“Hey, Jack, how is it hanging tonight?”
“Straight down, man, not a good day. Your Buick is doing fine, not even a scratch.”
“You can’t play tonight, Jack,” Harley said. “Word just came down. Sorry.” He waited for Mahanani to react. The big Hawaiian’s shoulders slumped. Then he slammed his fist into his hand.
“You want the Buick too?”
“No, but there may be a way out.”
Mahanani looked up. “Oh, sure, on my knees in front of some bare-assed prick.”
Harley laughed. “Hey, nothing like that. Come on, have a talk with a guy called Martillo. He can sometimes come up with plans to help when a friend gets in the hole with too much gambling.”
Mahanani snorted. He had heard stories about the fringes of the gambling world. This definitely would be the fringe. He frowned. “The guy is here in the casino?”
“Yeah.”
“He works for you guys?”
“Well, he’s part of the larger picture. He’s a kind of a consultant. Talk with him. If you don’t want to work your way out of trouble, hell, you’ve only wasted a half hour.”
“Okay, but I don’t make any promises.”
Harley led him through one section of the casino into a door marked “Employees Only,” and through a hallway with offices on both sides. Mahanani decided it must take a lot of behind-the-scenes business operations to run a large casino. They stopped at a door with no name on it and Harley knocked, then opened it. He went in first and waved Mahanani in. It was an office that looked more like a den or a living room. A seventy-two-inch television set hovered in one corner. A full-sized sofa took up one wall. On the other side was a large desk that had a clean top, with the exception of one picture in a silver frame. Behind the desk sat Martillo. He was Mexican, with bushy black hair, a full beard, and mustache all kept tightly trimmed. His eyes were so dark brown they were almost black, and now his face looked up and he nearly smiled.
“You must be Mahanani, the Navy SEAL, right?”
“Yes.”
“Sit down and rest yourself. Harley, bring us both a drink.” He looked back at the SEAL and his smile vanished. “Mahanani, you now owe us six thousand, six hundred dollars. We’re holding the pink slip on your Buick.”
“Not sixty-six hundred. Just six thousand.”
“Young man, you didn’t read the agreement you signed. The loan of six thousand is at a rate of ten percent per month. This is the second month, so you owe us another six hundred.”
“That’s illegal.”
“So sue us.” The black eyes blazed at Mahanani and Martillo leaned back in the chair.
“You owe us a lot of money. We could simply collect your car and sell it for maybe eight thousand and give you the balance. But then you would have no wheels. A man isn’t a man in Southern California without his wheels.” He stared at the SEAL for fifteen seconds. Then the touch of a smile came back. “Because you’ve been a good customer, we have a plan for you to pay off your debt. You can start tonight. Before you say anything, let me go through the plan. We loan you a car, not new and not in the best body condition, but it runs well. You drive to Tijuana, to a garage on Presidente Avenue. Friends will meet you there. You go to the restaurant just around the corner and have a meal but no alcohol. When you come back, you will get in the car and drive back to San Ysidro, just across the border where you picked up the car. You leave the car there and we deduct four hundred dollars off your loan. Simple, easy, no harm, no foul.”
Mahanani laughed. “Sure. You use me for a mule and if I get caught, I spend ten years in a federal pen for drug smuggling. I know about those garages. I’ve heard stories and seen articles in the paper. Do I look like an idiot?” He stood.
“I’ll take your keys to the Buick now,” Martillo said, his voice with a snap to it.
“So that’s it. I either bring in drugs for you, or you take my Buick and give me a thousand in change.”
The dark Mexican shrugged. “Amigo, it is your car. Do as you wish. Take your time. No rush at all. You have two minutes to decide.”
“Shit. How much extra weight would be on the car? It couldn’t be tilted or riding too low or it would be pulled into secondary inspection for sure.”
“My friend. We have been doing this for years. We know how, we know how much. There is never more than a hundred pounds in any one car. That’s less than another passenger, and makes no change in the springing of the car or how it rides or how low it hangs on the frame. Believe me, we’d be out of business soon if we started losing half of our mules.”
“How many do you lose?”
“Last year, only three. That was out of more than two hundred trips.”
“How many trips could I make before they became suspicious?” Mahanani asked.
“You would go in a different car each time, with different clothes. Once a week, maximum. For you it would have to be on a weekend. But that’s when traffic is heaviest and the investigations are fewest. Ten trips and you would have four thousand paid off on your debt.”
“Ten trips. Fifteen to pay you guys off. Not counting the interest.”
“You make the runs, we’ll forget the interest,” Martillo said. “Hey, we’re the good guys. We’d like to work with you to get you out of debt. We don’t want to take your car. We have the pink slip just for our own protection. Collateral. Now, what do you think about making your first run tonight? I’ll go to San Yisdro with you to get your first car. After this you just report to Jose down there and he’ll work you from there.”
Mahanani squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never so much as stolen a pencil or shoplifted a magazine. Now he was considering smuggling in dope, probably heroin or cocaine. He could get ten years easy. But if he didn’t, he could be without his car. Yeah, not in jail, but bumming rides from the other guys and trying to explain how he lost his damn Buick. Fuck this whole thing. How did he get trapped into gambling in the first place?
“Hey kid, I ain’t got all night. You want to take a run down to Mexico or not? Your call.”
“Let’s go.”
A little over an hour later a new Cadillac pulled up to a decrepit-looking garage and used-car lot in San Ysidro, a run-down section of San Diego less than two miles from the international border with Mexico. Martillo honked the horn three times, and a garage door opened and a man came out wiping his greasy hands on a rag.
“Yes sir, Martillo. We doing business?”
Martillo chattered with him in Spanish, then pointed at Mahanani and then pointed out the passenger’s-side door. “When you get to the garage in TJ, honk three short ones, like I did. They will get you turned around in about an hour. Don’t watch. Go to the café and have something to eat.”
As Mahanani got out of the car, he saw his Buick pull into the same lot and stop. A man got out of it, tossed the keys to Mahanani, and slid into the Cadillac, which promptly left.
“Hey, kid, come in here and I’ll introduce you to your new wheels,” said the man from the garage. “You drive like Martillo told you to. No detours, no shortcuts. It’s an easy place to find. I’ll give you directions. Stop at the garage, go get a taco, and go to the garage, then drive back here. Beep your horn twice and I’ll open up and you drive into the garage. Got that? You better. I can’t hold your hand no more. Come on.”
The two miles to the border went fine in the old Chevy. Then when the Mexican border man waved him through into Mexico without a word or a glance, Mahanani felt better. The route was easy, down the main street that led off the freeway to Presidente, then down it three blocks to the garage, which he could see. There were no lights on. It was nearly ten o’clock. He beeped the horn three times, and a door opened up and he drove inside.