Into the Beautiful North(39)

It seemed to amuse him.

Yolo was almost sober. She nudged Nayeli with her elbow. “Girl,” she said, “there is still time to go home.”

“Yeah,” Vampi agreed. “We are making a terrible mistake.”

“We don’t know this man,” Yolo said.

“Don’t worry, I’m here,” Atómiko said.

“We don’t know you, either!”

Tacho ran his fingers along his money belt. He was this close. He wasn’t turning back.

“I’m going,” he said.

Nayeli said nothing, just stared over the fence as the dark spread and the noise behind them changed to the heavy breath of Tijuana at night.

“Nayeli, what are we going to do when we get there?” asked Yolo.

“I don’t know,” Nayeli admitted. “Call Matt?”

“Oh.” Yolo started to smile. “All right.”

And the coyote spoke.



Orale. Gather around, gather around. You, what’s your name? Nayeli? You’re the leader? Good, listen up. My socio Atómiko here speaks highly of you, so I am going to take you quick, right in. No chingaderas, all right? Move fast, don’t cry, don’t give me any shit, understand? We’re going under the fence right there. The metal’s cut—we hit it with acetylene torches when the migra isn’t looking. There’s a doorway right there behind the bushes. I go first—if it’s clear, I’ll whistle. You haul ass. Girls first, the boy—what’s your name?—Tacho last. Atómiko will slide the door shut. He says he’ll follow. I think he’s in love with Nayeli—though it could be Tacho. Ha! I got my eye on the vampire. Hot. In another life, right, morra? Come see me when you get rich in Gringolandia! Orale. Run straight across the migra road. Straight! And fast, cabrones! Do you hear? Keep low and run fast. Right across the road, through the bushes, is an arroyo. I’ll be down there. Don’t jump on my head. But get down in there with me. We’ll haul ass to the north—that’s to the right, for you little girlies who don’t know what direction you’re going. Right. Pay attention. I don’t have time to repeat this shit. To the right, run fifty yards, and we cut sharp left. Keep close enough to see the person in front, because if you get separated, you stay behind. There’s junkies and monsters and rateros in there that’ll cut off your legs and fuck you as you die. I’m not kidding you. Stay close to me. Nayeli, you’re the leader, be right behind me. Atómiko will cover the end of the line. Single file. Hustle. Can you hustle? You better fuckin’ hustle like you never hustled before. If the migra catches you, they’ll crack your heads. If it looks like they’re going to catch us, you don’t know me. I’m not a coyote, just a guy from Sonora looking for work at the racetrack tending horses. You got that? You rat me out, and my socios will hunt you down and cut your throats. If we get separated, you girlies, you run for the road and hope the migra comes along before the rateros get you. Don’t be out there alone. If you get lost, I’m not going to come looking for you. Mama’s far away. Stay behind me or you’re on your own, and there’s no negotiating. All right. Straight, arroyo, right for fifty yards, hard left. We’ll be going down a canyon for a mile, and then we’ll get to a bridge. We can rest under that bridge. If the rateros jump us, and they’ve got guns or knives, I ain’t dying for you. No way. I’m gone. Good luck, cabrones. Give them what they want, and that includes your money. If you want to live. You, Tacho. Maybe you’ll be lucky. Maybe there’s faggots in the canyons, too, and they won’t cut your legs. Maybe you can blow them. What? Have I offended you? ?Ay, ay, ay! ?Qué lástima! I’ll tell you what will offend you worse—having the tendons sliced in your legs so you flop like a fish, having ten filthy junkies or gang-bangers or white gangsters rape you and take your money. How’s that for offensive? God damn it, you’re wetbacks now! Nobody gives a shit about you! So stick to me like ticks, and I’ll get you through. When I tell you we’re there, we’re there, and I’m heading home. No whining, no complaining. I will take you far enough so you can figure it out for yourselves. You ain’t paying me real money. You want the deluxe crossing, you pay for it. Put you in the trunk of a car. But we’re not those coyotes in Libertad. I’ll get you in, but you have to take it from there. If you get caught and deported, I ain’t giving you your money back. Me vale madre. Tough shit—life is hard. But if you want to pay me again, orale, I’ll take you in again. Got it? Any questions? No? Good. Are we ready? Next stop, San Diego, Califas, los pinchis Yunaites!



When the next Border Patrol vehicle came down the dusty trail across the fence, the gathered runners pelted it with stones. Suddenly, three other trucks appeared, and the agents leaned across their roofs and fired teargas grenades over the fence. The coyote took off running, and before Nayeli could ask what was going on, Atómiko had them up and running, too. Clouds of choking smoke swirled across the hill, stinking and choking. People ran from the border and charged between the small houses, as if walls and fences could protect them from the fumes. Boys with rags tied over their mouths and noses laughed and danced, taunting the agents, throwing more stones and bottles. The coyote stood with his fists raised, shouting, “Act of war! Act of war!”

Atómiko was laughing. He’d gotten them to a perch far enough away from the gas that only Tacho’s eyes were watering.