Illegal

by Paul Levine

  "Go, kid. Now!"

  The boy seemed to think it over. Then a sly smile dimpled his face. "They're looking for you, chuco. Not me. Why should I risk it?"

  "I'll give you a hundred bucks."

  "Two hundred."

  "Jeez, what happened to that crying kid who was here a minute ago?"

  "That's it, Payne! We're coming in." A clang as the battering ram pounded the old wooden door.

  "Two hundred," the kid repeated.

  "Okay. Half now. Half when I get out of here and pick you up." Payne peeled off a hundred and gave it to the kid. "Take a left out of the parking lot. Cross the street, duck behind the houses, and come out on the next block. Hang a right and get to Van Nuys Boulevard as fast as you can. I'll pick you up at the corner of Van Nuys and Tiara."

  Payne helped the boy hoist himself up to the windowsill. Then the kid tumbled out, shouting, "Hey cop.?Chinga tu madre! "

  Foul-mouthed brat.

  The boy took off, the cops yelling for him to stop. Payne edged close to the window. The kid could run. But only one cop followed him. The other resumed banging on the door.

  Shit.

  Payne headed down the corridor and ducked into the rest room, closing the door behind him. He had to pee, but that's not why he was here. When the cop passed the rest room, Payne could duck out of the office and run.

  The rear door splintered and flew off its hinges. "Payne! Show yourself."

  The office lights switched on. A thud on the bare carpet, the cop dropping the battering ram. Payne heard footsteps come closer. He pictured Officer Muscles with his gun drawn, walking cautiously along the corridor, just a few feet from the rest room.

  "Mr. Payne. You okay?"

  Good question, Payne thought. The cop had just seen a burglar flee the office. Maybe Mr. Payne was lying in a pool of blood. The cop wanted to rescue him; then he'd arrest him.

  "You hurt?"

  The voice more distant. Good. The cop must have passed the rest room and turned the corner. He'd be near the desk by now, looking around, moving slowly. Payne opened the door a crack, sneaked his hand toward the wall, and flicked off the light switch. The room went black.

  "Hey! Who's there?" The cop yelling, fumbling for his flashlight.

  Payne dashed into the corridor, toppling the water cooler behind him. The glass jar shattered, and a flood splashed his ankles as he raced out the back door. He heard the cop shout "Sh-it" as he slipped and fell.

  Payne jumped into his Lexus and jammed the key into the ignition. He tore out of the parking lot, rounded a corner, and headed for Van Nuys Boulevard. In less than a minute he was at the corner of Tiara and Van Nuys. But where was the kid?

  Probably ran off.

  Looking for a pocket to pick.

  Good story, though, searching for his mother. With proper schooling, the kid could make a helluva con man. Or even a lawyer.

  Then Payne spotted him on the sidewalk. Walking half a step behind a family of four. Blending in, perfectly inconspicuous. Payne pulled to the curb. Before he came to a stop, the kid ran for the car and hopped into the passenger seat. Payne burned rubber pulling out, heading for the anonymity of the 101 freeway.

  "My name's Tino, Mr. Payne," the boy said.

  "Call me Jimmy."

  Tino rapped knuckles with him. "Him-my," he said, "we make a good team."

  "Yeah, great."

  "Where's my other hundred?"

  Payne reached into his pocket and gave the kid his money.

  "Thanks, vato."

  Before Payne could say he wasn't the kid's buddy, his cell phone rang. Sharon's number in the window.

  "Rigney just called," she said. "Dammit, Jimmy, you're in big trouble."

  "That's why I need you."

  "For what?"

  "That road trip I was talking about."

  "No, Jimmy."

  "Leaving tonight, and I need your help."

  "No!"

  "I'll be at your place in fifteen minutes."

  "There are warrants out. Grand larceny. Contempt of court. Fleeing custody. If stupidity were a crime, there'd be another count."

  "Fifteen minutes," he repeated. "Front door."

  "I'll bust you."

  "No, you won't," Payne said, feeling a sense of deja vu. They'd had a similar conversation before. What was it?

  Oh, that.

  When she'd told him she was divorcing him. He hadn't believed her then, either.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  "Road trip."

  Sharon hated the phrase. Jimmy had said it before, when he planned to go to Mexico and find Manuel Garcia. Not just find him. Kill him.

  Hanging up the phone, she decided that the only way to help Jimmy was to protect him from himself. She would do what she had just promised. Arrest her ex-husband and take him downtown.

  She knew the source of his problems. Jimmy had never come to grips with Adam's death. He either wallowed in his own pain or pretended their son was still alive. His mood swung from raging anger to mute alienation.

  In her grief, Sharon had turned to Catholicism, while he embraced nihilism.

  Not giving a hoot about anything or anyone, least of all himself.

  Always reckless in the courtroom, after Adam's death he had become unhinged. He'd attacked an insurance company lawyer in a personal injury trial. Called the man a "lying, scumbag whore"-as if that were some startling revelation-and tossed him over the railing into the lap of juror number three. The judge ordered anger management counseling, which Payne said really pissed him off.

  And now this. Stealing five thousand dollars in sting money. Then fleeing a holding cell in the courthouse and resisting arrest. What would he do, Sharon wondered, when she took him downtown?

  She could hear him now.

  "That's what I get for marrying an Irish cop."

  He'd said it whenever she tried to keep him from crossing the hazy line between vigorous advocacy and downright illegality. Sharon's father, Daniel Lacy, was a Philadelphia cop. So were two of her uncles, three cousins, and both brothers. Born rebellious, Sharon was sixteen when she announced at Christmas dinner that she would never join the "family business," as the Lacys called police work.

  She exhibited a wanderlust not commonplace in the Lacy brood. While her folks begged her to stay home and go to St. Joe's, she accepted a volleyball scholarship at U.C.L.A. She played the demanding libero position, which showcased her defensive skills. Diving. Digging. Scraping knees and elbows. She loved the no-frills nature of the job. Appealing, too, for a free spirit, the libero wore a different color jersey than the rest of the team.

  She majored in English but transferred into Administration of Justice after one too many L.A. juries acquitted a celebrity who killed his wife. Degree in hand, she was accepted into the Police Academy, and a dozen people named Lacy traveled from Philadelphia for her graduation.

  Sharon continued playing beach volleyball, which is where she met Jimmy Payne. He still claimed he was jogging in the gray sand of Will Rogers Beach when he picked up an errant ball and she started flirting with him. As she remembered it, Jimmy was passing out business cards to a crew of paramedics resuscitating a swimmer when he spotted her, then planted himself like a palm tree in the sand. Two hours later, he was still there, sunburned and shaggy-haired, waiting to meet her.

  In those days, there were so many things to admire about Jimmy. A sense of justice and total commitment to his clients. Fearlessness in court and tenderness toward her. A selflessness and a rejection of materialism.

  Jimmy turned out to be a wonderful husband and loving father. It tore at her to see him filled with anger and vengeance, his heart devoid of love.

  Now she regretfully prepared to bust him. But first, she had to deal with her fiance, who had awakened grouchy when the phone rang.

  "When will Payne learn he can't turn to you every time he screws up his life?"

  "I don't know, Cullen. I'm not responsible for his actions."

  "Sure you are."
Quinn ran a brush through his fine head of hair. "You encourage him by always being there. Which is more than the bastard did for you. Deep down, he hopes you'll take him back."

  "That's not gonna happen."

  "I know that. But does Payne?"

  The doorbell rang. Jimmy. Early. Damn.

  Her ribbon-trimmed satin chemise was all wrong for making an arrest. But no time to change.

  Sharon hung a badge on a cord around her neck and grabbed her handcuffs.

  "You're going downstairs in your lingerie?" Cullen asked.

  "Jimmy's seen me in less." It felt good to say it, what with all the badgering. Cullen scowled, making Sharon regret her words. The doorbell chimed again. "I'm sorry, Cullen. Just let me get this over with, okay?"

  Sharon padded barefoot down the stairs. On the landing, she passed a trophy case filled with her fiance's boxing trophies. Police Athletic League. College club team. Golden Gloves. Twenty-five years and forty pounds ago.

  Through a two-story window in the foyer, she could see the lights of the city. The house was built on a precarious slope in the Hollywood Hills above Sunset Boulevard. On a clear day, you could see the skyscrapers downtown, and once in a while, the steel gray ocean to the west.

  When she opened the front door, Jimmy grinned from under his tousle of hair. A dozen years ago, she'd fallen for the same grin, the same hair, the same laughing brown eyes. Now she said, "You're under arrest. You have the right to remain-"

  "Wow," Jimmy interrupted. "You look great, Sharon."

  Of course he wouldn't remain silent. He never did.

  "Pink is really your color," he continued. "Makes your complexion

  … I don't know… all peachy."

  "Cut the crap, Jimmy."

  A dark-haired boy stepped out from behind Payne, checked out her butt, whistled, and said, "Nice calabaza, chica."

  "Who's your charming friend?" Sharon asked.

  "This is Tino. I caught him burgling my office."

  "Perfect. A pair of thieves."

  Jimmy and Tino stepped inside and closed the door behind them.

  "Me and Himmy, we're partners now. Verdad, vato? "

  "Absolutely not." Payne kept his eyes on Sharon. "But the kid did me a solid when the cops barged in, so I owe him."

  "What scam are you pulling now?"

  "I just don't want him shipped back to Mexico."

  The boy stared at her with eyes like green felt and lashes so dark and lustrous as to make her envious. She figured he was about twelve or thirteen, but with a cagy, appraising look that made him seem older. A cute, sassy kid on his way to becoming devilishly handsome. With those eyes and his jet-black hair, the boy could be posing for Abercrombie amp; Fitch in a couple years.

  "I thought we could help the kid out," Payne said.

  "We?"

  "Well, you. I thought he could stay with you and Quinn until I get back from Oaxaca."

  Mexico! Damn, I knew it.

  A year ago, Jimmy's threats to kill Garcia seemed to be just a phase, part of his grieving process. But one morning Sharon found her husband packing a bag. Maps. Night-vision binoculars. Adam's baseball bat. And her spare nine-millimeter Glock he'd plucked from a nightstand.

  His eyes hollow and distant, Jimmy told her that he was going to kidnap Garcia and beat him to death. Crush every weight-bearing bone, keeping him alive as long as possible.

  Adam's death had shriveled his heart and filled his veins with poison. Now Sharon knew she had no choice. "You're under arrest, Jimmy."

  "Aw, c'mon, Sharon."

  "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to counsel. If you can't afford counsel-"

  "I've got five thousand dollars," Payne said. "Actually, four thousand eight hundred."

  "Great. You can sign a confession when Rigney gets here."

  "Rigney! Here? How could you turn on me like this?"

  "Because you're a criminal and I'm a cop."

  Just then, Quinn came down the stairs, wearing a white fleecy bathrobe with a towel around his neck. He looked like he was entering the ring for a fight.

  "Need any help, sweetie?"

  "Stay out of this, Quinn," Jimmy snapped.

  "This is my house, Payne."

  "Nice place you got here, gabacho, " Tino said. "You a drug dealer?"

  "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Who's that?"

  "A kid from Mexico who's looking for his mom," Payne said.

  "Cullen, please let me handle this," Sharon said.

  "Does he have papers?" Quinn said.

  "Only to wipe my culo, " the kid shot back.

  "Careful, Tino," Payne said. "Quinn once fought Mike Tyson. For twelve seconds."

  "You wouldn't have had the guts to step in the ring," Quinn said.

  "I'd have the brains not to."

  "You really fought Iron Mike?" Tino asked.

  "Golden Gloves. Hundred ninety-five pound division." Quinn seemed to suck in his gut as he cradled his chin with one hand. "Tyson broke my jaw."

  "With one punch," Payne added.

  "I could still whip your skinny ass."

  "Not if I kicked you in the nuts first."

  "All right, you two," Sharon warned.

  "I'm hungry," Tino said.

  "We don't have tortillas and beans," Quinn said.

  "Cullen!" Sharon shot her fiance a laser-beam look. "Tino, I could make you bacon and eggs."

  "Maybe a little tequila to wash it down," the kid suggested.

  "I don't think so," she said.

  "You can cut it with some vanilla liqueur. It's called a 'dirty condom.' "

  "There you have it," Quinn said. "The assault on our morals."

  "I learned how to mix drinks at the cantina," Tino boasted.

  "Yeah?" Payne said. "What's tequila, blackberry brandy, and rum?"

  " Culo de fuego. A flaming asshole."

  "You're good, kid." Jimmy shot a look at Cullen. "Flaming asshole. Bet you knew that one, didn't you, Quinn?"

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Tino's appetite was amazing. Five eggs, scrambled. Half-a-dozen slices of bacon. Four slices of toast slathered with butter. And black coffee, no tequila, thank you very much.

  Sharon watched the boy gobble his food, deriving nearly as much pleasure as he did. Maternal instincts are forever, she thought.

  Cullen had tromped back up the stairs, leaving the three of them alone in the kitchen, all granite counters, marble floors, and shiny steel appliances.

  The phone rang. Rigney again. Said he'd been driving north from LAX when a tractor trailer jackknifed on the

  405. Now he was working his way on city streets to La Cienega. Running late, he'd be there as soon as he could. "If Payne tries to escape, you have my permission to shoot him," Rigney said.

  "Thanks, but I shot him before with no one's permission."

  She hung up and turned back to her guests.

  "Why'd you take the five thousand, Jimmy?"

  "I was pissed at being used. I wanted to stick it to Rigney."

  "Smart. Really smart."

  "Just let me go to Mexico. When I come back, with or without Garcia's scalp, I'll turn myself in."

  "Your problems are here. Nothing you can do will bring Adam back."

  "Maybe there's something I can do that will bring me back."

  "Not something evil. Not killing Garcia."

  "Who's Garcia?" Tino demanded, between gulps of food. "And why do you want to kill him?"

  "None of your business," Payne said.

  "I am not afraid to kill a man," Tino claimed. "Some cabron hurts my mother, I'll slice his neck like a goat."

  "That's the spirit," Payne said.

  "Stop it, both of you." Sharon turned to the boy. "Tino, tell me about your mother."

  Wordlessly, the boy reached inside his shirt. Hanging from a cord around his neck was a plastic envelope. He handed it to Sharon. It held a photo, apparently taken at some formal event, a wedding or a quince pa
rty. Tino's mother wore a frilly turquoise dress. She had almond-shaped eyes the color of obsidian rocks in a mountain stream. She was not quite smiling, her full lips betraying no emotion. Her hair, which cascaded over bare shoulders, was as dark and lustrous as a river shimmering under a full moon. Her jawline was carved from granite, a Salma Hayek look.

  "Your mother's beautiful," Sharon said. "What's her name?"

  "Marisol." Tino's voice wobbled.

  He tried to be tough, Sharon thought, but he was still a little boy.

  "What's really bad," he said, his eyes watery, "it's all my fault."

  "What is?"

  "That we had to cross over. That Mami 's missing." Tears tracked down his cheeks. "I'm the one who ruined everything."

  TWENTY-SIX

  Even after blurting out his guilt, Tino still didn't know whether he should tell them what really happened back home.

  If he told the lawyer and the lady cop, they might turn him over to La Migra. He would be sent home and put in jail. Or worse. Rafael Obeso would kill him.

  As he ate, Tino sized up the two Americans. He liked the woman. She could cut it in the street, a real pachuca. Strong, like his own mother. He was not yet sure about the lawyer. Unfriendly at first. But he had kept his word. Picked him up when the police were chasing. Handed over the promised money, too.

  "Judge people by whether they tell you the truth."

  That is what his mother taught him. But could he trust them with his truth?

  "What do you mean you ruined everything?" the lady cop asked, tenderness in her voice.

  "I did something that made a man want to kill me.

  He said he would cut out my heart and deliver it to Mami. Then hurt her, too."

  The cop and the lawyer looked toward each other, as if asking whether they should believe him. Funny thing about grown-ups, Tino thought. They will swallow your lies, but the truth is so much harder for them to take.

  After thinking it over, Tino told the lawyer and the pretty cop exactly how it happened. What he had seen and what he had done. And why his mother was forced to grab him and run like hell, all the way to El Norte.

  Three days earlier, Tino had watched his mother scramble up the scaffolding of the big house under construction on a hill above their village. A petite woman, only a few centimeters taller than him. But strong and with womanly curves. Her long thick hair, dark as the desert night, swished across her shoulders as she climbed the scaffold. Workmen stopped. Whistled. Hooted. Mumbled filthy words.