Go-Between

by Lisa Brackmann

The clerk, a middle-aged black woman, held up the license, glanced at Michelle. Typed at her terminal. A printer whirred and clattered.

  “Here you go, Ms. Carmichael,” the clerk said with a smile, the ticket in her outstretched hand. “Enjoy your trip.”

  “I will,” she said. “Thanks. Have a nice day.”

  Passengers had started to line up out on the platform, the queue already stretching into the lobby. Michelle took her place at the end.

  She glanced around, as normally as she could—just a tourist, taking in the sights—to see if she could spot any obvious tails. She couldn’t, but then, Carlene had wanted to be spotted, back in Houston. There were so many people here. Any one of them might be following her. Or no one was. She couldn’t know, one way or the other.

  A few minutes later, she heard the warning bells that signaled an approaching train. Funny, because the train was already here, waiting across a set of tracks. The line started moving.

  Now she was out on the platform and could see the gate that had lowered to protect passengers crossing the trolley tracks to reach their train. A trolley waited on the other side of the barrier, its doors open, passengers getting in and out.

  Michelle stepped out of the line, walking quickly up the platform toward the trolley. She kept walking till she reached a gap between buildings at the end of the depot and turned right, passing trolley customers heading to the tracks. She turned right again, doubling back toward the front of the station. The back half of Santa Fe Depot had been turned into a contemporary art museum; she glimpsed vaguely sculptural shapes inside through the glassed-in archways, on the exterior wall, a black sign with scrolling red diode letters spelling be all that you can be.

  Up ahead, at the back of the train station proper, two taxis waited at the curb.

  The taxi stand was there, like her research said it would be. “Just don’t expect to always find taxis waiting,” a guy on TripAdvisor had said. If there hadn’t been, she’d planned to walk to the closest big hotel.

  Who knew if her feint to Los Angeles would work? But it was worth a try.

  She approached the first cab. “Can you take me to San Ysidro, to the border?”

  He nodded, and she climbed in.

  She could see the city changing as they headed south, from the harbor with the tall ships, the shiny highrises and condos of downtown, to a more industrial area: shipyards, a Navy base, car lots; then small, faded stucco houses, graffitied cinderblock walls, a weed-choked wetland, outlet stores. There was less money here.

  Twenty-five minutes, and she was at the border.

  The trolley station was a giant McDonald’s: a cream and brick red stucco building that looked like it might have been a small warehouse once, or a garment factory, a long building with two low stories. There were three brick-red cement ellipses in descending order, like an upside-down series of steps, at the top of the building. McDonald’s Trolley Station was spelled out in square white plastic letters on the uppermost, largest step, next to a small pair of golden arches, just to clarify this was actually a McDonald’s, maybe. The building also had signs for check-cashing and money-changing in English and Spanish, and something called “Saldos Gigantes: Ropa, Cosméticos, Miscelánea.”

  She’d gotten there early. It wasn’t even 8:45. Maybe a cup of coffee, she thought. McDonald’s coffee wasn’t bad.

  She went inside.

  The McDonald’s took up most of the back wall on the first floor. Above it was a Shoes for Less with a small neon sign that said Abierto. A few other small glassed-in stalls filled the remainder of the space. The middle was dedicated to seating for the McDonalds: Plastic-benched booths and tables divided by low orange walls topped with Plexiglas panels. The place was about three-quarters full, the languages she heard a mix of Spanish and English: tourists on their way to Tijuana, residents from both sides of the border. Michelle got her coffee and sat down at an empty table, facing the entrance, Danny’s ruck on the bench by her side.

  About ten minutes later, Gary walked in, wearing his Humboldt Crabs baseball hat.

  There was no point in running. Where would she go?

  She waited as he crossed the room, pulled out the chair across from her and sat.

  “Pretty good try at evasion there, Michelle.” He smiled, that phony grin she hated. “I’m sorry you and I never got a chance to work on that together.” He gestured at her cup. “Coffee?”

  She nodded.

  “Why don’t you go get me a cup? Black.”

  Of course he wouldn’t get his own. Easier for him to watch her this way.

  She returned with his cup of coffee. She thought about throwing it in his face and trying to run. She wouldn’t get away, but it would be satisfying, for a moment or two.

  Instead she put the coffee in front of him and sat back down.

  He sipped. Leaned back in his chair. “Do you know how much you piss me off, Michelle? I can’t think of many people who piss me off more.” He wagged a finger at her. “Believe it or not, I’ve got a pretty good track record with these kinds of ops. And this was gonna be so sweet.”

  Her stomach twisted, thinking of what he’d wanted to do.

  “Thanks for the heads-up about Carlene,” she said.

  “Well, now, you turned off your phone. If you’d kept your phone on like you’re supposed to, I would’ve been able to let you know what the plan was.”

  “Right,” she said.

  “Be fair. If I’d told you, would you’ve gone along with it?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped.

  Gary sighed. “I told Carlene if you were in the frame, she’d better watch herself. She’s a great little killer. But she’s not the sharpest tool in the shed.”

  “She was going to kill me too?”

  “Only if she had to. She was gonna trank you if you were around and being a problem. Having a second victim in that scenario … that would’ve been problematic.”

  “What about Troy?”

  “He was going to kill himself. You know, in a fit of remorse. That’s what the gun was for.”

  Gary took a sip of his coffee. “I always figured you for a practical woman, Michelle. Once it was done, you’d rather’ve lived, right?”

  He leaned forward, with an expression that appeared earnest, for Gary. “And I did want you to live. I’ve always liked you, Michelle. If Caitlin hadn’t done her one-eighty, I would’ve been just fine with you babysitting her, like I said. I mean, it seems to me you’ve done her a world of good. What do the Jews call that? A mitzvah?”

  It was always going to come down to this, she thought. Me, running out of options. Gary, pulling the strings.

  “Just tell me,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

  Gary stretched out his legs, draped his arm awkwardly around the curved back of the metal chair. “Well, you know, it’s not just me you’ve pissed off. There’s some folks who are really upset with the way this whole thing’s turned out. They’re looking at losing a lot of money. Nobody likes that.”

  She thought she knew Gary pretty well. She knew his capacity for violence, and she knew that he could turn on a dime. But for all that he claimed to be angry right now, he didn’t actually seem to be.

  “I’m sure Safer America was a nice little racket for you. But what if Caitlin hadn’t changed direction? Those propositions are still leading in the polls here. Say Safer America poured millions of dollars into this election, and they won anyway. Then what?”

  “Yeah.” Gary heaved a massive sigh. “Sometimes you can’t hold back the tide. Just between you and me, I think that’s what we’re looking at here. With legal weed there’s getting to be too much money on the other side of the equation. Oh well.”

  He straightened up. “But you know what, there’s plenty of other ways to fill those prison beds. Can’t pay your debts? Go to jail and work them off. Cheap labor! That’s how we make America competitive again.” A snort.

  “God,” Michelle muttered.

  “A
nd country,” Gary said, lifting up his coffee cup. “Oh, hell, Michelle, would you just relax? Look, you and Danny can go off and do whatever you’re gonna do. I’m not going to stop you.”

  Michelle sat there, stunned. Of all the things she’d thought Gary might say, this was not one of them.

  Of course, he was probably lying.

  “Why?”

  It was the only thing she could think of to say.

  He shrugged. “All of this, you know, I like to think of it as kind of a game. And let’s face it, you won this time. I respect that.”

  He reached into the pocket of his chinos and pulled out a mini bottle of Herradura tequila. Cracked it open and poured half into Michelle’s coffee and half into his own.

  He raised his cup. After a moment of hesitation, she raised hers.

  With Gary, it was generally better to play along.

  They drank.

  Finally he put his cup down. Rose. Tipped his Humboldt Crabs cap.

  “See you around.”

  She watched him weave through the tables and out the door, into the bright light of day.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Michelle finished her coffee. Might as well, she thought, and as she lifted the cup to her lips, she noticed her hands were trembling. She realized now that ever since last night, after the attack and the police breaking down the door, she’d been detached from herself, not really inhabiting her own body, observing it along with everything else.

  Detachment wasn’t always a bad thing. It had gotten her through this, hadn’t it?

  She could feel herself coming back, like a limb that had fallen asleep. So far, it hurt.

  9 a.m. Time to go outside, and see if Danny had made it.

  If he hadn’t … ?

  Cross the border? Go to the airport, get on a flight to somewhere as Meredith Evelyn Jackson?

  She swallowed the dregs of her coffee and tequila and stood.

  The weather had turned warmer. Still pleasant, but definitely shirtsleeve temperatures. She wished she had on shorts or a skirt instead of her jeans. It was nice to be someplace warm but not oppressive, where you wanted to get closer to the air.

  She looked around. She didn’t see Danny. Well, it was only just now 9 a.m.

  If he was taking the trolley, this was where he would get off. A red train with a sign for Old Town waited to head back to San Diego proper, a tan, bunker-like, windowless building behind it. There was no place else the trains could go but north.

  Palm trees. Fences. On the side of the street where the McDonald’s was, a row of stucco, brick and cinderblock buildings, neon signs for money-changing and check cashing in English and Spanish, a 99-cent store and a mercado, behind them, a few small parking lots for people who wanted to leave their cars on this side of the border, brown rolling hills, dotted with scrub. On the other side of the tracks, a small shelter with an arched green roof and metal benches for trolley passengers, a drop-off and pick up area for taxis, a larger parking lot. Beyond that, the rush of a half-dozen lanes of cars driving into Mexico.

  How did you even walk into Mexico? There wasn’t an obvious gate or crossing. It was like being in a cul-de-sac. A dead-end.

  Christ, what was she going to do?

  Maybe I could get some restaurant work somewhere, she thought.

  Another southbound trolley had arrived at the end of the line.

  The doors opened. She waited as the cars emptied out.

  Danny was one of the last passengers out of the third car.

  He was scanning the opposite direction, so she couldn’t see his face. But the shape of his body, the posture, the black duffel bag over one shoulder, the battered canvas messenger bag on the other, she was hit with a familiarity that felt like something falling into place.

  He turned. She could see it on his face, that same recognition.

  He came to her, going in and out of focus as he made his way through the tourists and the students and the housekeepers, all the people without cars who would be crossing into Tijuana this morning.

  She slid the ruck off her shoulders. He dropped the duffel to his side. They held each other close, her head resting against his chest. His sweat had a sour, stale tang to it, but there was still his familiar scent. She’d missed it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I don’t care right now. I don’t care about any of it.”

  “You should. Pretty sure I’m the worst thing that ever happened to you.”

  If she looked at it rationally, maybe he was. But it didn’t feel that way right now. “Not even close.”

  He exhaled a long sigh. “I guess we should get going.”

  He gave her a final squeeze and let go. Studied her face. He reached out and gently touched her cheek with his fingertips. “What the hell happened?”

  “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later.”

  The muscles in his jaw tightened; she could see the anger and frustration play out on his face, the helplessness.

  “Later,” she said. “It’s actually a good story.”

  “Jesus. If you say so.”

  The two of them picked up their bags.

  “You brought my ruck,” Danny said, with a real smile.

  She nodded. “And a few of your clothes and things.”

  “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “You really are amazing.”

  He’d dropped weight in the month he’d been gone. His face was pale and haggard. His eyes looked lost.

  “Which way?” she asked.

  “I think it’s over there.” He gestured behind him, on the side of the tracks where the McDonald’s was.

  They crossed the tracks and found the footpath. It wound slightly uphill behind the buildings, a narrow channel between two high walls: on the eastern side, concrete panels that looked almost like blast walls, behind those a tall palisade fence topped by coils of razor wire. To the west, grids of open metal mesh. Security cameras were spaced in between the lights here and there.

  Danny shuddered. “Looks like a fucking jail,” he said.

  Michelle reached out and took his hand.

  It wasn’t that crowded. There were knots of people walking ahead of them and behind them, most seeming not to be in any particular hurry.

  We don’t look any different than they do, Michelle told herself. We’ll be fine.

  She looked to the west, through the open mesh. She could see a large billboard, with an American eagle in front of a Mexican flag. 8 million people will see this sign yearly, it said. Call this number. Put up your ad.

  Ahead of them the path broadened, ending in a huge concrete barrier with a giant metal sign attached that said, in block letters, MEXICO. The entrance was two full-height turnstiles, the kind you’d find exiting an amusement park. She had a sudden flash of memory from when she was a little girl, standing on the bottom arm as her dad gave the rotor a giant push, one last little ride before piling into the car and heading home.

  “Here we go,” Danny said. He grasped her hand tighter, and then he let go. She took a deep breath and pushed the arms and walked through.

  On the other side was a single uniformed officer. He waved her through without a second glance.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  “I’m right here,” Danny said. He came up alongside her and took her hand again.

  They walked a little ways, down a long concrete ramp, and the path narrowed to half the width of the US side. Now to their left was a long line of people, waiting to cross into the US. How long would it take? she wondered briefly. A crowded row of shops and stalls took up that side of the crossing. On their side was a wall separating them from all the lanes of cars heading north.

  “Man, after a month of that shitty jail food, I could use a plate of tacos,” Danny said.

  Michelle laughed. “With guacamole. And margaritas.”

  They followed the people who had crossed ahead of them until the path turned into a street. Most of them walked up the stairs to a pedestrian bridg
e that spanned the auto crossing. Everything felt different: dustier, more crowded. Even the exhaust smelled different.

  “What do we do now?” Michelle asked.

  “I don’t know,” Danny said. “Who do you want us to be?”

  END

  Acknowledgments

  My thanks go out to “the usual suspects”—Bronwen Hruska, Juliet Grames, Paul Oliver, Rachel Kowal, Rudy Martinez, Janine Agro, and the rest of the wonderful crew at Soho Press; also, the great folks at Curtis Brown—Holly Frederick, Kerry D’Agostino, Stuart Waterman, Sarah Gerton, and in particular my agent, Katherine Fausset, who has been a tremendous support for me. It is deeply appreciated.

  Special thanks are due as well to some awesome people who helped me in the research of this novel: Jodie Evans, Nikki Corda, Brian Thomas, Judie and Jim Lutz, Sarah Cortez, Tom Abrahams, Jessica Willey, Teri Kanefield and the late Samantha Spangler – I wish I could tell her again how invaluable the information she gave me was.

  Any mistakes in the book are the result of my own inadequacies, not theirs.

  My gratitude as well to Pilar Perez, for giving me a wonderful “getaway” refuge when I needed it.

  As is often said, writing is a solitary occupation. I’m fortunate to have a great support system of fellow authors. My thanks go out to the Fiction Co-op, the Writing Wombats, the Purgatorians and especially to beta readers Dana Fredsti, Bryn Greenwood, Kris Herndon, Kat Sheridan and Catherine McKenzie.