had sent an emissary; perhaps they were warming up to me.
“I believe,” I said, mustering some balls, “yes. I will marry Amapola. Someday. You know.”
He shrugged, sadly. I thought that was a little odd, frankly. He held up a finger and busted out a cell phone, hit the speed button, and muttered in Spanish. Snapped it shut. Sipped his coffee.
“We have big family reunion tomorrow. You come. Okay? I’ll fix up all with Amapola’s papá. You see. Yes?”
I smiled at him, not believing this turn of events.
“Big Mexican rancho. Horses. Good food. Mariachis.” He laughed. “And love! Two kids in love!”
We slapped hands. We smiled and chuckled. I had some coffee.
“I pick you up here at seven in the morning,” he said. “Don’t be late.”
* * *
The morning desert was purple and orange. The air was almost cool. Arnie had a Styrofoam cooler loaded with Dr. Peppers and Cokes. He drove a bitchin’ S-Class Benz. It smelled like leather and aftershave. He kept the satellite tuned to BBC Radio 1. “You like the crazy maricón music, right?” he asked.
“…ah…right.”
It was more like flying than driving, and when he sped past Arivaca, I wasn’t all that concerned. I figured we were going to Nogales, Arizona. But we slid through that little dry town like a shark and crossed into Mex without hardly slowing down. At the border, he just raised a finger off the steering wheel and motored along, saying, “You going to like this.”
And then we were through Nogales, Mexico, too. Black and tan desert. Saguaros and freaky burned-looking cactuses. I’m not an ecologist—I don’t know what that stuff was. It was spiky.
We took a long dirt side road. I was craning around, looking at the bad black mountains around us.
We came out in a big valley. There was an airfield of some sort there. Mexican army stuff—trucks, Humvees. Three of four hangars or warehouses. Some shiny Cadillacs and SUVs scattered around.
“You going to like this,” Arnie said. “It’s a surprise.”
There was Big Poppa Popo, the old man himself. He was standing with his hands on his hips. With a tall American. Those dark gray lenses turned toward us. We parked. We got out.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Shut up,” said Arnie.
“Where’s the rancho?” I asked.
The American burst out laughing.
“Jesus, kid!” he shouted. He turned to the old man. “He really is a dumb shit.”
The American walked away without introducing himself and got in a white SUV. He slammed the door and drove into the desert, back the way we had come. We stood there watching him go. I’m not going to lie—I was getting scared.
“You gonna marry Amapola?” the old man asked me.
“One day. Look, I don’t know what you guys are doing here, but—”
He turned from me and gestured toward a helicopter sitting on the field.
“Look at that,” he said. “Huey. Old stuff, from your Vietnam. Now the Mexican air force use it to fight las drogas.” He turned to me. “You use las drogas?”
“No! Never.”
They laughed.
“Sure, sure,” the old man said.
“Ask Amapola!” I cried. “She’ll tell you!”
“She already tell me everything,” he said.
Arnie put his arm around my shoulders.
“Come,” he said, and started walking toward the helicopter. I resisted for a moment, but the various Mexican soldiers standing around were suddenly really focused and not slouching and were walking along all around us.
“What is this?” I said.
“You know what I do?” the old man asked.
“Business?” I said. My mind was blanking out, I was so scared.
“Business.” He nodded. “Good answer.”
We came under the blades of the big helicopter. I’d never been near one in my life. It scared the crap out of me. The Mexican pilots looked out their side windows at me. The old man patted the side of the machine.
“President Bush!” he said. “DEA!”
I looked at Arnie. He smiled, nodded at me. “Fight the drogas,” he
“I believe,” I said, mustering some balls, “yes. I will marry Amapola. Someday. You know.”
He shrugged, sadly. I thought that was a little odd, frankly. He held up a finger and busted out a cell phone, hit the speed button, and muttered in Spanish. Snapped it shut. Sipped his coffee.
“We have big family reunion tomorrow. You come. Okay? I’ll fix up all with Amapola’s papá. You see. Yes?”
I smiled at him, not believing this turn of events.
“Big Mexican rancho. Horses. Good food. Mariachis.” He laughed. “And love! Two kids in love!”
We slapped hands. We smiled and chuckled. I had some coffee.
“I pick you up here at seven in the morning,” he said. “Don’t be late.”
* * *
The morning desert was purple and orange. The air was almost cool. Arnie had a Styrofoam cooler loaded with Dr. Peppers and Cokes. He drove a bitchin’ S-Class Benz. It smelled like leather and aftershave. He kept the satellite tuned to BBC Radio 1. “You like the crazy maricón music, right?” he asked.
“…ah…right.”
It was more like flying than driving, and when he sped past Arivaca, I wasn’t all that concerned. I figured we were going to Nogales, Arizona. But we slid through that little dry town like a shark and crossed into Mex without hardly slowing down. At the border, he just raised a finger off the steering wheel and motored along, saying, “You going to like this.”
And then we were through Nogales, Mexico, too. Black and tan desert. Saguaros and freaky burned-looking cactuses. I’m not an ecologist—I don’t know what that stuff was. It was spiky.
We took a long dirt side road. I was craning around, looking at the bad black mountains around us.
We came out in a big valley. There was an airfield of some sort there. Mexican army stuff—trucks, Humvees. Three of four hangars or warehouses. Some shiny Cadillacs and SUVs scattered around.
“You going to like this,” Arnie said. “It’s a surprise.”
There was Big Poppa Popo, the old man himself. He was standing with his hands on his hips. With a tall American. Those dark gray lenses turned toward us. We parked. We got out.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Shut up,” said Arnie.
“Where’s the rancho?” I asked.
The American burst out laughing.
“Jesus, kid!” he shouted. He turned to the old man. “He really is a dumb shit.”
The American walked away without introducing himself and got in a white SUV. He slammed the door and drove into the desert, back the way we had come. We stood there watching him go. I’m not going to lie—I was getting scared.
“You gonna marry Amapola?” the old man asked me.
“One day. Look, I don’t know what you guys are doing here, but—”
He turned from me and gestured toward a helicopter sitting on the field.
“Look at that,” he said. “Huey. Old stuff, from your Vietnam. Now the Mexican air force use it to fight las drogas.” He turned to me. “You use las drogas?”
“No! Never.”
They laughed.
“Sure, sure,” the old man said.
“Ask Amapola!” I cried. “She’ll tell you!”
“She already tell me everything,” he said.
Arnie put his arm around my shoulders.
“Come,” he said, and started walking toward the helicopter. I resisted for a moment, but the various Mexican soldiers standing around were suddenly really focused and not slouching and were walking along all around us.
“What is this?” I said.
“You know what I do?” the old man asked.
“Business?” I said. My mind was blanking out, I was so scared.
“Business.” He nodded. “Good answer.”
We came under the blades of the big helicopter. I’d never been near one in my life. It scared the crap out of me. The Mexican pilots looked out their side windows at me. The old man patted the side of the machine.
“President Bush!” he said. “DEA!”
I looked at Arnie. He smiled, nodded at me. “Fight the drogas,” he
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