Dreams, if they have any logic, it is lost on me. I’m standing in the living room of a wealthy home. Kittens are running around the floor, many kittens, maybe hundreds, it’s hard to tell, they keep running back and forth. Something is wrong with them, some birth defect. They will never grow up to be happy, life will only get worse and worse for them. It is my job to kill these kittens, it is the only humane thing to do. In my hand is a hatchet. I bring it down, severing the first little creature’s head. She is a small tabby, she could have fit in my hand with room to spare and now she is lifeless. I know I should feel bad, but I’m doing what must be done. Sometimes life isn’t a pretty field of flowers, sometimes we have to do ugly acts to hold back worse ugliness. I take three more small heads quickly and easily, none struggle or cry out. They seem resigned to their fate. The blade of the hatchet comes down on an orange little fluff ball’s neck, but it doesn’t sever the head. The kitten screeches in pain. I swing down again, bones crunch but the crippled kitten isn’t dead. She tries to crawl away from me. I keep chopping. My stomach turns sour. The kitten shrieks in an almost human voice.
A happy six year old brown-skinned boy stared down at me. The dream faded away, leaving me unsettled. I was in bed in Adolpho’s house. I vaguely remembered him driving me, he had washed me in a large tub, gently as any mother had ever washed their child. A sticky mud paste covered my shoulder where the dog had bit me. My mouth tasted like a gym sock. When the boy noticed I was awake, he smiled and started asking me a string of questions in Spanish.
“No habla Espanol,” I told him.
“No? I know Spanish, English and some French. Don’t you go to school?”
“I went, but I wasn’t much good at it.”
“I’m first in my class.”
“Smart kid.”
“I know. Popi says you have a good heart, but bad judgment.”
“Your popi said that?”
“Si, was he right?”
“Yes, he was right.”
“Jaquene!” A short sturdy woman leaned in the door, she spoke in harsh Spanish. The boy rolled his eyes at me and then walked out. The woman leaned down, inspecting my shoulder. She prodded the tender flesh and sniffed it.
“Will I live?” I asked her.
“No, but this wound will not be your death.” Her accent was thick, her voice was soft with an edge of steel resting just below the surface.
“You are Adolpho’s woman?”
“His wife. I am not the innocent mountain girl he thinks I am. I know bad men when I see them. You repay kindness with death. I have fixed you as good as any hospital, now I want you gone from my house.”
Adolpho snapped something in Spanish. She looked at her husband, shaking her head sadly, then left us alone.
“She’s right, you know,” I told him.
“No, Lorda sees the world in black and white, si? You are a malo hombre with bueno corazon, si? Gray is the color of our lives.”
“If you say so.” I didn’t want to argue the point, but I was pretty sure I was a bad man with a bad heart. The list of evidence was growing longer every day.
Over a bowl of spicy stew, Adolpho told me that both the police and Santiago, a local crime boss, were looking for me. Apparently my good amigo the tip boy had sold me out. I told Adolpho I had to get to Tecate.
“La policia are watching the highway. Better you go south, get lost in Baja.”
“I can’t, people are counting on me, people I don’t want to let down.”
“The nina?”
“Yes.”
“Through the mountains, muy peligroso, but possible.”
“Can you draw me a map?”
“Oh hermano, it is dirt roads, trails, no map. I will take you.”
“I don’t want to put you in danger.”
“Then don’t tell Lorda.” His mind was made up, nothing I could say would change it.
Santiago sat drinking an espresso while Xlmen gave his report. The roads were sealed, the Mercedes found in town, but there had been no sign of the big gringo or the tarot card killer. “The puta is dead, but doesn’t know it yet. They are here somewhere, I will find them.”
“Certainly,” Santiago said, “but how many of our people will die before that day comes? The Russians paid us a lot for protection, now they are dead. This is not good. Someone is hiding these people. Find out who and you will find them.” Ensenada was in many ways a small town, Santiago knew if he pressed hard enough, someone would talk. And who was better at pressing than Xlmen?
On the outskirts of Ensenada, we stopped at a small, one pit garage. Adolpho’s cousin climbed out from under a rusted Chevy truck. His coveralls were streaked with black grease stains, and when he shook my hand it felt rough and calloused from years behind a wrench.
“You not so big,” he said looking me over.
“Excuse me?”
“I heard the gringo they were looking for was a giant.”
“Must be someone else, I’m here on vacation.”
“Ok, sure, whatever you say.” His grin told me he wasn’t buying it. Adolpho traded his Toyota to his cousin for an older 4x4 pickup. When asked where we were going, he said vaguely, “The hills.”
Heading into the eastern mountains, the pot-holed pavement became rutted dirt. Buoyant banda music floated out of the truck’s radio, Adolpho sang along as if he hadn’t a care in the world. I rolled a poncho he had given me and rested my head against the window and tried to sleep. My head wouldn’t shut up. I kept seeing ugly images of dead Russians and a naked young girl. The fear in her eyes, the pain as I entered her. I needed a drink, I needed oblivion.
“What will you do with the ninas once you get to the States?” Adolpho asked.
“Take them to LA, figure it out from there.”
“Better not to worry about the end, at the beginning of the journey?”
“Something like that.” In a life where tomorrow wasn’t even close to guaranteed, it seemed wise not to get too far ahead of myself. I didn’t have any idea how we were going to get them across, let alone what we would do with them then. But if I wound up in a Mexican jail behind a murder rap, any time spent planning for the girls would be wasted.
The sun was setting when we dropped down out of the mountains and found our way onto pavement again. One of the more striking aspects of Tecate was its lack of gringos. It was a border town without the corruption and sin that Americans bring or come for. Parking by the large open plaza, Adolpho started to get out. I told him he had to go home, my future was fucked, his didn’t have to be. I thanked him for all he had done and took his address and promised to write. As I stepped away, he clasped my hand, pressing a small wad of pesos on me.
“Take it, no mucho, but maybe it helps.” Before I could refuse, he drove away. Why had he risked so much for a stranger? Did he have a daughter or sister who had been taken? Maybe he was one of those good men who do right, simply because it’s right. In the joint we called guys like him chumps, soft touches without the brains it took to see the angles.
Before going to look for the others, I went to a barbershop. A jolly Spanish-speaking gent gave me a shave and a haircut for slightly more than two bits. Twelve bucks more bought me a white straw cowboy hat and a pair of Ray-Ban knock offs. Adolpho’s poncho completed the transformation. I didn’t look like a Mexican, but I also didn’t look like an LA hood. If my description was on the wire, I hoped this would be enough to keep me from being nabbed.
A band was playing bouncy Spanish music in the center of the plaza. From benches, husbands and wives watched their kids running on the grass. Vendors lined up to sell leather goods, trinkets and food. Teenagers clustered under spreading tree branches to smoke and laugh. The whole scene had the feeling of Main Street USA in the fifties, as if the American small town dream hadn’t been lost, it just moved south.