Free Illegal by Paul Levine Page B

she needed, he was unable to give.
    A lapsed Catholic, Sharon sought peace in the stillness of Our Lady of Angels downtown. For hours, she sat alone in the sanctuary, sunlight streaming over her through alabaster mosaic windows. With its fifty-foothigh cross and its sunbaked concrete walls, the church was built to withstand an earthquake, but did little for heartache.
    Sharon asked Payne to accompany her to Mass, just to hold her hand, just to feel his presence beside her. To the extent he believed in God at all, Payne preferred the pissed off curmudgeon of the Old Testament. That bearded sadist who delighted in flood and famine, plague and pestilence. Payne told Sharon that if she really believed the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost routine, maybe she should have prayed before Adam was killed.
    It was just one of many thoughtless comments. Was he trying to salve his own pain by worsening hers? He had no idea.
    Sharon seethed with anger. Payne wondered if she blamed him for the accident. She never said so, but the silent accusation hung in the air, enveloping them like a poisonous fog. He wanted to scream out:
    "Jesus, Sharon. The bastard ran a red light."
    But could Payne have avoided the crash? Was he driving too fast? If only he hadn't looked away—
    She'd always told him to slow down, to be more careful. He resented her anger. She resented his resentment. They were divorced six months later.
    But now, sitting in his car in the Home Depot lot, his son dead, his marriage over, his career ruined, Payne knew precisely what he had to do. This time there was no one to stop him, and no reason to stay.
    He had to go to Mexico. He had to find Manuel Garcia. And he had to kill him.

TWENTY
     
    The huge American woman held a rusty machete, her arm plump as a chicken. "C'mon. Git inside."
    She pointed the machete at the five women and motioned toward the door of the wooden cabin.
    The Americana was the largest woman Marisol had ever seen. Her skin was the bluish white of milk drained of its fat. Her stomach spilled out of purple nylon basketball shorts, and her bleached yellow hair was tied around rollers, like steel cables looped on spools. She must be the owner of the clavo, the stash house, Marisol concluded. The house was actually half-a-dozen dilapidated cabins next to railroad tracks outside the desert town of Ocotillo, a few miles north of the border. A sign out front read Sugarloaf Lodge, but there did not seem to be any lodgers.
    "What you waiting for?" the woman bawled at them. "Git your brown butts inside now. ¡Vaya! !Vaya! "
    Dutifully, the women climbed the three sagging steps and, like cattle, shouldered their way through the open door.
    "Not her." El Tigre blocked Marisol's path.
    The woman waved her machete. "Don't be messing with my wets, dickwad."
    "Yours?"
    "Till Ah get paid, you bet your ass."
    El Tigre cursed her in Spanish. She shouted that he owed her money. He yelled that the money was owed by the repartidor, the labor contractor who would take these worthless peasants to the farms and factories waiting for them.
    They argued for several minutes, El Tigre boasting that only his brilliance and bravery got them here at all. They were nearly captured at the border. A Border Patrol helicopter missed seeing them on the mountain, as he had cleverly placed the group so the sun would block them from view. Despite great odds, the courageous El Tigre located the trailhead and waited for the driver of the Duster to bring them here.
    He grabbed Marisol's arm and tried to pull her to him.
    The woman pointed the tip of the machete at El Tigre's groin. "Ah got no problem chopping your little pecker into chorizo and feeding it to my dog."
    "¡Bacalao!" Calling her the filthiest name a man can call a woman.
    The woman barked a laugh that made her fleshy arms quiver. "Listen to the Frito Bandito. Pissy as a skunk."
    El Tigre still had a grip on Marisol's arm. "This one owes me money."
    "That don't give you the right to lay your