Into the Beautiful North(23)
“Where are the drugs?”
“I told you, sir, there are no drugs.”
“Oh, really.”
He put his hand on Tacho’s back.
Tacho jumped like a nervous pony.
“Are you scared of something?” the cop asked.
“No.”
“Liar.”
He gripped Tacho’s upper arm.
“Are you a male prostitute?”
“No.”
“But you are a faggot.”
Tacho coughed.
Everybody watched him.
“It’s all right; we’re all amigos here,” the cop said. “It’s all right with us if you’re a faggot. Mexico is a free country.” He squeezed. “Faggot.”
Then, the most shameful moment in Tacho’s life happened, right in front of Nayeli, Yolo, and Vampi.
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
“I —” He cleared his throat. “I am not a—faggot.”
“What?”
“I am not.”
Nayeli turned around.
“He is my boyfriend.”
“Yes,” said Yolo. “We’re going to Tijuana for their wedding!”
The cop eyed them skeptically. He smiled. She was cute, the little dark one. Too dark for his taste, but she had some ass on her.
“Very good,” he said. “Very smart.” He tapped his head with one finger.
She flushed.
“What’s your name?” he demanded.
“Nayeli,” she replied.
He nodded.
“Should I search you, Nayeli?” he said. “Are you carrying some of the good Sinaloan marijuana?”
“No.”
He laughed.
“And you?”
He jerked Tacho off balance.
“What is your name, bridegroom?”
“Tacho.”
“Tacho?”
“Just—Tacho.”
“Tacho no es muy macho,” the Jefe called out, and his pals chuckled.
“I’ve heard that joke before,” Tacho said.
“Are you upset?” the Jefe asked him. “You’re crying, Tachito. That doesn’t seem very macho to me.”
He looked at Nayeli.
“I just want a word with the groom,” he said.
He dragged Tacho toward the back of the room.
“Tacho!” Nayeli cried.
One of the kinder aduana agents said, “It is better if you stay quiet.”
The Jefe murmured in Tacho’s ear—“Do you have drugs stuck up your ass, Tachito?”
He slammed Tacho through a door, and they were suddenly in the men’s toilet. The Jefe shut the door and locked it. Tacho wiped his eyes and stood firm. The cop smiled at him.
“Faggot.”
“No.”
The cop bumped into him.
“Oh?” he said. “What was that?”
“What?”
“You bumped into me.”
“I did not.”
“Oh,” the Jefe said, “so I am a liar?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, sir.”
“I am not a liar, then.”
“No.”
“So you bumped into me.”
Tacho stared at the wall. There were ancient hieroglyphs of pudenda and violence drawn on every surface.
“Sí. If you say so.”
“You dirty little faggot,” the cop said. “Do you think you can work your little tricks on me? Rubbing on me like that?”
“No, sir.”
“Apologize.”
“I’m sorry.”
The cop grabbed Tacho’s crotch and squeezed it. Tacho yelped.
“Is this your game?”
Tacho said, “Please.”
“Nice big packet. Were you hoping to use it on me, Tacho?”
The cop hit him once, knocking him against the wall. He turned to the sink and washed his hands.
“You make me sick,” he said. “Get out of here.”
Tacho picked himself up and struggled for a moment with the latch. He hurried out of the bathroom. Everybody stopped what they were doing and stared at him.
“A slight misunderstanding,” he said, and rushed to the bus and folded up in the dark and feigned being asleep.
El Jefe stood in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.
“All clear,” he said. “Let them go.”
The passengers headed for the door.
“Nayeli,” the Jefe called, “come back to see me soon.”
His men laughed.
Twenty miles outside of Mexicali, the hydraulic system broke on the bus, and they rolled backward to the edge of a precipice but did not go over. After trying to get the doors open for an hour, Chuy kicked out one of the windows and dropped to the ground. He began walking toward civilization in the dark. Cold wind came in the open window. Nayeli cradled Tacho’s head in her lap. She could feel his silent tears on her thigh. She could hear coyotes howling outside. All around her, the travelers snored and coughed and cried out in their worried dreams.
Chapter Ten
Chuy did not return. But nine hours later, a second bus pulled up beside theirs. It was full, but the driver got out and told them, “If you’re willing to stand, I can take a few of you to Tijuana.”