Page 87 of Reno

“I’ve got a few other uses for it.”

“Like what?”

“Just some things I’m working on.”

He chuckled. “Surprises?”

“Something like that.”

He gave a nod and glanced at the front page of the paper. A large picture was divided into two equal parts. On the left was a photo of Alacrán. The other side was a grey and white cartoon-like silhouette of a police officer’s head with a question mark in the center.

I chuckled to myself at the difference between what really happened and what the general public was led to believe. I wondered how much of what the public was offered was truly false information.

“What’s the plan for today?” Baker asked. “Now that you and Crip aren’t doing drug deals?”

“There’s still a few people who know where Carma works that are either in the cartel or Alacrán’s associates. They were at Manos’ place Saturday night, and they went to look for her. At least that’s where I think they went. Can’t take a chance on them finding her there, so I’m taking her to try and get a new job.”

“I’m sure it’s tough for an illegal to get work,” he said. “Short of a cash-paying construction job, that is. What’s she good at?”

“She’s the best fucking waitress I’ve ever had.”

“Go see George at that diner Goose and Ally hang out in,” he suggested. “Where Ghost and Abby used to spend their time. Think it’s called Abby’s Place now. Get Goose to go with you. He and that fella that owns the joint are pretty close.”

I’d completely forgotten about the place. I stood and gave him a nod. “Good idea.”

“Is that where you’re headed?”

“Got a few stops to make first, but I think so.”

“Sucks that she’s in the position she’s in. I’d sure hate to be an illegal right now. ICE is going door to door and searching random busses for people without paperwork.”

Before I met Carma, I looked at everyone who crossed the border as a good part of the problem with the nation’s economy, illegal drug trade, and growing violence. I now looked at the majority of them as people who were trying to escape those three things in a country that was much worse off than the United States.

“Tell me about it,” I fumed. “Pisses me off when I think about it.”

“Good luck with the job hunt,” he said. “And give my best to Carma and her family. They’re good people.”

He was right. They were good people.

Good people in a bad situation.

33

Carma

Wallowing in sadness from losing a job that I truly loved, I stood at the home’s open garage door with a man named George, peering inside at two cars that sat side by side. One was an old-school black Mercury and the other was a gray vintage Mustang. Both were faultless, and the paint was shined to a beautiful luster.

Reno gestured to the Mustang. “That was Porter’s car. Ghost, the guy I told you about.”

He’s told me numerous tales of his friend, Porter. His story may have seemed tragic by most who heard it, but I perceived it as nothing short of a fairy tale.

“I’ll cherish it until the day I die,” George said. “Drive it every other week, just to keep it in working order.”

George was middle-aged and wore his hair in a buzz-cut. He was barrel-chested and built like a linebacker. Reno said he was a retired Marine, and he sure looked the part. I smiled and gestured toward the other car, the black Mercury.

“What about that one?” I asked.

“Brought that back from Okinawa Island, Japan,” he replied. “It sat here for years without a running engine. Porter got in running in two weeks. He was an amazing mechanic.”