L.A.
Busted once too often, Hector faced sentencing as an adult offender when his mother reached out from the grave and saved him; on his twenty-first birthday he received a twenty-five thousand dollar insurance benefit legacy. A few days later Isabel, resigned to the fact that Hector was not collegiate material, gave him another ten thousand dollars she had squirreled away over the years. Instead of fattening the bank account of some barrio lawyer, Hector took his money and ran. South.
Hector’s Mexican family in the Baja cared little about his past, and welcomed him to share in their meager assets. When he bought a panga fleet and put the family to work squid fishing, it seemed as though a blessing had befallen them. Saint Hector.
Then, little by little, Martine and his brothers and cousins found themselves drawn into the drug trade. At first they bought gasoline in small amounts, hid the containers along the coastline and, when Hector gave the word, passed it off to drug runners. They still fished for a living and used the gas money profits to put new retreads on their 1975 Ford truck.
A short time later, Hector, with the promises of much more money, sent his cousins out to pluck drugs from the sea, and pass them off to a mother ship.
Martine’s mom knew nothing of her sons' switch from fishing to dope, but when Martine’s second cousin, Pedro Gomez, was injured in a mysterious explosion on one of Hector’s pangas, she became suspicious, and pestered Martine to end his relationship with Hector. It wasn’t that easy.
“Is this really going to be over soon?” Martine asked his cousin shyly. He didn’t like being caught between the lure of money and his mother’s wishes, but Hector assured him he would soon be able to both placate his mother and have money, as well.
“It is for us, Martinito. In a little over a week we will never have to touch another squid unless it’s cooked in tomato sauce and served by a lovely señorita . And,” he added slyly, “your mama will have a whole closet full of new dresses for church. Hell, you can buy her her own church.”
Martine beamed, thinking how proud his mother will be. Then his smile faded as he remembered her warning not to trust Hector. “Could something go wrong?”
“Nada, little cousin. We have friends on high.” Pulling a mirror, razor blade and a vial of white powder from his pocket, Hector snorted the entire vial.
In La Paz, the American stared at his dead phone for a minute after speaking with that idiot, Hector. He threw down the phone and turned up the ham radio’s volume. As he listened for further information on the Hot Idea debacle, he cursed Hector for focusing so much attention on the central Sea of Cortez. Why in the hell did I agree to bring in that fuckin’ coked up, trigger-happy barrio rat? He’s close to screwing up the biggest deal of my life.
Chapter 18
When you can make your journey by land, do not make it by sea.—Apostolius
Hetta squirmed in the narrow plastic seat, retrieved her backpack from filthy wooden floorboards, dug out a tee shirt, and stuffed it under her sweating thighs while Jenks wrestled with a cracked window and pried it open three inches. Hetta leaned across Jenks, sucking in hot air in an effort to stave off certain brain damage from fumes roiling up through the dilapidated bus’s floor. “Do you know what I hate about public transportation?” she groused.
“No, Hetta, what do you hate about public transportation?” he asked with a wry smile.
“It’s so damned public.”
“Things could be worse,” Jenks said, nodding towards the front where ten people stood. “At least we have seats. Gimme some water, will you?”
Hetta dug into the pack again, extracted a water bottle and handed it to Jenks, aware she was under surveillance. Dark brown eyes below a fringe of black bangs peeped over the seatback, following her every move.
Guadeloupe, crammed into a double seat with three
Busted once too often, Hector faced sentencing as an adult offender when his mother reached out from the grave and saved him; on his twenty-first birthday he received a twenty-five thousand dollar insurance benefit legacy. A few days later Isabel, resigned to the fact that Hector was not collegiate material, gave him another ten thousand dollars she had squirreled away over the years. Instead of fattening the bank account of some barrio lawyer, Hector took his money and ran. South.
Hector’s Mexican family in the Baja cared little about his past, and welcomed him to share in their meager assets. When he bought a panga fleet and put the family to work squid fishing, it seemed as though a blessing had befallen them. Saint Hector.
Then, little by little, Martine and his brothers and cousins found themselves drawn into the drug trade. At first they bought gasoline in small amounts, hid the containers along the coastline and, when Hector gave the word, passed it off to drug runners. They still fished for a living and used the gas money profits to put new retreads on their 1975 Ford truck.
A short time later, Hector, with the promises of much more money, sent his cousins out to pluck drugs from the sea, and pass them off to a mother ship.
Martine’s mom knew nothing of her sons' switch from fishing to dope, but when Martine’s second cousin, Pedro Gomez, was injured in a mysterious explosion on one of Hector’s pangas, she became suspicious, and pestered Martine to end his relationship with Hector. It wasn’t that easy.
“Is this really going to be over soon?” Martine asked his cousin shyly. He didn’t like being caught between the lure of money and his mother’s wishes, but Hector assured him he would soon be able to both placate his mother and have money, as well.
“It is for us, Martinito. In a little over a week we will never have to touch another squid unless it’s cooked in tomato sauce and served by a lovely señorita . And,” he added slyly, “your mama will have a whole closet full of new dresses for church. Hell, you can buy her her own church.”
Martine beamed, thinking how proud his mother will be. Then his smile faded as he remembered her warning not to trust Hector. “Could something go wrong?”
“Nada, little cousin. We have friends on high.” Pulling a mirror, razor blade and a vial of white powder from his pocket, Hector snorted the entire vial.
In La Paz, the American stared at his dead phone for a minute after speaking with that idiot, Hector. He threw down the phone and turned up the ham radio’s volume. As he listened for further information on the Hot Idea debacle, he cursed Hector for focusing so much attention on the central Sea of Cortez. Why in the hell did I agree to bring in that fuckin’ coked up, trigger-happy barrio rat? He’s close to screwing up the biggest deal of my life.
Chapter 18
When you can make your journey by land, do not make it by sea.—Apostolius
Hetta squirmed in the narrow plastic seat, retrieved her backpack from filthy wooden floorboards, dug out a tee shirt, and stuffed it under her sweating thighs while Jenks wrestled with a cracked window and pried it open three inches. Hetta leaned across Jenks, sucking in hot air in an effort to stave off certain brain damage from fumes roiling up through the dilapidated bus’s floor. “Do you know what I hate about public transportation?” she groused.
“No, Hetta, what do you hate about public transportation?” he asked with a wry smile.
“It’s so damned public.”
“Things could be worse,” Jenks said, nodding towards the front where ten people stood. “At least we have seats. Gimme some water, will you?”
Hetta dug into the pack again, extracted a water bottle and handed it to Jenks, aware she was under surveillance. Dark brown eyes below a fringe of black bangs peeped over the seatback, following her every move.
Guadeloupe, crammed into a double seat with three
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