was the guide?
“Normal. He was a regular age.”
What did he look like?
“He had that stupid red punk-rock haircut hanging down in front.”
Jesús had once come from the South, too. He first came north from Guadalajara, looking for work. No one knows if he imagined crossing illegally or not, but whether he crossed over or stayed in the Mexican border region, he would earn more money there than he would at home. He had wanted to buy his mother a house. He had kicked around for a while, never made it into the United States if that was his plan, and somehow ended up in Nogales, Sonora. It’s a lively little town just across the line from the somnambulant burg of Nogales, Arizona. Straight down I-19 from Tucson.
Jesús had worked in a brickyard, the San Antonio tileworks in sunburned Colonia Virreyes. He had cursed his fate, looking for a way out. This was no way to live, and it certainly wasn’t going to get him a Cadillac or his mama a house. For whatever reason, he hadn’t wanted to get into the drug smuggling world. And he had shied away from the teeming world of possibility that was Tijuana. Coming to Nogales in search of success had not been a sign of tactical genius.
In the winter of 2000, he met Rodrigo Maradona, who worked the mud beside him. They hung out socially, became friends. Maradona was a real hustler, moonlighting after his long days in the tileworks at an altogether more interesting job.
In later testimony, as his story shifted, Rooster Boy said Chespiro himself appeared like the devil in the sunny brickyard. Chespiro appeared and whispered temptations in his ear. It’s one of the small mysteries of the story. A little more of that border fogbank.
Maradona was eighteen. Thin. He had a badass tattoo of Christ on his chest. Another “chico banda,” rockin’ dude. No doubt Jesús let Maradona know that he was aching to make some real money. Well, well, well! It just so happened that Maradona was a part-time Coyote! And he was making
great
money. He was earning a hundred dollars U.S. for each pollo he took across the line.
A hundred dollars! Shit, brother, Jesús wasn’t making a hundred dollars a week!
A hundred dollars a week!
No seas pendejo, Chuy!
Maradona was making a thousand dollars a week!
The beer sloshed, the smoke rose.
Jesús would sure like to get into some pinche money like that.
Maradona told him he could be living large, any time.
It was sounding good. Maradona told him stories—the thrill of outfoxing the goddamned Migra, the excitement of finding yourself alone in the desert with some fine foxy lady, the stuff you could buy. The Coyotes and polleros didn’t call each other Coyotes. That was one of the first things Jesús had to do if he didn’t want to sound like the Guadalajara hick that he was. He had to get with it. He had to
agarra la onda, buey
. He was ready to get “la onda.” Okay, Maradona told him—polleros called each other “gangsters.”
Not gang-bangers, who were “pandilleros”; not thieves, who were “rateros”; and not bandits, who were “bajaderos.” Honest to God Tony Montana Scarface
gangsters
. Cars, money, molls, gold rings. And they indulged their vices to the hilt. They liked their dope (
mota
), and they liked getting drunk (
andando pedo
) and they loved their dog fights and their cockfights. It was heady. One thing was for sure. No full-time gangster ever had adobe caked under his nails.
Maradona wove the web.
There was only one problem. Nogales was dying. The Migra had the desert sector near town shut down tight. They had been adapting the El Paso formula: big new fences, some kind of human radar, night vision, and more cops. The bastards parked their trucks in a line, each truck in sight of the next, and they just sat there. They watched for hours, drinking sodas, clicking their radios. Everybody in Nogales said they handcuffed
morras
(girls) in the trucks and felt their
chi-chis
. Pinche Migra!
So right now, the action was
“Normal. He was a regular age.”
What did he look like?
“He had that stupid red punk-rock haircut hanging down in front.”
Jesús had once come from the South, too. He first came north from Guadalajara, looking for work. No one knows if he imagined crossing illegally or not, but whether he crossed over or stayed in the Mexican border region, he would earn more money there than he would at home. He had wanted to buy his mother a house. He had kicked around for a while, never made it into the United States if that was his plan, and somehow ended up in Nogales, Sonora. It’s a lively little town just across the line from the somnambulant burg of Nogales, Arizona. Straight down I-19 from Tucson.
Jesús had worked in a brickyard, the San Antonio tileworks in sunburned Colonia Virreyes. He had cursed his fate, looking for a way out. This was no way to live, and it certainly wasn’t going to get him a Cadillac or his mama a house. For whatever reason, he hadn’t wanted to get into the drug smuggling world. And he had shied away from the teeming world of possibility that was Tijuana. Coming to Nogales in search of success had not been a sign of tactical genius.
In the winter of 2000, he met Rodrigo Maradona, who worked the mud beside him. They hung out socially, became friends. Maradona was a real hustler, moonlighting after his long days in the tileworks at an altogether more interesting job.
In later testimony, as his story shifted, Rooster Boy said Chespiro himself appeared like the devil in the sunny brickyard. Chespiro appeared and whispered temptations in his ear. It’s one of the small mysteries of the story. A little more of that border fogbank.
Maradona was eighteen. Thin. He had a badass tattoo of Christ on his chest. Another “chico banda,” rockin’ dude. No doubt Jesús let Maradona know that he was aching to make some real money. Well, well, well! It just so happened that Maradona was a part-time Coyote! And he was making
great
money. He was earning a hundred dollars U.S. for each pollo he took across the line.
A hundred dollars! Shit, brother, Jesús wasn’t making a hundred dollars a week!
A hundred dollars a week!
No seas pendejo, Chuy!
Maradona was making a thousand dollars a week!
The beer sloshed, the smoke rose.
Jesús would sure like to get into some pinche money like that.
Maradona told him he could be living large, any time.
It was sounding good. Maradona told him stories—the thrill of outfoxing the goddamned Migra, the excitement of finding yourself alone in the desert with some fine foxy lady, the stuff you could buy. The Coyotes and polleros didn’t call each other Coyotes. That was one of the first things Jesús had to do if he didn’t want to sound like the Guadalajara hick that he was. He had to get with it. He had to
agarra la onda, buey
. He was ready to get “la onda.” Okay, Maradona told him—polleros called each other “gangsters.”
Not gang-bangers, who were “pandilleros”; not thieves, who were “rateros”; and not bandits, who were “bajaderos.” Honest to God Tony Montana Scarface
gangsters
. Cars, money, molls, gold rings. And they indulged their vices to the hilt. They liked their dope (
mota
), and they liked getting drunk (
andando pedo
) and they loved their dog fights and their cockfights. It was heady. One thing was for sure. No full-time gangster ever had adobe caked under his nails.
Maradona wove the web.
There was only one problem. Nogales was dying. The Migra had the desert sector near town shut down tight. They had been adapting the El Paso formula: big new fences, some kind of human radar, night vision, and more cops. The bastards parked their trucks in a line, each truck in sight of the next, and they just sat there. They watched for hours, drinking sodas, clicking their radios. Everybody in Nogales said they handcuffed
morras
(girls) in the trucks and felt their
chi-chis
. Pinche Migra!
So right now, the action was
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