up.
When she reaches for the bag, Malone digs into another one at his feet and brings out a bottle of Coke.
“There’s one of these for you too,” he says. “Can I turn on the TV?”
They eat watching an old movie about high school kids in the U.S. Luz remembers seeing it on television with her mother, who knew all the songs and sang along in English. Mamá’s favorite was one that went “Don’t you forget about me.” Hearing it now makes Luz think of Isabel. It makes her sad to realize that the little girl probably has no memory of her after all these years.
“Something weird’s going on, isn’t it?” Malone says.
“Weird how?” Luz says.
“You with that money and that gun, always looking over your shoulder.”
“I’m going to L.A. to be with my daughter. What’s the problem?”
“Should I be scared too?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Luz says. “I’m not scared.”
“Okay,” Malone says.
“Just do your job. Drive.”
“All right.”
“And don’t say shit to me. Mind your own business.”
Malone stands and brushes crumbs off his shirt. He drops his sandwich wrapper into the wastebasket and walks to the door.
“Where are you going?” Luz blurts before she can stop herself.
“Wherever I want,” Malone says.
“When will you be back?”
Malone gives her a look like You’ve got to be kidding and slams the door on his way out.
Luz props the chair under the knob again, then tries to finish her sandwich but can’t get any more down. She opens the window and stands for a moment looking down at the park. Couples stroll hand in hand along lighted paths and circle the bandstand. Laughing children chase one another from tree to tree. An ice cream vendor, a sidewalk preacher, a fusillade of accordion bleats from the radio of a passing pickup. It’s all so familiar, yet all so strange, like the last image of an otherwise forgotten dream, an orphaned instant that haunts the dreamer forever.
She goes back to the bed and sits against the headboard with the money on one side of her, the pistol on the other. She glances at the clock: 9:30. Morning is a long way off.
Malone gets a sidewalk table at a restaurant facing the park. He orders two beers at once, downs the first in a gulp, takes his time with the second. It’s cooler here than up in the room, a nice breeze blowing. He wipes his sweaty forehead with a napkin, and the paper comes away black. Dampening another napkin with the condensation beaded on his beer can, he rubs his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
The locals are out in force in the park. The old people take the benches while the teenagers congregate on the edges, where they can keep an eye on who’s driving by, sometimes stepping out into the street for quick conversations. A family—mom, dad, a pack of kids—approaches a clown twisting balloon animals. The kids are shy at first, but warm up when presented with colorful giraffes and poodles. The youngest throws a fit when it’s time to go, and his cries carry all the way to Malone’s table.
A trio of mariachis stroll up, one of them strumming a guitar.
“A song, señor? ”
“No, gracias, ” Malone says. He doesn’t want to pay five bucks to hear “La Bamba” or “Guantanamera” and doesn’t know any other songs to ask for.
The musicians move on. If they’re hoping for tourists, they’re out of luck. The retirees who come over during the day to have lunch and tour the Tecate brewery are long gone, and the rich women staying at the luxury spas scattered across the surrounding hills have been locked in for the night. That leaves trouble like the two shitbirds at the next table: a rangy, hawk-faced dude with a collection of random tattoos and his fatboy buddy, who’s dressed preppy in khaki shorts and a pink polo but looks like he’s about to hit bottom after a long, slow slide.
The border closes at eleven, but these two are in no hurry. They’re making an evening of it. They’ll stock up on
When she reaches for the bag, Malone digs into another one at his feet and brings out a bottle of Coke.
“There’s one of these for you too,” he says. “Can I turn on the TV?”
They eat watching an old movie about high school kids in the U.S. Luz remembers seeing it on television with her mother, who knew all the songs and sang along in English. Mamá’s favorite was one that went “Don’t you forget about me.” Hearing it now makes Luz think of Isabel. It makes her sad to realize that the little girl probably has no memory of her after all these years.
“Something weird’s going on, isn’t it?” Malone says.
“Weird how?” Luz says.
“You with that money and that gun, always looking over your shoulder.”
“I’m going to L.A. to be with my daughter. What’s the problem?”
“Should I be scared too?”
“Don’t be stupid,” Luz says. “I’m not scared.”
“Okay,” Malone says.
“Just do your job. Drive.”
“All right.”
“And don’t say shit to me. Mind your own business.”
Malone stands and brushes crumbs off his shirt. He drops his sandwich wrapper into the wastebasket and walks to the door.
“Where are you going?” Luz blurts before she can stop herself.
“Wherever I want,” Malone says.
“When will you be back?”
Malone gives her a look like You’ve got to be kidding and slams the door on his way out.
Luz props the chair under the knob again, then tries to finish her sandwich but can’t get any more down. She opens the window and stands for a moment looking down at the park. Couples stroll hand in hand along lighted paths and circle the bandstand. Laughing children chase one another from tree to tree. An ice cream vendor, a sidewalk preacher, a fusillade of accordion bleats from the radio of a passing pickup. It’s all so familiar, yet all so strange, like the last image of an otherwise forgotten dream, an orphaned instant that haunts the dreamer forever.
She goes back to the bed and sits against the headboard with the money on one side of her, the pistol on the other. She glances at the clock: 9:30. Morning is a long way off.
Malone gets a sidewalk table at a restaurant facing the park. He orders two beers at once, downs the first in a gulp, takes his time with the second. It’s cooler here than up in the room, a nice breeze blowing. He wipes his sweaty forehead with a napkin, and the paper comes away black. Dampening another napkin with the condensation beaded on his beer can, he rubs his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.
The locals are out in force in the park. The old people take the benches while the teenagers congregate on the edges, where they can keep an eye on who’s driving by, sometimes stepping out into the street for quick conversations. A family—mom, dad, a pack of kids—approaches a clown twisting balloon animals. The kids are shy at first, but warm up when presented with colorful giraffes and poodles. The youngest throws a fit when it’s time to go, and his cries carry all the way to Malone’s table.
A trio of mariachis stroll up, one of them strumming a guitar.
“A song, señor? ”
“No, gracias, ” Malone says. He doesn’t want to pay five bucks to hear “La Bamba” or “Guantanamera” and doesn’t know any other songs to ask for.
The musicians move on. If they’re hoping for tourists, they’re out of luck. The retirees who come over during the day to have lunch and tour the Tecate brewery are long gone, and the rich women staying at the luxury spas scattered across the surrounding hills have been locked in for the night. That leaves trouble like the two shitbirds at the next table: a rangy, hawk-faced dude with a collection of random tattoos and his fatboy buddy, who’s dressed preppy in khaki shorts and a pink polo but looks like he’s about to hit bottom after a long, slow slide.
The border closes at eleven, but these two are in no hurry. They’re making an evening of it. They’ll stock up on
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