Killing Cortez

by A. L. DeNova

  “I am not going to drive myself nuts wondering where he is,” mumbled Carmen as she curled up on the front bench seat. She leaned up to lock the car doors.

  She placed her red leather purse under her head as she shifted her legs under the large black steering wheel. She closed her eyes, and in a few minutes, she dozed off.

  * * *

  Visualizing a future far ahead, Carmen dreamed the vivid technicolor of her youth. She saw herself riding a train through a winding chaparral covered land.

  She admired the cattle grazing and the pink hues of the colored sky. She smelled the tangy chaparral, evocative of the rough and new country of Northern Mexico. The smell of campfires, running horses, carne asada, and the promise of surprise. Like a morning dew, cordiality glistened across the landscape. She found herself talking to an American, a blonde woman in her twenties.

  In the dream, Carmen didn’t notice the other woman’s facial features, but she did see one quality: that the American’s eyes were blue. Blue like the sky. Blue like the crayons she drew with in her coloring book, along with a yellow sun, there was always that light blue, happy sky. A happy day. The crayon box called it cornflower blue. She had never seen a cornflower in that shade. She remembered, it was blue like the American actor Paul Newman’s eyes. That blue, that inviting, that well and foreign.

  She looked into the American’s eyes and she saw a steadiness that she never saw in her boyfriend’s. She looked away, and then stared back, and shivered as an unknown electric tingle coursed through her, and Carmen smiled.

  Hello?” Carmen opened her left eye. She exhaled, and licked her lips. “Hmm?” Carmen said out loud. For a moment, she wanted to stay in that other place, staring into those blue eyes. She kept her eyes closed, clinging to a safe place. She remained foggy, unfocused, and bleary, preferring a dream world to the abandonment in the Chevelle. Carmen heard a tap on the car window. The tapping and the greeting continued, and though unwilling and disoriented, Carmen opened her eyes. She looked around and squinted. Where was she? Was the dream over? Reluctantly, she opened both her eyes and recognized the vinyl seat and the black dashboard of JC’s Chevelle. The dim light promised a desert dawn as she could see the California classic highway at sunrise. Carmen turned her fluttering eyes towards the tapping and the voice. On the dirt shoulder, directly outside the locked front driver’s window, she saw a young, nattily dressed woman, leaning down and tapping on the window.

  Startled at first Carmen jolted back at the sight. And then Carmen glimpsed the familiar eyes. The eyes of her dream. Carmen was not afraid.

  * * *

  “Hello? Are you OK?” The strange woman slowly said, in English, with the even tones.

  Carmen pulled herself upright and squinted at the rising sun. She then focused on the form leaning towards her through the window, the tanned face of an attractive woman, short brown hair, and remarkable azure eyes, the color of the cornflower blue crayons. Though steel-willed Carmen was easily startled, as she had been in a deep sleep. “What, who,” Carmen began in Spanish, but quickly switched to English. Carmen had been content to wait for JC to return. JC had to come back. She knew the cocaine was above the price of rubies and that he loved that Chevelle.

  “What?” Carmen asked apprehensively, tossing back her long hair.

  The strange woman outside the car smiled softly: “Hey, I just wanted to make sure you are OK?” The tall woman gazed, paused and stepped back a few inches from the window of the car.

  “This is a remote stretch of road and I saw your flat tire.” The voice was a pleasant alto, with precise diction.

  Carmen thought she sounded like a DJ, but she looked like some sort of serious athlete, tall, thin, and obviously muscular, for a girl.

  Carmen sat up and rolled down the front window so she could hear every word, and get a better look at those eyes. What Carmen saw was both intriguing and scary. Her breath quickened as she stared at this intense young American. The blue-eyed woman was about 28 to 30, 5’9“or more and stood looking at Carmen. The woman was dressed in a light-blue man tailored collared blouse. She had tight fitting double-knit blue pin-striped trousers down her long legs and soft brown loafers. This stranger had no discernible makeup. She wore as her only jewelry plain gold-stud earrings with two earrings in her right ear.

  Carmen cleared her throat and asked, tentatively:

  “Do you know where I can get this flat tire repaired?”

  “I don’t think there is a gas station or anything for miles. I came from San Diego.” The tall woman said and extended a hand. “So, I am Jo, and I am not from this area at all. I am just driving out for my job. I am happy to give you a lift or to help you with the tire.”

  Carmen was aware there was no spare tire in the trunk, but a spare load of something more costly. Carmen paused to consider if she should get rid of this unwanted approach. “Oh Jo, that’s nice of you,” Carmen replied, evaluating this stranger.

  “It must be creepy to sit here waiting for someone. Were you here overnight?” Jo stared up both ends of the road. “There’s no phones, no houses, just dry rocky hills and no call boxes.”

  Carmen pulled open the lock, slipped her manicured red toes into her high heels and opened the car door. This short-haired woman did not seem dangerous. She appeared to be authentically concerned for her safety. She smiled, “Thank you Jo, that would be great. My name is Carmen. It’s nice to meet you.” Carmen extended her right hand adorned with the same vibrant red nail polish as her toes. They looked into each other’s eyes and lightly shook hands. Jo was surprised by the soft strength in Carmen’s handshake.

  Jo knew better than to offer a ride to this gorgeous stranger. Her gut told her there was something off about this young woman’s story of a flat tire. Jo shrugged her shoulders, as she turned back towards her own car. No matter what unpopulated stretch of earth she travelled to, she had a crazy knack for meeting sensuous young women. She was a chick magnet of sorts. She could not decide if this new find was good or bad in the scheme of things. Jo was well aware that this road from San Diego to Tecate was a smuggling corridor. Jo simply could not believe that this particular young woman was the heavy in a criminal enterprise. Her own life experience had taught her, men commit almost all the crimes, solved or unsolved.

  “I better grab my purse,” Carmen said “and lock up the car since we are going to leave everything here.”

  “Do you want me to just fix the flat?” Jo asked.

  “Thank you but no. We used the spare last month. We got a nail driving by some construction and we just never got around to replacing it.”

  Jo shook her head sympathetically and said to her new acquaintance - “Yeah, Murphy’s Law”. She strode ahead along the shoulder of the road where her convertible was parked. With her back turned, Jo rolled her eyes. Too convenient, to have no spare tire. While no boy scout, Jo’s ex-girlfriends could confirm she was always prepared.

  Jo opened the passenger door two steps ahead of Carmen. Carmen could not sit down, as there was a shoulder bag with a manila file spilling out on the car seat.

  Jo said, “Oh, my brief case. Just throw that in the back.” On top of the briefcase, Carmen glimpsed a picture I.D., a photograph of Jo.

  “Are you thirsty?” Jo asked. “Because I know how hot it can get out here.” She dug into the back seat, retrieved a warm bottle of Coca-Cola, bottled in Mexico. Carmen swallowed her inside thought which was, “Yes, I too have some sun-warmed coke, but not the kind you drink. Ha, surely the pause that refreshes.”

  Out loud Carmen merely said, “Yes, that sounds good.” Jo handed her the glass bottle, tinted green, and their fingers touched briefly during the exchange. Jo sensed the faint fragrance across the car seat of Carmen’s dissipated perfume. What else did she recognize - aftershave? Was it that missing boyfriend who owned the 1960s-muscle car? Is that the boyfriend’s Chevelle? Jo let the thought drift out to the dry highway where the sagebrush met the sky. Another fanciful question not asked and th
erefore not answered.

  Carmen looked at Jo’s fingers. They were long, tan and sinewy like the rest of Jo. With short, unadorned nails, Jo looked practical and all business. Her car looked like fun. JC would understand. He left her stranded in a desert in July. After all, she had waited the entire night until sunrise and he had not returned.

  She hoped he was safe, wherever he was. But by this point she had no choice. Carmen could not sit in the desert without food or water for long. She could take this ride with this safe looking businesswoman. Jo seemed like a good bet for a fun ride, and to help her get to a mechanic.

  She had to get that car off the road and then get that flat tire repaired. Carmen figured she could make sense of it all after some coffee and breakfast in Tecate, U.S.A. She would sort it all out and call her mother. She needed to get somewhere and talk to some family. She needed good advice. In all events she had to protect JC, the family - her own as well as his. Her family would not be pleased that JC left their beloved Carmen alone on a desolate highway with a carload of narcotics.

  Jo had wondered if she should stop in the first place. It was summer in the middle of nowhere. She had read stories of both illegal aliens and unfortunate motorists dying in this desert. Sure, it was also a favorite stretch of road for all types of smugglers. Still, Jo refused to pass by if someone needed her help. Ten years of parochial school had not been entirely wasted on her. This morning, she remembered her catechism and the parable of the Good Samaritan.

  Jo remembered those lessons well and stopped. She tapped on the Chevelle window. And then, she laid her eyes on Carmen. After taking on look at her splendid chassis, Jo was eager to take Carmen for a test drive.

  “So,” Jo interrupted Carmen’s daydream as they drove back towards Tecate and the border crossing. Jo saw a gas station up ahead. “Do you want to stop here and see if they have a tire for the Chevelle or go to town to grab some breakfast first?”

  Carmen felt her rumbling tummy. She was distracted by her rough night. She decided it might be a good idea to grab some breakfast as Jo had put it and collect her thoughts.

  Carmen ached to just wash her face and brush her hair. It was a problem. There was no JC. She had no contacts in the U.S. Instead, she was faced with a broken down car and a trunk full of drugs. She was left alone with JC’s sins. Her mother had warned her about him. The ride to town was the best alternative. Raised on faith, Carmen prayed Jo would drive her to a better place.

  6

  Fried Tortillas

  The dirt parking lot was filled with trucks of every make and model, with the occasional Border Patrol emblazoned in a deep green across the side. Near the entrance a gun metal grey bike rack was bolted to the ground with a number of rusted bicycles secured with heavy chains and thick padlocks.

  For breakfast in Tecate Papas Y Tacos was the place to go for huevos ranchueros and chilaquiles. Jo pulled her convertible into the dirt parking lot, between two large government trucks, speckling the car’s impeccable whitewall tires with dirt. Flashing in the window, patrons were welcomed by two pink neon signs announcing “open” and “abierto.”

  Jo led the way into the restaurant. A chubby woman with greying feathered brown hair and make-up applied with a trowel, greeted the two women at the hostess stand. “Buenos Dias, Ladies,” she said and led them to a booth. Without comment, the waitress plopped two large plastic menus on the table with an audible thud.

  “They have the best food and salsa,” Jo said. “Have you had them?” asked Jo. Carmen shook her head no.

  Carmen looked at the page breakfast listing but her thoughts were far from salsa and tortillas. Instead she was focused on the trunk of the Chevelle. JC had more than hinted there was a lot of cocaine. But she had experienced time and again that he was a liar. Better question still, where was JC? Why hadn’t he come back last night, Carmen wondered silently. Carmen looked at her breakfast mate, who was staring at the entrance to the diner. Around her Carmen heard most of the patrons chatting rapidly in the accents of Baja California. Jo heard “blah, blah, blah, “dinero” blah blah” “cerveza,” blah, blah “mota.” Respectively money, beer, marijuana. Really, thought Jo, is that all I have to show for completing my language requirement at Stanford?

  Carmen returned to her more pressing challenge. She was stuck in a diner with no JC. This was so avoidable, but he never planned for anything, and never learned from his mistakes. Charm and money smoothed the bumps in the road for him until now. This hot July morning Carmen had a carload of problems to unload.

  Jo turned to face Carmen. She looked at Carmen’s long fingers with a deep red nail-polish. She admired a bracelet depicting assorted saints and Carmen’s deep brown, thoughtful eyes. Jo knew she liked what she felt and saw about this stranded girl. Quite a literal pick-up. In this weird border town, somehow, the scrumptious Carmen squeezed through.

  Not yet thirty, Jo was plotting out life after seven years of higher education. She lived her life in grand themes to make the world more secure. In the icy winters of Chicago, Jo had daydreamed in high school, of heat, sand and sun. This town of Tecate could not be more different than Chicago.

  Carmen was thankful for the silence. She was a woman of few words in either Spanish or English. When she did speak, it was with deliberation, with a known objective. From an early age, she had seen the consequences of wasted words and actions. She used her skills to sidestep misfortune. She was a quick learner. She also considered herself unusually lucky. Her mother always said, luck always visits those with skill and persistence. Carmen was patient, hardworking and now grateful, to be so distracting to this new American convenience, Jo. She needed time to think. She hoped for a visit from luck.

  Jo was content to sit and wait. Not many rushed in this town. There were few jobs to be had as there were essentially two career choices. Choice one was to smuggle and choice two was to arrest the smugglers. In the blaze of summer, she noticed the diners kept their sunglasses on even inside. The silence was filled by the sound of ice cubes clinking against the tall water pitchers. Education and reading was not a priority here. If the sentence was longer than a billboard the words weren’t spoken. Jo kept her sentences short when she spoke in this town.

  Carmen clearly came from somewhere else. Jo glanced at Carmen, thirsty for another look of what looked to be a lithe and lively young woman who was innocently up to no good. She wanted to learn more about Carmen. Jo knew she had to move slowly, or she would get burned.

  The pudgy waitress rolled to their table. “Hi, Ladies!” the smiling talkative waitress offered. “How about some java gals?”

  Jo slid her thick off-white mug forward and received a steaming hot stream deftly guided to the brim. Carmen let the waitress ask again, to which Carmen nodded “yes” and the waitress grabbed her cup.

  “How about breakfast- how about some - chilaquiles, eggs?” Jo ordered:“Chilaquiles please.” This brought the first smile Jo had seen emanate from Carmen. More of a wry smile in reaction to Jo’s imperfect pronunciation, her gringo accent. “Y señorita?” “The same,” Carmen answered in clear English.

  “Sounds like you don’t do Spanish,” laughed Carmen, once the waitress had bounced away to fill their orders. “Well, actually, I took five semesters of Spanish at Stanford, but my accent could use some work and practice. It’s hard to get rid of my Chicago accent.” Jo stared directly into Carmen’s eyes, though it made her very uneasy, feeling that tingle again. Jo shifted in the booth, pulling her perspiring thigh from the sticky plastic. This is verification, mused Jo, she was intrigued.

  Jo, practical as ever, did not share her thoughts but spoke of the matter at hand, “What do you want to do about that car. I am planning on staying here in Tecate for a couple of hours and then I am driving back to San Diego probably around three or four.”

  “Oh,” replied Carmen almost flirtatiously, tilting her head and lowering her voice, “Is that an offer to drive me up to San Diego?” “Oh yes,” said Jo, attempting to match the sam
e tone.

  “I have nothing to do in Tecate, here. Can I hang with you until you drive up to San Diego?” asked Carmen, adding sugar to her black coffee.

  “Well, Carmen,” said Jo, pausing between the syllables of the new name, new acquaintance, new woman was she hoping into her life? “It’s fine with me. It might be a bit boring. Let me see what my investigator says…”

  As Jo was speaking, a muscled man in his mid-thirties swaggered up to the booth. Carmen noted each impressive detail of this man as he closed the distance from the diner’s entrance to their breakfast table. He wore a pristine white tight fitting thin shirt, an authentic guayabera, with three open buttons. The shirt exposed a thick gold chain with an inch and half Conquistador Style cross resting against a soft lawn of thick dark chest hair. Before she inspected more, Carmen inhaled the strong tones of his cologne and self-confidence.

  The man carried a thin black notebook in his left hand, while his right thumb was webbed inside a thick brown leather belt with the word “Chevy” etched in block letters on the face of the buckle. His short sleeves exposed his etched biceps and obviously muscled midsection. Carmen mentally undressed him as he approached their table in cowboy boots.

  Jo, noting the other woman’s gaze deployed rank, her sole unfair advantage, “Well, Carmen, let’s see what my investigator says.” “Hey, Jacobo, over here,” Jo called to the tall man in jeans.

  Jacobo Sanchez, from his 6’2” height, gazed down on the two young attractive women. This was not going to be a bad breakfast, independent of the food, mused Jacobo. He flashed his winning grin, nodded to Jo and held his hand out to Carmen, “Nice to meet you. I’m Jacobo Sanchez. Are you also with the U.S. Attorney’s Office?”

  Swallowing her surprise, along with diner coffee, Carmen replied with a simple straightforward “No.” Carmen looked at Jo and Jacobo. They seemed decent enough. But she read in the papers the punishments they pursued against her countrymen. Ten, twenty years, life in prison. Not for murder but simply for crossing drugs. They were trying to flirt with her. She flirted back to distract them from her own situation. Laughing and teasing she turned to other subjects. Explanations about the Chevelle’s breakdown were pushed forward to another time.