Two fish merchants fly two young Mexican women to San Francisco in their airplane, illegally. The youngest is a twelve-year-old, badly in need of reconstructive surgery. But these men weren’t exactly rewarded for their acts of mercy & kindness.
Excerpt
1
Here’s That Rainy Day
Any pilot will tell you the safest maneuver in aviation is the one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. Mark Robinson needed to turn back many things in his life, but not this day. He looked below to watch his aircraft’s shadow mutate from Baja’s desert floor to become a blue-black dot on the Sea of Cortez. The water’s surface was not its usual glassy pale blue; it was covered with whitecaps, like pop corn. Robinson looked up at towering cumulus ahead; he did consider turning back- for half a minute. One night in Calexico wouldn’t hurt; but he shook his head and maintained his southbound heading. He needed the bucks.
The next two and a half hours Robinson white-knuckled his controls in turbulence was so severe, negative G’ forces robbed his color vision. When he emerged into clear, stable air he spotted a northbound aircraft below. Robinson clicked in the aircraft-to-aircraft frequency to and hailed the aircraft. The northbound pilot, also an American, came back with a strong signal. He told Robinson a force-four hurricane was approaching the Mexican mainland from the Pacific. “Before Guaymas tower closed,” he said, “they estimated it to hit the mainland in a couple of hours. Say your destination?”
Robinson keyed his microphone. “Topolobambo.”
“Can’t do it, friend. Federales have closed all non-international airports …coming down hard on drug traffickers.”
Robinson sat up straight, glaring at his fuel gauge.
“It’s the new law,” the American continued, “all flights must land at international airports now.” They exchanged weather and visibility each had flown from. Robinson warned the American of nasty turbulence ahead.
“Moderate?”
“Robinson yelled, “severe!”. He advised the American to descend just over the water, thanked him, then signed off, “blue skies.”
“So long, pal.”
Robinson tried to contact Guaymas then Manzanillo. He only received recorded broadcasts. He stared at his fuel gauge then checked his chart. “Mazatlan was the nearest International airport. “Mazatlan tower. How do you hear?”
A lady controller came back with a chirpy, “Loud and clear, Sir.”
Robinson identified his position. When she confirmed radar contact. Robinson told her his fuel was low; “Es serioso!” She remained professionally calm, “Continue present heading. Expect clearance in four minutes.”
During his descent for the approach, Robinson looked below on the Pacific. A dozen fishing trawlers, silhouetted in blinding coppery sunlight, fought heavy seas; each pounded, sprayed and rolled, all in a desperate race for the harbor. The big ferry from La Paz plowed behind. This may be an omen. Robinson thought. Tomorrow those skippers would sell their lobster at any price. Oh-Jesus-Oh God he had to pee!
Robinson had the runway in sight; he dropped landing gear and flaps. “Three-Zero-Yankee is on two mile final.”
“Have you in sight.” She cleared him to land.
Robinson’s tires kissed the runway; he stared at his fuel gauge with relief too wonderful for words; any minute the engine would die of fuel starvation. The controller instructed him to hold short for a taxiing Beech Barron. The Barron taxied past left to right. Robinson remained on his brakes holding his crotch. The controller spoke to the Beechcraft pilot in the familiar, calling him “Senor, Freeman.” Robinson pressed his knees together.. Ah-geese-lady-Come-on! Palm trees around the terminal building were doubled over in stiff wind, the sky almost black. Echoes of his exchange with the American played through Robinson’s head. The flight lines were packed with aircraft, all anchored with six and eight-point tie-downs. Where could he tie down? Beyond his right wing Robinson spotted an empty hanger; its open doors yawned in a beckon. Robinson mouthed the name, “Freeman.”
Sounded like a gringo-person to him. He switched frequencies, “Is this freeman?”
The Beechcraft pilot came spoke with a Texas drawl, “That’s a roger. Who’s callin’?”
Robinson identified his field position. “Just landed from San Francisco. Is that your open hanger?”
“Affirmative,”
Robinson asked if he could park his aircraft inside. “I’d be happy to pay.”
“Keep your bucks, partner. Stay long as ya like. I’m headed to La Paz till this thing blows itself out.” Robinson thanked him then tuned-in the lady controller. “Proceed,” she said with a soft laugh. She seemed amused by his salesmanship.
When his Cessna Centurion’s tail section cleared the hanger doors, Robinson locked his brakes, killed the engine, then rushed outside. He caught a ride to the terminal with a fuel truck.
The men’s room was empty. Robinson hummed the last lines of a Count Basie tape he’d listened to in the cockpit. Pain eased from his bladder into the urinal. He didn’t hear the door open.
A small Mexican man walked up to him, a wannabe charro wearing hand-tooled boots, tailored jeans and a two-hundred dollar sombrero with a hand-tooled silver band. “Do you be the owner of the red and white Centurion, just land?”
Robinson shot him a glare. “You mind?”
The little man’s intense dark eyes filled with rage. “I say the pinchi questions, gavacho!”
Robinson shoved him aside to wash his hands. “Watch your mouth, little man.”
The stranger pulled out a handful of American dollar bills “”thousand dollar bills. “I pay you fifty-thousand for that ol’ Gaviota. Cash, amigo.”
Robinson snatched the money and jammed it in the man’s fancy jeans. “I don’t deal with narco-traffickers!” Robinson gripped Napoleon by the butt and threw him out in the corridor. “Be gone, sir! Make haste I say!” Three men stood in the corridor.
Before Robinson dried his hands the little man returned, with a pistol. He shoved the muzzle in Robinson’s nose. Robinson sucked air through his teeth. “Okay-okay! Let’s see your money.”
The little man slipped the pistol in his fancy jeans; with a satisfied grin he pulled out the roll of bills. “I thin’ purty soon you listen.”
While the stranger was preoccupied counting money, Robinson looked up at an open transom above the sink; it looked large enough for him to crawl through. Punks like this guy always had backup. They waited outside “”he was certain. Robinson seized Napoleon by the wrist, plucked the pistol from his jeans, squeezed the little man by the back of his neck, and slammed his head three times into the porcelain urinal. The little guy man collapsed in a pool of blood. Robinson took the rounds from the pistol, buried the gunl in the trash, and sat the little man on a toilet. He closed the stall door, stepped up on the sink and squeezed through the transom. No one had seen him except the fuel truck driver. Robinson hurried toward the hanger but did not run. It was dark; it was raining. White light from the open hanger spilled onto the shiny wet ramp. When he was inside the hanger, Robinson opened his cargo hatch; he retrieved his backpack and books. His hands trembled.
A white-haired old man shuffled over. “Senor,” the viejo piped, shaking his head, “you cano’ park in thees hanger, “Es privado, it belong to-”
“Freeman. Right?”
The viejo nodded in surprise. “Correcto Senor, pero-”
“Freeman said I could park here.”
The old man arched his thick white brows. “Okay for me,” he said with a dismissive shrug, “he say is okay-is okay.”
Robinson slapped wheel chalks under his tires; the old man tripped a switch. The steel hanger doors closed with a sonorous clang. The old man ran home two heavy bolts. He offered Robinson a ride into the city. Robinson stared at the primeval Chevy van, his hands still trembled. “Yeah, sure.” He tossed his gear in back then took a seat beside the old man.
When they were on the highway the old man looked Robinson up and down. “I am Morelos.”
Robinson forced a smile and offered his hand. “Me llamo Marco.”
“You have a good flight from el norte?”
Robinson shook his head. “Muy malo.”
Morelos asked how long Robinson had known Freeman. Robinson, sometimes a little careless with the truth, told him he’d known Freeman over a year. “Freeman wants to invest in my seafood business.”
“Oh, Si.” Morelos nodded, “Senor Freeman, he make lotta deals. Where you go, Marco?”
“Crazy Horse cantina.”
“I know thees place.”
Robinson leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Sure as hell that drug-monkey had connections. How many? Maybe he’d killed the punk. Robinson knew he’d be in Mazatlan at least three days! Those animals would stop at nothing to get a bush plane. Major angst burned through his brain; Robinson wanted to laugh then cry then vomit. He sat on his hands and held his breath for control. But, then, no one had seen him. His Centurion was locked in a private hanger… a hanger registered to another man who was gone… a no-brainer. And, the hanger had no windows. Robinson opened his eyes to the splash and swish of passing traffic. His hands had steadied; rain peppered the windshield. They were in the city. Soon guitars, marimbas, and beer would end his unspeakable day. Robinson could almost taste the first Negra Modelo. The last time he drank at the Crazy Horse he spotted an empty piano in the corner.
Tonight, after the musicians left, he’d hold a buzz and play all night.
Morelos pulled in front of the Crazy Horse’s blue neon light blurring in the rain. Robinson gathered his gear; he must call his partner in La Paz, before the phone lines blew out. He shook Morelos’ hand then passed him a hundred pesos.
The old man waived it off. “Por nada.”
Robinson smiled then tucked the money in Morelos’ shirt pocket.
“Senor Freeman, he say I can use his van for my other job. I use for taxi at night. I go now to the ferry terminal.” Morelos studied Robinson’s drained face. “Later you like I take you to hotel?”
Robinson shook his head. “Thanks. I’m staying with friends.”
Morelos pulled into traffic; he waved and shouted, “Asta luego, Marco.”
Robinson waved back. He’d need a hell of a lot more than luck.
2
Soon One Morning
DR. LOURDES CONTRERAS, a dentista from Mulege, in Baja Sur, stood on the ferry’s port side. Her cheeks puffed with a deep sigh of joy as she promised herself this night was to mark the transition from dream to action. Lourdes walked forward to the bow. This was the end of the second day of a two-week leave from her clinica. Crossing the Sea of Cortez had kept her nauseous from heavy seas. Now, inside Mazatlan’s harbor, she wanted to watch the big ship glide to its mooring. Was it the damp night air? Lourdes felt a surge of unexplainable magic. Maybe it was the play colored lights on the water or the sweet smell of blossoms after so long on the Pacific. She looked up at the approaching dock. In a few months Prudencia, her twelve-year-old her sister, would be able to attend school and have friends.
Looking down from the dock above, taxi drivers, porters, customs officers and ticket agents lined the rail; their eyes were on the ferry. Some pointed, others cackled like pelicans. The measured movement of the hull seemed to fascinate them. She laughed inwardly at their hilarious facial expressions. Some clenched their teeth; others had pinched faces from the irritating screech and whine of the hull against the pilings. Lourdes reached back for her sister’s hand. “Prudencia?” she called, “listo?”
Prudencia had been preoccupied with gangplanks being lowered and locked with clangs and clicks. “Si,” she said with a nod, “I am ready.”
Lourdes pulled in an excited breath. Thick tropical air felt like a wet blanket. “Mazatlan,” she said, “Sometimes I did not think it would happen.” People in Lourdes’ Pueblo of Mulege, always said she was mature beyond her twenty-seven years. But this night the little girl hidden inside went wild with imagination. They might see cinema stars or magazine celebrities. Lourdes tied customs tags to their luggage. “Stay close, maija.”
A customs officer directed them from the terminal, pointing to a gate.
Inside the lobby, a white-haired old man approached them with a bow and a wheezy, “Muy Buena noche, Senoritas.” In a thin, tired voice, he offered to carry their bags. Lourdes paused. Behind the old man, young taxi drivers stared at her with wanton hunger in their faces. The old man softly persisted, “You go into the city, yes?” He lifted their bags. “Only twenty-two pesos,” he said, “it would please me take you to a fine hotel.”
Her eyes were still on the men; Lourdes nodded, “Si, por favor.”
The old man smiled politely. “I am Morelos.”
Lourdes observed Morelos’ broken teeth “”but then she would. “Esta bien.” She nodded. They followed him to the parking lot. Prudencia complained of sleepiness. A police officer waived them through the gate. Lourdes and Prudencia stood in the dark rain beside Morelos’ old Chevy van. The Viejo fussed with a windshield wiper. “The rain feels good,” Lourdes said, “how long has it been raining?”
Morelos slapped the wiper blade on the glass. “Two, perhaps three hours.” he opened the passenger door. Lourdes took the front seat; Prudencia took the back seat. It amused Lourdes to watch the old man beg and pray to the engine. She turned to the back seat, pressed her hand on Prudencia’s knee and rested her other hand on the leather case on her lap. The Chevy coughed to life. They bounced over ruts, making their way to the highway. Morelos drove slowly; he attempted to break his passenger’s shyness by explaining his theory of the first hurricane of the season. “This is only June yet we have the first hurricane. This of course is because of global warming.” When Morelos was on the highway, he accelerated. “Tomorrow,” he continued, “the morning will come fresh and clear, but in the afternoon, ah,” he cried with a long asthmatic laugh, “the winds will come so strong, it will drive the rain sideways like bullets.”
“We love the rain,” Lourdes said, “we live in the Baja desert.”
Light from his rearview mirror illuminated the old man’s face. Repulsive shock was apparent in his expression. Morelos had been sneaking looks at Prudencia.
Take a good look old man, Lourdes thought; you are one of the last people to see her face like this.
The splash of passing traffic forced his eyes back onto the highway. Morelos seemed to know she had seen him. “Where in Baja?” he asked.
Lourdes was used that too, the uncomfortable change of subject. “Mulege,” she answered.
“Ah,” Morelos cried with a waive of his hand. “Baja.” He pretended sarcasm saying Baja was only a frontier.
Prudencia interrupted from her back seat. “Do you not know?” she piped, “Baja is the newest state in Mexico.”
Lights from a passing bus illuminated the old man’s face; Lourdes saw the playful expression in his eyes. She laughed.
“I have a friend,” Morelos said, “she lives alone.”
“Your friend has a room to rent?” Lourdes teased, “Yes?”
“A casita,” Morelos wheezed, “behind her hacienda. La Senora Vargas charges less than half the hotel rates.”
“Sounds attractive,” Lourdes said.
“Your voice sounds deep,” he said, “You have a cold, Senorita?”
Lourdes was used to that too. She laughed. “It is my natural voice.”
La Senora Vargas spoke lyrically, harmonizing with a bolero from a time-scratched LP. Vargas looked directly at Lourdes to avoid the girl. “Thirty-five pesos a night,” Vargas said, her full lips phrased with the music. “Come. Let me show you.” Vargas led them onto her patio across her small yard. Lourdes glanced over her shoulder at Morelos. The old man was feeding fruit to Emiliano, Vargas’ blue parrot. Vargas tossed her long single braid behind thick shoulder and fussed with her bra strap; her eyes darted from Lourdes to the girl then back. “You will like it,” Vargas chimed, “I know.” The sky glowed with the pulse of lightning forks. Vargas’ sandals scuffed across the tile. Vargas opened the small colonial style door.
Lourdes gasped, “Perfecto!” Patterned curtains matched small throw rugs on a spotless floor, both made from the same material.
“Tranquilo, no?”
Lourdes opened her purse. She had not expected a dollhouse. She handed Vargas two hundred pesos. “I cannot say how long we will stay.”
Vargas’ face beamed with a gratified smile. “Time is a widow’s wealth.” She tucked the money in her bra, admiring the blossom in Lourdes’ hair. “Coffee and pan in the morning.” Vargas said good night, then closed and locked the door.
They were alone. Lourdes put her hands on her hips with a wordless joyful stare at Prudencia. For some odd reason she felt at home in Mazatlan. Perhaps it was the boleros. “You never believed this day would come, did you.”
Prudencia’s face brightened with a lopsided smile. “We both knew it would.”
“Excited?”
Prudencia hugged her big sister. “Cannot wait.”
When Prudencia was asleep Lourdes sung softly with the notes drifting from Vargas’s phonograph. The pattern of rain on the patio seemed to embroider the music. Lourdes drew the covers over Prudencia and ruminated about Doctor Santiago. What would he be like? An older man to be sure, she supposed; such an experienced plastic surgeon could achieve his reputation only with age. Dr. Santiago would not be ordinary. Lourdes reached into the leather case, a case so emblematic of their years of correspondence. She drew a pen and paper then started a list of questions. Prudencia’s records were her chronology. Dr. Santiago could ask nothing Lourdes had not documented. Her list complete and in her purse, Lourdes took the blossom from her long black hair. Its fragrance was still fresh; she would wear it tomorrow. She undressed, a little bothered by her thin figure in the mirror. She promised herself to eat four times a day. In a city like Mazatlan, the restaurants must be wonderful. The music from Vargas’s phonograph provoked memories. If Lourdes had a calculator, she could never count the times she’d performed this same song in cabarets …La Paz, Loreto, Los Barriles and Cabo San Lucas. And the touristas? Many stood to applaud, with kind comments of her personal interpretation. Lourdes thought of the tips she had saved. Four years… four-hundred-sixteen weekends. Lourdes stared at her purse on the chair. Seventy-five thousand pesos waited for Doctor Santiago. She yawned, slipped beside Prudencia and fluffed her pillow, closed her eyes and touched her mother’s rosary. “Tomorrow.”
Read more about Dove Tale and Bruce Payne HERE.
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