Night Vision

by Randy Wayne White

  Squires held up his hands, palms out. “Stay cool, amigos. Only reason I’m here is to help the girl find her mama. Ya’ll just run along before the little saint in there makes you come back and apologize to me. Because when she was talking to God, the big guy didn’t send her to you. God sent her to me.”

  Smiling, Squires limped back to his truck and waited. The three gangbangers looked at one another for a moment, their faces unfocused, then they obviously decided Fuck it! and went inside the church.

  While he was messing with the radio, trying to find some decent news, his phone rang once, but no one was there when Squires answered, saying, “Hello... hello?” during a long silence.

  A wrong number, he decided. It had to be.

  An hour later, a little after eleven p.m., Squires and the girl were back at the hunting camp, walking from his truck toward the RV, as frogs chirred from a spatial darkness that was bordered by cypress trees and stars. He had been feeling pretty good about things up until then, but, suddenly, Squires didn’t feel so good anymore.

  Shit!

  Frankie was at the trailer, waiting for them. Laziro Victorino, too, along with some of his gangbanger soldiers, who came out of nowhere so fast they had their hands on Tula before Squires had time to do anything about it.

  Up until then, though, it had been the best night he’d had in a while. The big man had been feeling better and better about helping the strange little girl instead of shooting her in the back of the head. And Squires had never seen the girl so happy.

  On the drive from Immokalee to the hunting camp, she had sat in the passenger seat, chattering away, sounding excited because she had found out where her aunts and brother were living. Maybe her mother, too. Or so she thought.

  But when Tula told Squires about it, he wasn’t so sure.

  “Aunt Vilma and Isabel are working on a tomato farm in a city called Ocala!” Tula had exclaimed as she exited the church, waving a piece of paper. “I have Aunt Isabel’s phone number. And my brother, he picked oranges this winter. He was always so lazy, but it must be true.”

  As they drove down Main Street, Immokalee, out of town, the girl was laughing, telling Squires, “Pacaw has moved around a lot, but he might be living outside a city that is named Venice. He had trouble finding work because he’s younger than me, only twelve—but he acts older. Everyone I met at the church thought he was at least sixteen. The people I met tonight, they are wonderful.”

  Squires had to ask. “Did they say anything about me? Some tough Mexican dudes came outside and gave me some of their tough-taco shit. But you were . . . you know, in the middle of your speech. I didn’t want to cause no trouble.”

  The big man said it expecting the girl to appreciate his thoughtfulness. Maybe she did, but he had hoped for a more positive reaction.

  Squires gave it some time before he glanced at the girl and asked a question that had been on his mind: “You could have run out on me tonight, sis. You could’ve had your new friends call the cops. Why didn’t you? I was sitting here in the truck, wondering about it.”

  The girl had looked at the giant, shaking her head, and didn’t bother to speak the words her affectionate expression was telling him.

  Instead, she said, “I’m very hungry. One of the women—she was so sweet. She asked for a lock of my hair but didn’t have any scissors. She told me there is a very excellent restaurant not far. It’s called Taco Bell. You must be hungry, too.”

  They used the Taco Bell drive-through, and Squires listened to the girl chomp down about half her weight in junk food as he drove—Tula, beside him, eating like it was the best Mex she’d ever had in her life.

  Squires had the taco salad and an unsweetened iced tea. He was an athlete, for Christ’s sake. In his business, diet was everything, even during a bulking cycle. The perfect male body wasn’t built in the weight room, it was sculpted in the kitchen—Squires had read that someplace.

  Ten miles from the hunting camp, the girl had gotten onto the subject of her missing mother, a conversation that Squires had tried to postpone because he already suspected where it was going.

  “I keep trying to tell you the best news,” the girl had said to him. “My mother was working in restaurants and cleaning houses. But then she went to work for a very rich man and has been traveling a lot—which is probably why I haven’t heard from her. She didn’t tell anyone the man’s name. But she told someone’s niece that the man’s company makes movies. That she was going to become an actress! This was about two months ago, which is probably why she had to get a new telephone. My aunts or brother will know more when I talk to them. Didn’t I tell you that my mother is beautiful?”

  Squires thought, Uh-oh . . . understanding immediately why Tula’s mother hadn’t told anyone her employer’s name. Either no one had revealed the name to her or the woman was too ashamed to admit it. Every Mexican in Florida knew that Laziro Victorino was a badass gang leader and the only films he had an interest in were porno and snuff films.

  That gave Squires a sick feeling in his belly. She could have been talking about some other guy who made movies—but he strongly doubted it.

  Tula’s mother must have been damn hard up for money to make such a decision, which wasn’t unusual for Mexican women who sent money back home. But to go to work for the V-man? It had to be more than just needing cash, Squires decided. Maybe she’d gotten hooked on crank or crack. No telling, but a lot of Mexican girls did after getting into porn or prostitution.

  Squires remembered the little girl sniffing the little doll she’d found and saying her mother had one just like it. It didn’t prove the girl’s mother had been entertained by Victorino or Frankie, sitting in their trailer, drinking margaritas laced with Ecstasy. But it sure made it a strong possibility.

  There was also an even more disturbing possibility, but just thinking about it made Squires feel queasy. That he’d been the one who’d entertained Tula’s mother—the Mexican chula in his sex dream. So Squires had changed the subject by handing Tula his iPhone, saying, “Call your aunt what’s her name. Tell her you’re okay. Where’d you say they’re living? Do it now because we’re going to lose reception the moment I turn off the road to my camp.”

  “We’re not going back to the trailer park?” the girl asked, surprised. “That’s what I told the priest. That’s what I told everyone, that we’re returning to Red Citrus.” She hesitated. “I would feel better if I could sleep on my own cot and get my things. I have a book there I read every night before I turn off the light.”

  Squires shook his head. “The camp’s closer, and I need a drink. We’ll get your things tomorrow.”

  Guessing what the girl was worried about, he added, “Don’t worry, you’ll have your own bed. And all the damn privacy you want—as long as you promise to stop talking so much. What about calling your aunts?”

  As Tula giggled in her seat, excited to be dialing her aunt, Squires thought about details. He wasn’t good at geography, but he’d done bodybuilding shows all over Florida. Tula had mentioned Ocala and Venice. They were both north, off Interstate 75, which was right on the way if they were driving to Mexico.

  Damn ... it was a big decision. Leaving the country had seemed like a smart thing to do earlier when he’d been drunk and scared shitless. Now, with the girl laughing and chattering in Spanish to her aunt, it suddenly seemed all too real. Like the idea was closing in and smothering him.

  How would he feel riding with a bunch of wetbacks all that distance? His truck was a double cab, so there’d be enough room. Hell, Mexicans were like folding chairs. You could pack twenty of them into a Volkswagen. And it wasn’t like he’d be breaking any laws, since he’d be driving a load of illegal immigrants back to where they belonged. Still, the prospect seemed so foreign to him that he began searching for an alternative.

  But no matter how Squires viewed his situation, he couldn’t get around the fact that if the cops questioned Tula about the dead Mexican girl, they’d arrest him for somethi
ng, probably murder. Laziro Victorino was in the back of his mind, too.

  Then Squires thought about the way the girl had described her village. It was quiet and clean, she’d said. A place that was high in the mountains where it was cool, and closer to God.

  Squires told himself he didn’t care anything about God. But he was sure sick of Florida, where he’d been doing stupid, illegal shit, always feeling guilty—a dirty life, Tula had described it, and the girl was right.

  All his problems would be solved, though, if he took Tula and her family to Mexico. No more murder rap, no worrying about cops busting his steroid business, no more of Frankie’s bullying, and of her sick, twisted ways.

  Squires reminded himself that he had around sixty grand in cash—plus a few grand more he’d stolen from the two white guys last night. That was more than enough money to kick back at some Mexican beach resort for a month or two.

  And if he liked the place, maybe he’d invest some of that money in starting up a first-class steroids lab—a place where it was legal to use and make gear. Hell, he could hire Tula and her family to keep the place clean and do office work. The girl was strange, but at least he knew that she’d never steal from him or lie to him about the books.

  Okay, Squires thought to himself, Mexico it is.

  Goddamn, that felt good! He’d finally made a decision. It put a little smile on his face until Tula handed him his cell phone as if the thing was broken, telling him, “I can’t hear what my aunt Isabel is saying anymore. She was right in the middle of telling me something important when we got cut off.”

  “I told you, we don’t have good reception out here,” Squires replied.

  “But I wanted to hear what she was telling me!”

  As the man slipped the phone into his pocket, he paid attention because the girl sounded so serious, which is why he asked her, “What’d she say that’s got you so riled up?”

  Tula replied, “My aunt said an important woman called her tonight. A woman who works for the government helping immigrants. She was very worried because she said the police are looking for you and me.”

  Squires felt his heart begin to pound. “Your aunt said that?” he asked.

  “No, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. The woman said they’ve been talking about us on the radio and television all night. Some kind of special alert for children. It has a color in the name.”

  Squires whispered, “Shit! An AMBER Alert.”

  Reacting to the expression on the man’s face, Tula added quickly, “Yes—but it’s okay, don’t worry! The first thing my aunt will do is call the woman and tell her that you are my friend. She’s probably talking to the woman right now. Telling her that I’m very safe and happy. My aunt promised.”

  Squires said, “Jesus Christ, an AMBER Alert. What next?” but was listening, wanting to hear better news.

  Tula told him, “Then my aunt will call the church and speak with the priest—she knows him very well because she picked tomatoes in Immokalee for a season. His name is Father Jimenez, and she will ask him to telephone the police tonight and tell them the same thing.”

  “Talk slower,” Squires said. “Tell the cops what?”

  “That I’m with you because I want to be with you. So no one will be worried. My aunt was so relieved to hear my voice, she was crying. But she promised me, so I know she will do it.”

  Tula held up the paper she was carrying. “In the morning, I will call the woman myself. I have her number here, too.”

  Squires took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, before he said, “Maybe you should call the immigration woman now. I can back up. Usually, reception doesn’t go to hell until I get to the gate.”

  But then he realized that turning around, driving toward Immokalee, might be a mistake. The woman from state immigration would want to know Tula’s exact location. That would bring the cops, asking questions.

  The girl made up his mind, saying, “The police will believe Father Jimenez. A priest? Of course they will believe him. Plus, I told Father Jimenez that you are a wonderful man. He wanted to meet you, but I told him you are shy about coming into churches.”

  Squires liked it when Tula said that. He began to relax a little and feel at ease as the girl added, “Do you now believe that the Maiden is watching over us? When you do God’s work, good things happen to you!”

  By then, they were at the gate to the hunting camp.

  Squires began to suspect trouble when he realized there was a light on inside his RV, the vehicle sitting up on blocks in the darkness. He and Tula had just gotten out of the truck, which was when the big man placed his hand on the girl’s shoulder, stopping her.

  “Hold it, sis,” he said as he stared at the light. He knew he’d switched off the generator before leaving just in case he and the girl didn’t return. Plus, he would’ve heard the little Honda engine running if it was on.

  That meant that someone inside had a flashlight. Or had lit a candle, or an oil lamp maybe. But where was the person’s truck?

  Squire’s head pivoted from the mountain of cypress trees to the west, then to the east, where there were shadowed pine flats and a distant halo glow that was Lauderdale.

  There had to be a vehicle somewhere. No one in their right mind would hike cross-country through the Everglades, not this late. Not half an hour before midnight .. . unless . . . unless they had parked their vehicle behind the RV. Which was possible. But how could they have gotten through the gate? The gate had been locked when he and Tula had arrived just as he’d left it.

  Thinking that gave Squires a prickly feeling along his spine. Frankie had the only other key.

  Squires reached out, patted Tula’s arm and whispered, “Hang on for a second, sis. Something ain’t right about this.”

  He took a few slow steps toward the trailer, favoring his right leg, but then stopped abruptly when he saw what might have been a person moving in the shadows behind the trailer.

  Squires couldn’t be sure. He had left the truck running, lights on, so he could see to unlock the door to the generator shed. He didn’t have a flashlight, so all he saw was a blur of movement like someone ducking for cover.

  Squires was thinking about hurrying back to the truck and opening the hidden compartment to get his revolver and night vision binoculars. That’s when Tula whispered, “There’s someone here. I smell cigarette smoke. And perfume, too.”

  Squires thought, Shit. It’s Frankie.

  Yes, it was. The large woman appeared, standing in the RV’s doorway, shining a flashlight in his eyes, then focused the beam on Tula. Squires was shielding his eyes when he heard Frankie say, “Well, well, look at what we have here. Harris, you dumb pile of shit, I don’t know what to do first—have some fun with the pretty little wettail you brought me or call the cops and hope there’s a reward for turning in a kidnapper.”

  The woman was very drunk and probably stoned. Squires could tell by the way she slurred her words. Frankie had to grab the railing as she started down the steps, adding, “Either way, I want the goddamn money you stole from me. Sixty thousand dollars in cash, you son of a bitch. You really thought I’d let you get away with it?”

  For a woman, Frankie had the lowest voice Squires had ever heard. It was from using too much primobolan and shooting testosterone, which the woman lied about, too. But there was no disguising what steroids had done to her voice—and the female parts of her body, too.

  Squires waved and called, “Hey, sugar babe, I was hoping you’d be here!” like he was glad to see the woman, but then he nudged Tula toward the truck, leaning to whisper, “Get in and lock the doors. Don’t come out ’til I tell you.”

  Tula yanked her arm away, though, being stubborn, and said, “I’m not leaving you! You’re afraid of her, I can tell. I’m staying with you.”

  Frankie, on the grass now, wearing tight jeans, her breasts ballooning out of a tank top, was close enough to hear the girl, because she laughed, saying, “Now, isn’t that sweet! You found yoursel
f a loyal little chula. A cute young one, too. Harris, know what that tells me? It tells me you haven’t screwed her yet. Even if she’s a virgin, she wouldn’t still be hanging with you. She’d be ready for someone bigger and better by now.”

  In a chiding voice, Frankie spoke to Tula, saying, “I’ll bet you’re still pure as the snow, aren’t you, niña? Then this goddamn piece of white trash comes along and kidnaps you. But you don’t have to be afraid of him now. Come here to Frankie”—the woman was patting her thigh as if calling a dog—“I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

  Squires felt Tula move close to him, throwing an arm around his bad leg for protection.

  He wasn’t afraid of Frankie—he’d never admitted it to himself, anyway—Tula was wrong about that. But the woman did make him nervous, particularly when she was as drunk as she was now.

  Nervous, yes, that’s the way Squires felt, but he could also feel a testosterone heat moving to his ears.

  “You shut your mouth about this girl,” Squires said to Frankie in a warning tone as he stepped in front of Tula. “She’s not used to your garbage talk. And stop your damn swearing in front of her. This little girl’s religious.”

  Frankie laughed, “Priceless,” as Squires continued, “You go on back inside the trailer. If you want to talk to me, I’ll get the generator going and we’ll talk. But you leave this girl alone.”

  Squires was lying about the generator. The moment Frankie closed the trailer door, he’d load Tula into the truck and they’d get the hell out of there.

  Go where, though? Frankie knew what she was talking about when she’d mentioned kidnapping. Even if the priest told the cops that everything was okay, a call from Frankie might put them back on the alert. The woman would drop the dime on him the moment he left, Squires was sure of it.

  Or would she?

  Mismatched details were going through Squires’s mind as he tried to view the situation clearly. Maybe Frankie didn’t have so much leverage over him after all, he decided. Once he was in jail, how could the woman force him to give back the money he’d taken? She’d have to admit to the feds that they’d piled up a ton of cash selling steroids. They hadn’t paid a dime in taxes, either.