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“Why?”
“I have a lot of interaction with ‘em, you know, with NAFTA and all.”
“Right. What do you import?”
“Oh, its import and export. Whatever’s needed.”
“Uh-huh. And what’ll you get out of helping me?”
“Just the satisfaction of doing a good deed.”
Hunter almost got up and left on that one. “Look, don’t say anything else. Show me you can do something, maybe we’ll continue.”
“Fair enough. Come on.”
***
Bobby drove a tan Toyota Land Cruiser and hummed to himself as Hunter sat in the passenger’s seat. They meandered down dust-choked caliche roads that progressively got worse. The houses deteriorated as well.
During the last five minutes, Hunter had noticed that half the houses were made out of scraps of lumber, tin and cardboard. Chickens scurried in front of the Toyota, dogs chased and barked, and children played in vacant lots as barren as the moon.
Bobby turned up a side road that was better than the main one. It led to a sprawling adobe house made of raw earthen bricks with no stucco. Evaporative coolers hung in every window, and a thin electrical line ran across the ground and up a power pole a hundred yards distant. Two Rottweilers sat chained near the front door.
Bobby honked the horn, said, “Stay here,” and went to the dogs, which wagged their stump-tails as he approached. The door opened and Bobby went inside. Hunter wasn’t able to see who opened the door, but she saw a tattooed arm holding a rifle, muzzle down.
Fifteen minutes later Bobby emerged carrying a small brown paper bag and two Dos Equis. He got in the Toyota, still grinning. He popped the tops of the green beer bottles and handed one to Hunter, then opened the sack and handed her a fat beef burrito. It smelled heavenly. Bobby said between mouthfuls as they drove away, “Just a little courtesy with these people, that’s all it takes.”
“What’d they say?” As hungry as she was, Hunter wasn’t eating.
Bobby wolfed down the last of his burrito, swallowed and looked at the one in her hand, “You gonna eat yours?”
“Nope.” She was getting mad and he could see it.
He grinned. “Relax, Kincaid. The three women from Juan Diego’s group, the little girl and the two women that you returned to Mexico? They stayed together. My friend said he heard they went downriver to Santa Elena to find another smuggler to cross them. They probably went by bus, would be my guess.”
“Okay. Would you take me back to town and I’ll get my truck?”
He took the second burrito from her hand and took a bite, talking around his food. “We can get there in thirty minutes from here. You go back to town and it’ll be two hours before you can make it.”
She studied him, “What’s your angle in this. No bullshit this time.”
“Two things. One is that I like your style. And Lobo and me, we didn’t get along, so I figure I owe you in a roundabout way.”
“The second?”
“You know that girl’s Tarahumara, right?” Hunter nodded, “My mother was, too. I’d like to make sure she’s all right.”
“So you’re an old softie, uh?”
“You bet. Me and Robin Hood.”
***
They drove into the village of Santa Elena and circled by the charcoal ruins that had been drug lord Pablo Acosta’s house until he short-changed too many people on their payoffs.
The Mexican federales flew into Santa Elena on U.S. Customs helicopters and blasted Pablo and his gang to smithereens, then torched his house as a reminder to others.
Hunter was silent as she remembered her last time here with John Quick, and the disaster at the river crossing. She blew out a breath and cleared her mind to focus on what they were doing now.
