Lines and Shadows (1984)

by Wambaugh, Jospeh

  Manny and the junior varsity paralleled the fence, and when they neared the entry hole where Dick Snider had spotted his man, they were confronted by a figure in the darkness. He wore a blue tank jacket and jeans. He was a teenager, as it turned out, but looked older. He was also a strung-out, tattooed, drippy-nosed Colonia Libertad heroin addict who needed something to eat, and who needed a fix even more. When he got within twenty feet of the Barfers and they could not detect a weapon in his hand, they squatted and got into character.

  "Where're you going?" he asked, "San Diego," Manny Lopez said. "I can take you," he said. "How much money do you have?"

  "Two hundred dollars," Manny told him, "but I need it to get to Los Angeles."

  "How much do you have?" he asked Carlos Chacon.

  "Seventy-five dollars," Carlos answered in good Spanish.

  When Renee Camacho was asked how much he had, his boy-tenor voice climbed into an alien singsong and he said, "Fifty dollars," with an accent that sounded unauthentic to Manny. Still, the kid was forcing him to talk.

  The young man seemed satisfied. "I'll be right back," he said.

  The Barfers remained squatting, just ten feet from the international border, there by the man-sized hole in the fence. When the kid returned he was not alone. There were three men with him and another teenager. The group stopped a few paces away in the shadows and the other young man said something to his pals that puzzled the Barfers. He said, "What did El Loco say?"

  It was the second time they'd heard this name "Loco" -the bandit who'd tried to rob them and escaped, leaving his red ski mask behind. Then the first young addict did something no one else had done thus far in the canyons. He said to Manny Lopez, "Stand up. I have to search you for weapons."

  And of course Manny tried everything but method acting. Weapons? Poor pollos like ourselves? What would we be doing with weapons? Poor campesinos like us? And so forth.

  Manny's performance was convincing. The five walked a few steps back to the ominous hole in the fence and talked to a shadow figure just beyond, a man who remained at all times in the country of Mexico. A man who had already experienced the shock of meeting "pollos" who turned out to be San Diego policemen.

  When they returned, the young junkie lost his patience. He was now wearing a black glove, and they saw a naked blade in the gloved hand. He wanted some money now and said so.

  And that was it. Manny Lopez said, "Sabes que?" to get ready. And a moment later he said something none of the bandits understood: "Barf!"

  And all three cops leaped to their feet, baring blue steel gun barrels, and the three older bandits flowed through that fence hole as sleek as seals. The two young junkies didn't move fast enough.

  They were strung-out hypes, but desperate and very game. Renee Camacho yelped when he got kicked. Carlos Chacon grabbed one kid while the other made for the fence hole yelling, "Socios! Socios!"

  It was a word they were to hear many times in the months to come. The bandit cry for partners: "Socios!"

  There was a lot of stomping and punching and biting and gouging going on out there, and lots of other Barfers running across the canyon to assist them. The young junkies got pretty well thumped. But the thing that made the incident memorable was that when the kid yelled "Socios!" the shadow figure approached the fence. And with his feet planted firmly on Mexican soil he momentarily disrupted the bruising struggle by firing a gun point-blank right at them. He missed and vanished into the Mexican night.

  Then there was real screaming going on.

  "Barf! Barf! Barf!"

  "Goddamn! Son of a bitch! Barf!"

  They managed to hold on to the two young addicts, and there were bumps, bruises, contusions and lacerations on both sides. The addicts were almost unrecognizable when later seen in court. Renee Camacho woke up the next morning feeling like he'd played the Chargers that Sunday.

  And there was one topic of conversation that night at the booze party. "Loco?" Who is this bastard with the ski mask? Even when he knows who we are, he's not afraid to shoot.

  Renee Camacho made a cogent observation that night. He said, "It used to be sticks and stones and maybe knives out here. Now is it gonna be guns? What're we doing, teaching the bandits to use guns to match us?"

  Was that to be their legacy? The Barf squad helped arm the bandits? Everyone thought that was very ironic and funny. Sort of.

  Chapter NINE

  MORDIDA

  THERE IS AN INCREDIBLE ENERGY FLUX SIZZLING through the United States of America. That, and an unreasonable belief in limitless possibility mark the Americans abroad like a branding iron, making them seem even less like the cousins they find in ancestral homelands than other foreign tourists. One has only to visit, say, Ireland, and watch an Irish-American in a Dublin pub, tears gushing as he listens to some rebel ditty about shooting Englishmen to death. Or in Tel Aviv to observe a tour of American Jews, eyes agleam, dancing the hora with some real live Sabras who are getting free drinks to do it. Or Mexican-Americans in those cantinas in Tijuana that advertise "authentic" Mexican food, which generally means gristly carnitas and so-so salsa, too hot for most gringos.

  The Barfers themselves on occasion were part of the latter turista group. And tourists they were, getting loud and buzzed, amateur boozers warbling off-key to the worn-out crowd pleasers like "La Paloma." Pretending for a rude and bleary evening that they were real Mexicans like the mariachi who was raking it in with both hands and feeling that he had about as much in common with these Anglicized coconuts as he did with the Chinese restaurateur who was paying his salary, and who was at least born and raised in Mexico.

  The natives of Ireland, Israel, Mexico and other countries frequented by roots-hunting Americans have a term for them. It has exactly the same meaning in Hebrew, Gaelic, Italian, Greek, Swahili and Spanish. The term is Yankee dip-shits.

  And even though a bunch of Americans of Mexican blood can dress up and fool desperate people for a few minutes in the canyons, real Mexicans know instinctively that all Yankee dip-shits, regardless of where their parents or grandparents were born, are indelibly marked by the unbelievable energy flux and unreasonable belief in limitless possibility surging through that strange country to the north. They know instinctively that Mexican-Americans have less in common with them than the dip-shits will ever know.

  In a matter of a few days after the Barf squad was reorganized and returned to the canyons, none of them would be crossing that line for evening fun. The Barfers were beginning to learn that Mexico belongs to Mexicans, real Mexicans. Though some Barfers would forever judge Mexico by American standards, some would not, and would become troubled and confused by what was about to happen. But one thing for sure, almost none of them would be going back across that border for cheap tequila and beer and nights of singing "La Paloma." They'd be too goddamn scared to be caught dead over there.

  One way in which Mexicans differ markedly from Americans is in their concept of law and order. That is not to say that their law enforcement is inefficient. Armed robbery, for instance, is considered a huge crime in Mexico, where guns in the hands of the masses terrify the government. In December, traditionally the worst month for bandits in American cities, Tijuana had a single armed robbery one year. In San Diego or Los Angeles or San Francisco, robbery is as common as fornication, and a tourist, if he's going to get drunk and flash money and raise hell, would be far wiser to do it on the streets of Tijuana than on certain streets in San Diego or Los Angeles or San Francisco, where he'd have about as much chance of survival as Gloria Steinem in Tehran.

  The Mexican police share some attributes with their Yankee counterparts. Defensive humor for instance. There is a statue of a patriot priest in Tijuana, and it was a cop who first decided that the statue's hand was not pointing to a better day for Mexico. The padre was simply saying, "Look out, pollos! Here comes la migra!"

  Ditto for the bold sculpture of the Aztec chief Cuauhtemoc holding his war club aloft. Cuauhtemoc, the cops say, is yelling, "Ge
t your raggedy ass out of this country! That way through the fence!"

  Then there's the policemen's story of the drug dog. Perhaps an apocryphal tale, it illustrates many things, not the least of which is the underlying sadness of living cheek by jowl with not just a rich nation, but the richest half of the richest state of the richest nation.

  It seems that the mayor of Rosarito was having one hell of a time getting across the international border to do business in San Diego. He would present his identification at the border and, with reserve and good manners and patience, inform the U. S. Customs officers that he was the mayor of Rosarito and that he made numerous crossings. And His Honor would invariably find his ass in the secondary inspection area with a German shepherd crawling all over his car sniffing for contraband.

  Of course Mexican-Americans are much like other Americans-not very reserved and mannerly and patient. However, the mayor of Rosarito was a real Mexican, and gently endured the humiliation each time he crossed. Then one day when he was doing city business back in Rosarito, one of his cops came to his office with a livid American who was hollering, swearing, threatening. The American's car had been illegally parked and was impounded. He was outraged because the car bore U. S. Government license plates. It seems that the livid American was a U. S. Customs officer.

  The mayor nodded politely and let the customs officer scream himself hoarse, until the American made a huge mistake by saying, "I demand to be treated the way you would be treated on our side of the border."

  And all at once he was looking at a grin as wide as Baja California. There hadn't been a Mexican politician grinning like this since the country struck oil. His Honor had a private conversation with his cop, who had had it up to his chin strap with this gringo, U. S. migra or not.

  Upon the orders of the mayor, the Mexican cop went out and rounded up the mangiest, scabbiest, wormiest stray dog he could find. When the customs officer and the mayor showed up at the impound yard, the cop was waiting with this twitching, cowering cur, who was introduced to the migra by His Honor.

  "Thees ees our marijuana dog," the mayor informed the customs officer. "I am sorry but he must sneef een the car for drugs."

  And then while the American official went up like rocket's red glare, the Mexican cop dragged the howling dog into the front seat of the U. S. Government car. And the terrified animal pissed all over the place.

  The customs officer of course was strangling on his own bile when the cop hauled the poor creature into the back seat. And the dog continued pissing a river.

  The customs officer could not even manage a croak when the mayor turned to him and said brightly, "But, senor, joo should be bery happy! Eef he had smelled contraband our marijuana dog would have cheet!"

  The other thing about Mexican cops and people in general down below that imaginary line is that they don't try to understand lawbreakers. And though the Mexicans' ideas of what constitutes crime might differ from those of their colleagues north of the border, they have no trouble at all with a dichotomy.

  There is a saying among Mexican cops: El p jaro mas pendejo sabe volar. The most dumbbell bird knows how to fly.

  And Mexican cops do not intend to be earthbound from the moment they pin on the badge. To accept a "gratuity" from a smuggler, guide or pollo for example, does not seem to be a terrible offense. Not when they are paid barely enough to keep a family fed. Not when la mordida-payoffs, bribery, the bite-has been a way of life since the conquistadores began the systematic extortion of the Aztecs. It is expected.

  If the Mexican cops seize a car stolen in the U. S., for example, they know full well that the American owner has received an insurance payment for that car, so they figure what's the harm in keeping it for official business? The police service did not supply nearly enough cars and even required them to pay for their own gasoline for official business if they exceeded their modest gas quota.

  Mexican cops usually try to understand the gringo cops, knowing that it's hopeless for gringos to understand them.

  The felony crimes in Tijuana are investigated by the judiciales, the state judicial police. The uniformed cops in the tan uniforms seen by the turistas are municipal police responsible for traffic control and keeping the peace.

  An American tourist would not know a judicial upon seeing one. For instance he may be one of a group of young men at a table in one of Tijuana's several good restaurants.

  He may be wearing a guayabera shirt made popular by President Echeverria. The shirts are usually white or tan, with side vents and pockets on the outside, sometimes with epaulets. Or he may be one of the handsome young dudes sitting at the bar at one of the surprisingly tame skin-show saloons on Avenida RevoluciC/n, where tourists invariably start bitching because they could see hotter acts in Davenport, Iowa.

  And many a secretary from Kansas City has had her heart set aflutter by this young fellow at the bar or that one who clearly isn't watching the show and isn't paying for his drinks. One looks like a young Tyrone Power with a designer haircut. One's wearing a purple art-deco shirt and they're both wearing Sergio Valente jeans. One has a gold chain and a religious medal of soft Mexican gold hanging from his throat, and the other's wearing mirror shades on top of his head. And they're both sporting white imitation-lizard cowboy boots and belts with silver buckles about the size of a football.

  And then a secretary from Kansas City may notice something bulging under the shirt of the one who looks like Omar Sharif and, my God! It looks like a gun!

  It's a .380, or a .45, or a 9mm pistol. An automatic for sure, in that they're more macho than revolvers, and Mexican cops are macho. Which you better believe.

  Also, they're proud of the low crime rate in Tijuana. They generally distrust the municipal police and blame them for everything from traffic chaos to robbing corpses on homicide cases. These judiciales investigate all major crimes except narcotics, which are handled by the federal judicial police.

  Life isn't easy for these cops either, not when they know it's absolutely impossible to have anything approaching a decent life without mordida. The bite is their "bonus" for doing good police work.

  All residents living below the imaginary line understand exactly what will happen if they indulge in behavior that generally constitutes serious crime in civilized countries, but sometimes Americans get the idea that because the Mexican tourist business is so vital, they can grossly exceed the drunken, noisy, insulting behavior that Mexicans have come to accept from them. Sometimes a software salesman from Silicon Valley with a skinful of scotch may make an awful mistake. He may grab the tit/ass/snatch of a housewife coming to pick up her shopkeeper husband after a fourteen-hour day. And when her husband runs to her rescue, the little greaseball may get four knucklebones in the chops, after which the software salesman may dig out for the border in his Hertz rent-a-car and nearly cream a motor cop.

  Then the software salesman will be totally amazed by his windshield exploding before his eyes and he'll jump on the brakes with both feet because they're shooting at him! And he may find himself in the headquarters of the judiciales and be staring at two handsome young dudes, one who looks just like Omar Sharif and the other who's a ringer for Tyrone Power. And they tell him that it's a serious crime to assault women in Tijuana, and he tells them he didn't and he's not talking. He's demanding to call the American consulate.

  The dude who looks like Tyrone Power then shrugs and begins to unbutton his purple art-deco shirt. When the software salesman asks him why, he says it's so he doesn't get it spotted by Coke.

  "Coke?" the American says. "You aren't setting me up on a phony drug bust! I demand to make a call."

  But the one who looks like Omar Sharif just smiles and fetches the Coke-Coca-Cola, a whole six-pack.

  They're gonna ply me with soft drinks to break down my resistance, the American thinks. And he couldn't be more right.

  Sometimes with ordinary recalcitrant prisoners, le danagua. A drink of water. From a hose. Lots and lots of water. After some
water interrogations, the cop in charge comes out looking like Mark Spitz. And the prisoner looks like a water bed, all shuddery and quivering, as he lies on the floor bloated by about five gallons of T. J.'s H2O, guaranteed to give him the drizzles.

  As to the Coke, well, when there was the riot at La Mesa Prison in Tijuana, there were lots of gringo reporters on hand and they all wondered at the strange habits of the Mexican soldiers who were marched into that prison carrying ginger ale.

  Ginger ale? These goddamn Mexicans must be crazy for ginger ale, they said. There were thirty cases of the stuff. The prisoners knew better and surrendered right now.

  So the software salesman is getting ready to make some smartass remark, like, "How about some Jamaican rum in my Coke?" when the Tyrone Power look-alike throws a wrist-lock on him and handcuffs his hands behind his back. Then, while he yells and screams for his rights as an American citizen, his arms are looped over the back of a swivel chair and he's tilted back. Way back. And then he gets his Coke, Right up his nose.

  His head is held by Omar Sharif, and Tyrone Power starts shaking up that Coke until it's ready to explode, and then the cop shoots a jet right into his snoot. And he has to breathe through there because Omar Sharif has just shoved a little hand towel down his throat.

  You don't like our soda pop? Would you prefer some Bubble-Up? How about a Bubble-Up margarita, hold the tequila, hold the salt?

  He is treated to various flavors of soda pop but he feels the same way about all of them.

  The sensation has been described by prisoners. Some have said it's like a volcano erupting in your brain. In any case he starts confessing, but of course they can't hear him. And they don't stop right away, because some guys have told them lies during confessions, so they give him a few more bottles.

  And pretty soon he's confessing like crazy but nobody can hear with his mouth full of towel. They're just going about their business talking about jai alai or something and he's kicking and screaming and thrashing and confessing and nobody's listening! And Kilauea has erupted thirty-four times right behind his eyes, which are filling up with molten lava. And he's crying and trying to scream and silently confessing. To anything.