Into the Beautiful North(90)

“How do,” the man at the counter said.

“Two,” said Mary-Jo.

“Right. Where to?”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“San Diego.”

“Right-o.”

They paid for the tickets.

On the television, CNN was showing a bleached and jumpy film of scores of Mexicans jumping over a fence and racing into Arizona. The three of them stood there, transfixed. The ticket seller turned and blushed. He snapped off the TV. He smiled at them in embarrassment. His teeth were brown and yellow.

Nayeli loved him.

The man said, “Sorry.”

Tacho was studying the big route map on the wall. Their bus went right on down through Saint Louis. KC.

“Please,” he said. “Not again.”

The bus was coming. It rolled their way from the highway, made a sharp left into the lot. Pebbles and dirt clods crunched under its heavy tires. It groaned and hissed. The door opened. The driver got down, shook a leg, nodded to them.

“Folks!” he said. “Be right with you. Got to point Percy at the porcelain.” He winked and strode into the lobby.

The wind was blowing.

Nayeli hugged Mary-Jo.

“Adios,” she whispered.

The driver came back, took their tickets, and climbed aboard. Tacho flew up the steps and vanished into the bus. Nayeli followed. Mary-Jo stood in the cold wind, waving farewell.

The door closed. The bus burped and shuddered and rolled out of the lot. It turned right as the rain started to fall again. Mary-Jo ran to her car. When she looked back, the bus had vanished around the bend.





Chapter Thirty-six



Calexico.

Arnie Davis was back from San Diego, and his new uniform was roasting him. He was an agent, still, this week of yet another word-salad agency, the—what was it this time? The Customs and Border Enforcement, or the CBP or was it CPB? Whatevs, dawg. The government keeping itself busy.

He pulled his steaming shirt away from his chest. Not for the first time, he wondered why, if the guys invariably had to patrol in hot places, did the government give them forest green outfits?

Arnie didn’t know what was worse, the Tijuana border canyons or this brutal stretch of I-8. Looking into tourists’ cars at the roadblock. Boarding random buses, hunting for wets. Cripes. His knee was aching.

Definitely about time to cash in those chips and get to the Rockies and do some fishing.

He waved cars through. He grimaced. A Trailways bus was coming. He checked his forms, clicked the computer screen.

“Time to roust the good travelers, Bob,” he said. His partner nodded. Why open your mouth to speak and lose more moisture to the burning air? He waved his hand, silently inviting Arnie to step right up and check that bus while he faded back into the shade and waited for a coed in a convertible to come along.

Arnie planted himself on the shoulder of the slow lane. Cones were set out, shunting traffic over. It was all pro forma. Dull as a factory job making left-handed widgets nine hours a day.

He flapped his hand up and down. The bus pulled over. He climbed aboard.

“Routine check,” he told the riders. “How you doing?” to the driver.

“I’m good,” the driver responded.

Arnie nodded to the college kid in the first row. A fat Mexican woman in the third row already had her green card out and held up. He took it and scanned it. “Ma’am,” he said, handing it back.

Everybody on the bus needed a shower.

And then he got to the last row and beheld Nayeli and Tacho.

He stopped dead and stared.

“No way,” he said.

“Is he calling you a buey?” Tacho whispered.

Nayeli looked up. She was too spent to smile. She was done.

“Hola,” she said.

Arnie leaned on the seat back in front of her.

“What was your name?”

“Nayeli.”

He shook his head.

“I’ll be darned,” he said. “Hey,” he said to Tacho.

“Hey,” Tacho said.

“You’re Nayeli’s Al Qaeda friend.”

Tacho nodded. He weakly put out his wrists, awaiting the handcuffs.

Arnie looked around at all the heads studiously looking out the windows yet watching the events in the back of the bus.

“Small world, isn’t it,” said Arnie to Nayeli.

“We are in God’s hands,” she replied.

These kids were so bedraggled it was almost funny.

“OK,” Arnie said.

He crooked his finger at them.

“Vámonos,” he said.

Embarrassed, they trudged down the aisle, being stared at by the other travelers. The driver got their little bags out for them. He didn’t make eye contact. They stood and watched the bus drive away.

Arnie opened his truck’s rear gate.

“In,” he said.

They climbed in.

He slammed it.

“Bob,” he called over to the booth. “Two clients. Taking ’em in.”

Bob nodded.

“Groovy,” he said. He flashed Arnie a peace sign. Those migra agents. They were comical.

Arnie pulled onto the freeway. Turned up the AC.

“You OK back there?” he called.