Wyoming turned out to be ninety minutes north of Fairview. There were no direct highways but good double-lane roads with little traffic. An easy drive. Signs everywhere warning us about the dangers of elk, deer, and bears but I didn’t see any animals at all. A few big rigs, a lonely pickup or two.
The Range Rover was good, though it caught the wind on some of the exposed sections. I let the sheer take me over a little more than I should so we could talk about the car, but Esteban didn’t even notice.
“The car drives pretty well,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“A little top-heavy.”
“Yeah?”
“See you got a dent on the front.”
“What?”
“You had an accident?”
“Oh, that, that was nothing.”
“What happened?”
“Just fucking drive, María, it’s not far now.”
A little over the state line Esteban had me pull off the road onto a Park Service trail that led to a frozen lake surrounded by snow-covered forest.
We finally stopped in a small, empty parking lot.
“Ok, where are we?” I asked.
Esteban grinned. “You like it? This place is perfect. The Park Service closes it from Thanksgiving through April. No one comes here. They don’t allow ice fishing because although the lake freezes, the ice isn’t quite thick enough for the health-and-safety people. So it’s perfect.”
“We’re here to fish?” I asked.
“No. Don’t you listen? It’s not safe enough. You can walk on the ice but it’s not safe enough for the little huts those ice fishermen build. No, rest assured no one will be out here the whole winter.”
“I don’t understand. So what are we doing here?”
“It’s a meet.”
The light dawned. “Oh, I see. Who are we meeting?”
“The men from Saskatchewan.”
I wanted to ask more but Esteban put a finger against his thick chapped lips. The conversation had terminated.
After a few minutes it got cold and he told me to turn the engine back on.
He blasted the heat and scanned the radio for a Spanish station but the mountains were blocking the ones from Denver and in Wyoming the music choices were between soulless white people singing songs about Jesus and soulless white people singing about their marital problems.
As 7:00 a.m. approached, Esteban killed the radio and turned off the car. He removed the key and put it in his pocket.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
Esteban reached into the glove compartment and pulled on a ski mask.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked.
He opened the passenger door, went to the back of the Range Rover, and took out a sports bag and his hunting rifle. He came back around to the driver’s side of the car, gave me the bag.
“Listen to me, María, it’s very simple. You give them the bag, they’ll give you a bag. There’s no need to sample the merchandise and they have no need to count the money. We all trust each other. Just bag for bag. It’s that simple.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“I’ll be in the forest, covering you with my rifle,” he said. “Don’t worry, I can still shoot with my arm like this, and despite my stupidity last night, believe me, I’m pretty good.”
“Wait a fucking minute. I’m meeting your d-”
Esteban lowered the rifle and pointed it at my chest. “I suggest you take it easy. They’ll be along presently. I’ll be covering you from the trees.”
He backed away into the forest.
Thoughts racing. What would he do if I got out and ran for it? Shoot me? No. But why not? For all his fine talk about Greater Mexico, what was I to him? Another wetback expendable, a chiquita at that.
As he disappeared under the branches of a big pine I shouted after him: “No wonder everyone’s fucking off to L.A. if this is how you treat your workers!”
He didn’t reply and in another two seconds I couldn’t see him anymore.
I sat there.
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty.
The men came.
Not men at all-kids. Blond-haired Canadians in big coats. Bags under their eyes made them look as if they’d hit their early twenties but the driver’s licenses probably told a different story.
Their blue Dodge Ram stopped next to the Range Rover.
I got out. They got out. They’d driven all night and had the smell of exhaustion and fear people got in the MININT building on Plaza de la Revolución.
I gave them the money and they gave me a large clear bag filled with white powder and an even bigger bag of marijuana.
“What’s the white stuff?” I asked.
“Ice Nine from Japan, via Hawaii,” one of them said.
They were excited. They were surprised to be dealing with a woman and they wanted to talk about the drive down, the money, everything. But I had an uncomfortable feeling pricking at the back of my neck. I was concerned for them. In his angry, humiliated mood, I wouldn’t put it past Esteban to assassinate both of them and keep the cash and the drugs. Kill all three of us, take that phony bandage off his hand, drive back, laughing all the way.
“… and Dale’s shitting it, like totally shitting it, man, and I’m saying it’s not the Mounties, it’s a fucking fire marshal-” one of them was saying until I cut him off.
“Beat it.”
“What?”
“If you know what’s good for you. My boss is in the trees with a rifle. I don’t trust him. Get out of here. Scram.”
They scrammed.
Five minutes later Esteban returned. He slid back the bolt on his rifle and took the round out of the chamber. Live ammo. He’d been ready to shoot.
“You did well, María.”
“Thanks.”
Silence on the drive back. At the outskirts of Fairview, Esteban took the wheel and drove without any seeming discomfort. He dropped me at the bottom of the hill on Malibu Mountain.
“What now?” I asked him.
“What do you think? Your regular route.”
“No bonus, no day off for my help, no tip?”
“I’ve got a tip for you-shut up and do your job.”
“I don’t have a uniform.”
“Forget that. Just go-and you better step on it, you’re an hour late. Oh, and tie the garbage bags properly at the top of the trash can, we’ve had complaints,” he said, passing me a key ring with the alarm codes and house numbers taped to individual keys.
“Tie the garbage bags,” I muttered.
“What did you say?”
“I said you really are a bastard, Esteban. Worse than that sheriff. You’re screwing your own people,” I said.
He made a fist. “You watch your mouth, María. You want to be back in Mexico? That’s an easy one. That’s one phone call. You’ve been given a great opportunity here, don’t blow it.”
I nodded, lowered my eyes.
“Look at me,” he said.
Our eyes met. He yawned and his voice assumed a more conciliatory tone. “Look, you did well this morning. There’s something about you. You got an air of responsibility. I like it. Tell you what, when I go to Denver with Rodrigo to unload the ice, you can borrow the car. Drive to work, drive to Safeway, do a couple of errands for me.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stood there.
“What are you waiting for? Quit your gaping and get up there, we don’t want any more complaints.”
“Ok.”
He wound the window and started to drive off but the Range Rover suddenly squealed to a halt.
“No. María, wait a minute. Wait there,” Esteban said.
I stood in the ditch while Esteban fiddled with something in the front seat. A stretch limo drove past, heading up the hill toward the Cruise estate. I tried to look inside but the glass was frosted black like Jefe’s car.
“Come here, María,” Esteban said.
“I’m here.”
He handed me three small Ziploc bags filled with the Ice 9 from Japan.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked.
Esteban rubbed his hand over his beard. “This is nothing. This couldn’t be more straightforward. Number 22, number 24, number 30 on the Old Boulder Road. That’s Rick Hanson, Yuri Amatov, and Paul Youkilis. Got it?”