Into the Beautiful North(55)
His left eye was black, and his lip was swollen. He held a wet cloth to it and winced. He prodded at a tooth with the tip of his tongue. He thought it might be loose. His hair spikes were all plastered down flat, and if he could have looked in a mirror, he would have been appalled to see he looked like Julius Caesar, with his tiny blond bangs sticking to his forehead.
Tacho put his hands on his belly and surreptitiously felt his money belt. He couldn’t believe these morons hadn’t taken it and discovered his dollars. Good for him, though—they would have really thought he was a terrorist with all that cash. As it was, they had given him a good tune-up, bouncing his body on the floor and “accidentally” running his head into the wall.
An American in a badly fitting black suit came into the room and set a manila folder on the table and smiled as he sat.
“Mr. Lora,” he said.
“Hmm,” said Tacho, looking away angrily.
“Do you understand English?”
“Chure. I espik good Englitch.”
“Fine.”
The fellow opened the file, moved three papers around, cleared his throat. Tacho sneered: the guy was wearing musk cologne. That was for thirteen-year-old boys. Tacho would have recommended Aramis. And a serious haircut.
“Yes, ahem, well. There was certainly a misunderstanding here.”
“Yes.”
“You understand that the heightened security demands of the post-Nine-Eleven world…” blah blah blah.
“An’ mine ass get kick pooty good by gringos,” Tacho interrupted.
“I—cannot agree with your assessment. Perhaps there was involuntary roughness in your apprehension.”
“Is not soccer game, guey!”
“No. It is not. However, you were already guilty of entering the country illegally. And when you blurted the name of a terrorist organization…”
“?Mierda!’ Tacho cried. “Is name of my restaurant!”
“Ahem.”
They had actually called around Sinaloa and found that La Mano Caída was indeed a cantina of some sort, owned and operated by Mr. Lora. The information on his Mexican driver’s license corresponded to his official domicile. So now they had to make sure the forms were in order. These days, even illegals were litigious.
“Although you will be returned to Mexico, we would like to extend our apologies for any harm you might have accidentally suffered when resisting arrest.”
Tacho smiled. The bastard. He nodded.
The man rose and walked briskly from the room.
A migra agent stepped in and crooked a finger. Tacho followed him.
“Are you going to lodge a complaint?” the agent asked in Spanish.
“No.”
“Are you going to cross again?”
“Yes.”
They got to the bus.
“All right,” the Border Patrol man said. “See you next week.”
“See you,” Tacho called as he boarded the bus.
Back in Tijuana, in the dark. He called Aunt Irma.
“Nayeli’s gone to Matt’s house,” Irma told him.
“Really?” Tacho said.
“That is the plan.”
“So they made it?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is Matt’s phone number?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, m’ija, what do you know, because I am calling you to find out, and you aren’t telling me anything!”
“Now, now.”
“Don’t now-now me!”
“Tacho! Get a grip on yourself! You tell me. What will you do?”
“I don’t know.”
La Osa spit a small curse.
“I will go to San Diego,” he said. “Somehow. I can’t let my girls do their business alone.”
“Good boy,” said Irma.
Tacho rubbed his face. Cross the border again. That was just great. Just what he wanted to do. Tacho sighed. He had a little crust of blood around the rim of his nostril. He flicked it away with a fingernail.
“Has my restaurant gone out of business yet?” he said.
“Not yet, but it currently lacks your feminine touch,” Irma replied.
“Look! Don’t start with me, Do?a! I am in no mood for your pendejadas! I been arrested, I been beat up, I been deported! And I’m not going to listen to your homophobic comments. Oh, no! Eso sí que no. Not tonight!”
But Irma, of course, had already hung up.
The taxi driver did not bat an eyelash when Tacho told him, “Take me to a gay bar.”
How he had longed to visit a gay bar. To drop his guard for just an hour. To laugh with men who did not laugh at him. He was afraid, for an instant, that the taxi driver would tell him there weren’t any gay bars in Tijuana. But the driver merely mentioned two, and Tacho sat back, closed his eyes, and said, “Take me to the nicest one.”
It wasn’t far from the Palacio Azteca hotel. The front had a kind of Mediterranean motif. Neon tubes ran up the sides of the building, causing the crenellations in the salmon stucco to glow like hot sheets of glass. He was terribly underdressed, and dirty, but he didn’t care. He could hear the music coming out the door. He could hear laughter. Smell cigars and cigarettes.