I pointed to the white T-shirt receding down the lane.

  “I don’t know that man. Mira,” Negro continued, opening the folder.

  “Has he seen me?” I blurted.

  “Who?”

  “Either of them. Roberto or . . . Indio.”

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Regular.”

  “Regular?”

  “Yeah, regular. I don’t know what it is you’re asking about. But maybe you have seen Roberto.”

  “Where?”

  “On those wanted posters over there at the border where you walk into Mexico.” Negro looked at me. He saw the anger. “Do you want to hear this story or not?” he asked.

  I took a breath. Through my teeth, I said, “That is the only reason I’m here.”

  He thumbed through the now familiar pages filled with tiny, misspelled words so thick with slang and borderland speak that most educated Spanish readers could not begin to wade into it. And then Negro looked up at me and his eyes were brimming with tears.

  “Why are you crying?” I asked.

  “Because this,” he said, wiping at his eyes with the backs of his hands, “this is a very sad story.”

  33

  Juan and Javy found Indio and Roberto slumped in a corner booth of the Chicago Club. It was 8:00 AM on a Monday. Daylight spilled from beneath the heavy front door. The room smelled of the previous night and, under this, the nights of the past. The polleros were not asleep, exactly, but they were not quite conscious either. Between them were bottles and glasses. These shared the table with peanuts and several little plastic plates that belonged to the taco vendor. Indio, his neck crooked, was almost prone. A parted eyelid revealed an eerie white crescent. Vomit stains mottled his shirt. Roberto’s hat was gone, his hair awry; spittle marked the corners of his mouth. From the empty drinks, it looked like women had been with them. The bartender, waitstaff, and doormen had been either too respectful or too fearful to ask the men to move on.

  Javy placed a hand on Indio’s shoulder and shook it. “Jefe,” he said, “we need you in the canyon.” Juan stood close behind Javy. The workers were concerned. Indio always drank in moderation; they’d never seen him in a stupor. With additional prodding, the boss shifted his weight but failed to respond in any coherent manner. “Come on,” Javy said, again rocking his old friend from the bus station. “It’s time to go to work.”

  Roberto sat up gasping. He exhaled and blinked several times. Then he turned on the workers with yellow, bloodshot eyes. An eyebrow raised; his complexion was ghostly. “What the fuck do you want?”

  Neither worker had ever exchanged words directly with Roberto; had never really met the man’s gaze. “We need el jefe,” Javy said, pointing with a limp finger.

  “We’re busy here,” Roberto said.

  Juan stepped forward. “Disculpe, señor, Solo sent us. The pollos . . . we have so many, and the cops want the money. The recruiters too. Bikes are missing. We need Indio.”

  “The pace is . . .” Javy began.

  “Silencio.” Roberto waved his palm.

  His attention settled on an abandoned shot of tequila. He picked it up and threw it back. Then the old coyote withdrew from the booth and stood. Bracing himself on the table, he edged around to Indio’s side. He planted his left palm on the bench back. With the right, he reached in, grabbed his compadre by the shirt, and pulled him up. Indio said something inaudible. Roberto adjusted Indio’s head cautiously, as if righting a portrait, and turned to Javy and Juan. He pulled a fold of pesos from a pocket and regarded the colored paper like a thin taco. He shrugged.

  “Take this. Go buy me a new shirt and a pair of jeans, like these, and some socks,” Roberto said. He looked at Indio. “And new clothes for him as well. You know the shit he likes. Where’s my hat?”

  Roberto escorted the slumped figure of El Indio to the hotel next door, a place where street prostitutes took their clients. It rented by the half hour. The man at the desk informed Roberto that sheets for the bed were extra, a twelve-dollar rental fee.

  “We won’t be sleeping,” Roberto explained.

  The man insisted on the sheet fee. Hands to his breast pockets, Roberto realized he’d given his stake to Juan and Javy. He stepped to the bench where he’d placed Indio and patted him down, the action of fluffing a pillow. He found the roll of American dollars, then leaned in on the clerk.

  “Two cholos will come here,” Roberto said. “Don’t be frightened. They’ll have my clothing.” He paid the man double. “Send them directly to the room.”

  Roberto put Indio into the shower fully dressed. He reached in and turned the handle. Only the cold water worked. In a minute or two Indio came around but leaned silently in the downpour. Juan and Javy arrived with parcels—a large cowboy shirt and jeans for Roberto, a white T-shirt and khakis for El Indio. Juan revealed the brand-new pair of black Nikes with the white swoosh, but Indio made no response.

  The four malandros walked out of the hotel and caught a cab to a quiet bar on Calle Sexta. Weak pink light radiated from behind rows of bottles. The ceiling was low. Painted in white on a wood beam above the bar were the faded words AHORA O NUNCA—now or never—and TODO O NADA—all or nothing. The polleros administered a steady series of Bucanas, tequila, and micheladas to the boss. Indio accepted the drinks but stared vacantly at a black-and-white framed photo in the corner of the bar. It was of Pancho Villa’s bullet-peppered corpse, taken after seven assassins ambushed the Mexican Revolutionary general on the road from Hidalgo del Parral in 1923. The men noticed the object of Indio’s attention and began discussing Villa’s death.

  “It happened in a Dodge,” Juan said. “I could never drive a Dodge.”

  “It happened because he wanted to be president,” said Javy. “Do you know that a thief stole Villa’s skull right out of the casket?”

  “It happened because of fate,” Roberto said. “There is nothing else.”

  “Where the fuck were you guys? My head is about to explode,” Solo said.

  Indio, Javy, Juan, and Roberto found him in the pit of Los Laureles Canyon before the man-sized drainage pipes that lead into the Tijuana River Valley. He had about two dozen pollos there, the first of two trips that day, and only the mechanics El Ruso and El Cholo to assist him. He hadn’t heard from the chief levantón. The gancho was just sitting up on Spooner’s Mesa twiddling his thumbs, waiting for the go-ahead. Solo figured that he’d act as both the comunicador and the guía, hoping beyond hope that there would be a ride there to meet them.

  Men and women sat astride their bicicletas, readying themselves. They fidgeted and checked the brakes. One man was dressed for an interview—slacks and shined shoes—rocking a mountain bike back and forth. A middle-aged woman sat perched on a child’s bike. A young man carried a bulging black trash bag slung over his shoulder. With his cap pulled low and a steady, marauding gaze, he hunched over the bars of the BMX—a tortoise on wheels.

  “I’ll confirm the pickup,” Indio said. He raised his phone to his ear.

  “We’ll guide them,” said Juan, indicating himself and Javy.

  “What’s left to do, mi Solo?” Roberto asked.

  Solo nodded at an older couple idling nearby. “They don’t know how to ride.”

  It must have been clear to Marta that a change had come over Indio. He was affectionate but distant—more introspective even than usual. They were no longer in the field together. Aspects of their day-to-day lives that had always seemed so natural now seemed like space in a growing chasm. The Sunday night that Indio didn’t come home wasn’t completely out of the ordinary. He occasionally crossed to the inside and was unable or too busy to call. Either way, it wasn’t in his nature to offer explanations. Marta didn’t ask. With so many of her duties curbed by the fainting and the pregnancy, it was important that she remain confident and strong—i
f for no other reason than the family’s peace of mind. Yet it wasn’t a secret that her man bit his lip when he worried, and this tell wasn’t something she’d have missed.

  The most obvious cause of the change in Indio’s demeanor was the stress of the work. Marta continued to direct the recruiters via cell phone. She was aware that the number of customers had picked up dramatically. Bikes, bike parts, men to make the repairs—these were all in short supply. The motor vehicles also required service. Managing people anywhere had its complications; the border only multiplied them: pollos lost, or caught and deported, or caught and never heard from again. Families called. The more migrants, the more complications. Her main communication point, Solo, was frenzied by the increased responsibility and the volume, but even in this, he seemed a version of his normal self. Solo was the more outspoken of the two—a link to Indio’s childhood, and since she loved Indio, she would have likely carried some affection for Solo as well. Marta communicated with him daily. They were teammates in the field. Had Indio confided any part of his current concern to Solo, she couldn’t guess its nature, and it was not Marta’s position to ask.

  When not managing her duties by phone, Marta prepared for the baby. The house was abuzz and a room had been set aside for a nursery. One day, as she embroidered a light blue one-piece, Roberto and Indio entered through the kitchen. Her brother remarked on the smell of the fresh baking bread in their father’s clay oven. That Roberto had so heartily stepped in to help her fiancé in the work—the two men were together in that way that Roberto and Marta once had been—was not lost on the family. A silent, devoted camaraderie was evident even when they entered the house and parted without words. Indio appraised Marta’s handiwork. He appeared overwhelmed and proud.

  For days, Roberto and his large socio El Oso formed a tight huddle around the young coyote. And they bookended him on the Ford’s bench seat as the men made rounds and attended to his bicycle business—which, these days, encompassed the entire city. There was Indio’s old room in the Zona Norte and the safe house in El Soler and Roberto’s apartment at la línea. The workers thought Indio’s company odd, especially since he’d bought his own new four-by-four pickup. But these associates were highly esteemed, and there was so much work to do that few had time to question the motives of the boss.

  The trio had just dropped some pollos at the safe house. And somewhere in town, at that moment, El Indio’s brother Martín was riding around with a large packet of American dollars—money to be distributed to the police, the customs agent, and the workers, and to be otherwise laundered and banked. Martín was also the courier of some papers regarding a significant purchase Indio was making on the other side. He’d crossed on foot and was now traversing the city in the back of a white cab. That the eldest brother and strongest earner had risked everything to act as Indio’s driver, and that he now crossed into Tijuana on errands, was a serious concern for their mother. But the siblings were now in so deep, her admonishments passed like assessments of the weather. She worried that, eventually, the family would be permanently divided by the border. Between Indio’s and Roberto’s operations, however, Martín never had trouble finding a way to cross back over; he had choices. It was like asking a man in a family of cooks if he’d been eating.

  The brothers miscommunicated the meeting point. Then Indio lost his connection to Martín’s American cell phone and was unable to reconnect. Roberto pulled his Ford along the river before they decided to head back to his house, just a couple of miles away and one of the few places Martín knew in Tijuana.

  Roberto repeated a similar refrain each time they neared the house. “Okay,” he said, “put your clown faces on.” They’d made a pact, he, Oso, and Indio: their emotions were their own; let the family enjoy life as they understood it. Who could say what fortune held? Roberto then received a call on his personal cell phone. He withdrew the device and looked at it. The number on the screen was the house line.

  “Bueno,” he answered. “Sí, we’re only a couple of blocks away.” He listened for a moment and then said, “Ya veo.”

  “Martín is there already?” Indio asked.

  “No, brother,” he said. “That was my mother.” Roberto turned to Indio and Oso, silver wedges brimming below his brown eyes. “Marta is gone.”

  On entering the house, the men were met by the llantos—the sobbing and the weeping. Chedas appeared and drew her husband aside. El Indio went directly to the room he shared with his fiancée, the mother of his unborn son. The door was open, and Indio left it that way. He lay on the bed, next to the still figure below the sheets. He held her form. He wept. Other moans, from the other rooms, drowned his sobs. There was a time when Indio lifted the sheet to view a face that looked only asleep. There was hope and rage and sorrow and hope and rage. He put his cheek to Marta’s cheek, bone against skin and bone, and he held her. In the following moments, all sound subsided. The life of the house itself seemed to expire.

  El Oso appeared, filling the doorway. “Compa,” he said.

  Indio understood the gesture. He sat upright.

  “Oso,” he said without looking, “please bring me that bottle I have there in the kitchen.” Oso knew the bottle. It was a premium tequila called Cazadores that El Indio had bought in the presence of the men, intended for the celebration of the birth of his son.

  Two workers with Servicio Médico Forense arrived for the body.

  Oso and Chedas pulled Indio from Marta’s bed and escorted him to the living room, where her mother and father sat at the edge of the couch as if awaiting further news. The mother wore a house robe, her posture correct; he was dressed for the ranch. Roberto stood to the side, his hands clasped over his belt buckle. Lupita looked at Indio as if not seeing the man at all but an empty space between the moment and what had to be done. She said to Roberto, “Son, make certain that the little angel boy is buried separately, right away. He was never born, he never left the side of God. Look at me: The angel must have his own casket.”

  The twelve mariachis walked single file up the shaded gravel road of Panteón Jardín. Their wide sombreros careened to either side, creating a writhing effect as their bodies remained in step. Their trajes consisted of white shirts, bow ties, and short, heavily embroidered jackets. Their pants were tight, and gold medallions rippled down the legs. There were violins, trumpets, guitars, a folk harp, an accordion, and a vihuela, or lute. The man who wielded the guitarrón, a voluptuous bass guitar, nearly disappeared behind the instrument. Twenty paces from the grave, the trumpeters sounded the first notes of “Despedida con Mariachi” (“A Mariachi Farewell”). The violinists joined in, and the accordion followed.

  As at Puerta Blanca, from the grounds of Panteón Jardin one overlooks the border wall, the Tijuana River Valley, and the United States. The garden cemetery, however, is at a higher elevation and lush, defined by large acacia trees and a gently sloping lawn. Light fell on it differently—bright but filtered through the greenery. Rather than mossy crypts and sepulchers, the well-spaced, orderly tombstones of Panteón Jardín were clean and maintained. The care of loved ones was evident in the flowers and gifts placed before many of the graves. Local custom dictated that the deceased were to be interred at the cemetery closest to the family home, so as to be near. El Indio and Roberto talked it over and chose Panteón Jardín because it was closest to the canyons where Marta did the work that she loved. Roberto persuaded the director, who made a choice location available.

  El Indio was dressed conservatively in black, as were most of the bereaved. His stubby nose and dark lips were slightly swollen. He stood with the immediate family and El Oso before the open grave. Next to the hole in the earth was a small patch of flat tan dirt where the little boy had been buried the day before. Indio purchased mahogany caskets for both Marta and their son, but he never saw the little one as he’d agreed with Lupita’s request to bury him as soon as possible. In the outer ring of guests stood many of their neighbors and a great number of Roberto’s associates; som
e of them El Indio knew but some he did not. Among these were members of Tijuana’s eleven polleros viejos, the council of elders. Marta had known them and their families in one way or another, so they’d come both in mourning for her and out of respect for Roberto. Within the group of neighbors was a girl named Marlene. She was about twelve years old and had silky black hair. The girl had wildly admired Marta, and often brought her small tokens of friendship. Marta had agreed to serve as Marlene’s godmother at her first communion, and so Marlene was already calling her madrina. The girl’s eyes were rimmed in red and her face was puffy but by the time the mariachis arrived at the gravesite, she’d stopped crying. Marta’s parents sat in wood chairs before the large, deep-brown casket. They looked smaller somehow, and more frail—but dignified. Indio’s own parents were not present. By the second song—“Amor Eterno”—most eyes had dried. Somewhere in the back of the crowd a mourner began to sing along. Others joined in.

  The next day Indio found Solo at work. The crew was preparing for one of three crossings they’d orchestrate that day. Solo hadn’t been invited to the funeral; neither had any of the workers. In fact, they’d passed a couple of dozen clients below the funeral as it unfolded at Panteón Jardín. Solo didn’t understand his exclusion but he didn’t resent it either. Indio wouldn’t stop. In the canyon, he opened the passenger-side door of his new truck and grabbed some shopping bags. “These are for you and everyone,” Indio said with a wave.

  Solo looked in. The bags contained black T-shirts and black pants.

  “I understand,” Solo said, accepting the parcels. “How did it go?”

  “I think it was beautiful, as much as it could be,” Indio said.

  “Listen, Pablo,” Solo said. “I don’t think you should be here. Why don’t you take time for yourself?”

  “Are you telling me that the people don’t need to cross anymore?”

  “No,” Solo said.