“I heard you guys organize trips. Through Mexico.”
“And where did you hear a thing like that?”
“Some guy I met.”
“Who?”
“I don’t remember his name. Just some guy.”
“Where?”
“In Pompano.”
Illegal Brazilian immigrants live all over the United States, but there are particularly large communities in Astoria, New York, near Boston, Massachusetts, and Pompano Beach, Florida. The locals drop Beach. They call it Pompano.
“Pompano, huh?”
The Argentinian looked Arnaldo up and down. Arnaldo did his best to look guileless.
“You’re a pretty old guy for that sort of thing, aren’t you? Sneaking across borders, I mean.”
Arnaldo hated references to his age. It took a conscious effort for him not to tell the Porteno to go fuck himself.
“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said, “but I got fam-ily there. A wife and two kids.”
“Guy’s got a family, he should be more careful. Maybe you shoulda stayed where you were.”
This time, Arnaldo almost lost it.
“I didn’t ask for your fucking opinion, I just want to know if you can help.”
“Hey, no need to get touchy. Travel is our business. We just got to be careful, you understand. You aren’t breaking any Brazilian laws by trying to get into the States, but if we help you, we are.”
“You want my business or not?”
The Argentinian seemed to come to a sudden decision.
“Cost you five thousand dollars American,” he said.
“And what do I get for my five?”
“Here’s how it works: you give me the five in cash, dollars, not reais. We put you up for a couple of days, room and board included, until we get a group of ten.”
“Put me up where?”
“A place we got. We don’t tell anyone where it is, and you don’t contact anyone while you’re there. No telephone, no letters, no nothing. Once we get a group together, we send everybody to Mexico. These days, the Mexicans are asking for visas from Brazilians. The Americans pressured them into that, but we have contacts. A little money changes hands and the visas get issued like that.” The Argentinian snapped his fingers.
“The visa’s extra?”
The Argentinian shook his head. “Included. Everything’s included. When you get to Mexico City, our group leader puts you in touch with one of our associates. The associate brings you and the others across the border. Once he does, you’re on your own. No guarantees.”
“What do you mean, no guarantees?”
“We provide board and lodging along the way, the ticket to Mexico, the visa, and the services of reliable guides, peo-ple who’ve done this kind of thing hundreds of times. Every now and then, one of them gets caught, which could mean you get caught. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens. The Yankees deport you, you come back here, and you try again. No discounts. If you want to try again, we charge you another five thousand dollars.”
“What kind of a deal is that?”
“It’s the deal we offer. It’s the deal everybody offers. You can try it on your own, of course. Some people do. Most of them don’t get very far. Aside from the fact that you probably haven’t got contacts at the Mexican consulate, your chances of getting across the border without help are pretty low. That’s what we charge for. Not the plane fare. Take it or leave it.”
Arnaldo nodded. “I’ll take it.”
“Good. When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Then say your good-byes tonight. Come here tomorrow morning at eleven. Bring your luggage, one carry-on only, and my five thousand in cash. We’ll have you on your way to the land of margaritas and mariachis in a few days. You’ll be in the States within a week. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s closing time.”
Less than a minute later, Arnaldo was back on the street.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Sylvie Charmet blew into the restaurant like a squall off the South Atlantic, bussed Gilda once on each cheek, and slipped into the chair the waiter had hastened to pull out. Gilda waited until she had Sylvie’s full attention before pointedly looking at her watch. Then she lifted her eyes and stared at her friend.
“Once, just once, Sylvie, it would be nice if you’d show up for lunch on time.”
Sylvie made a dismissive gesture. She was big on dismis-sive gestures. “I’ve got a new shrink,” she said.
Sylvie was a cardiovascular surgeon, a lithe brunette in her early thirties and, like Gilda, still unmarried. When it came to her work, Sylvie was meticulous, but the rest of her life was a mess. Only the attentions of a full-time faixineira could keep her small apartment in order. The inside of her car looked like a teenager’s room. She couldn’t seem to find a new boyfriend and was flitting from psychiatrist to psychiatrist, trying to fig-ure out why her fiance of four years, another doctor, had aban-doned her for a medical secretary with wide hips and thick glasses.
“What’s a new shrink got to do with anything?”
“She’s got man trouble, too. I got her to talk about it.”
Gilda rolled her eyes at the breach of professionalism. “The halt leading the blind. Are you helping each other?”
“Too early to tell.” Sylvie settled back in her chair and studied Gilda’s face. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing,” Gilda said, and buried her nose in the menu.
“Oh, come on. You can’t honestly be in a tiff just because I’m a few minutes late.”
“It’s not that.”
“But it’s something. Man trouble?”
Sylvie was also big on projecting. If she had a problem, she was prone to believe that others had the same problem.
“I wish,” Gilda said. “My boss is sixty-five if he’s a day, happily married with grandchildren. The only young bache-lor in the medical examiner’s office is gay, and my patients are all dead.”
Sylvie didn’t bother to grin. She’d heard the crack about dead patients before.
“Prospects?” she said.
“Maybe one,” Gilda admitted.
Sylvie wriggled in her seat. “Tell,” she said.
“He’s a federal cop, and he’s cute.”
“A federal cop?”
“Not just a cop. A delegado. You have to be a lawyer to be a delegado.”
“Yeah. I know. But Gilda, a cop?”
“You think I should hold out for another doctor?”
“Touche. You have a picture?”
“Not yet.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“I’ll get to that later. And Sylvie. .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want you shooting your mouth off about this. It’s in the early stages yet.”
“Your secrets are safe with me, querida. I don’t even know any cops. Yet.”
“Alright then. I’ll trust your discretion. How’s it going with you?”
“In the man department?”
Gilda nodded.
“The usual,” Sylvie said.
“A complete disaster?”
“I work with an anesthesiologist who’s interested, but he’s a creep. I met a guy at a party who wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, and I thought he was a legitimate target, but then his namora-da showed up and dragged him off to her lair. My boss is unmar-ried, but he’s even older than yours, and for all the attention he pays to women, he must have shelved his sexuality. Sometimes I think I should have dropped all the medical-school crap and become a secretary. Secretaries find men and get married.”
“So do doctors.”
“Yeah, but most of them marry nurses. Can you see me with a male nurse?”
“Frankly? No.”
“Me neither.” Sylvie picked up the menu and perused it. “What are you going to have?”
“While I was waiting for you, I had a long talk with the waiter. About half an hour’s worth. I know his life story.”
“Married?”
“Yes. Happily.”
“And your point?”
“He said the snapper in lemon butter is good.”
Actually the conversation with the waiter had taken all of thirty seconds, Gilda had no idea whether he was married or not, and he hadn’t said a word about the snapper in lemon butter. It was just that the snapper was the cheapest thing on the menu. The waiter had nodded in a superior fashion when she’d asked him if he could recommend it. Compared to what Sylvie earned, Gilda’s salary was paltry, and she was still reeling in shock over the prices on the menu.