Muerte Con Carne (6 page)

No answer.

An explosion of male laughter from the other side of the road. She glanced over her shoulder at the congregation of Mexican men, all staring at her and cackling. They spoke loud enough for her to hear, but she still couldn’t make out what they were saying. She thought she picked out ‘puta loca’ but she couldn’t be sure.

She knocked again. “Felix, come on. Let me in, okay? I…I’ve been thinking about last night too. Pleeeaaase let me in.” She put a sexy twist on that last sentence, but there was still no answer.

After standing there for another few minutes, she gave up and went back to her room. She unzipped her duffel bag and pulled out the small Ziploc full of weed. Not the best shit, but the only weed she could find on short notice. Kind of seedy, but it would do the job.

She broke up the buds on the windowsill, sprinkled it into a Zigzag, and rolled herself a meaty joint. As she leaned back on the bed and lit it, she wished Felix was there to share it with her. That’s why she brought it after all, to have a little fun with him before everything got serious. Get stoned, fuck each other’s brains out. But she screwed that up as usual.

She only hoped that he would sleep off any anger he had toward her. Once they were out there, once the documentary had officially started, she needed his head straight. She needed him focused on the task at hand, not on how much of an asshole she was to him.

The weed filled her head with calm and she let her body slide down the wall, then lay on her side and hugged her knees.

4

Marta woke up feeling refreshed. Her nerves were on fire, but she was ready. Felix was right, the whole idea was crazy, fucking insane, but it was something that she knew she had to do. It was her calling, and when people got a chance to see firsthand how horribly illegals are treated, she could only hope there would be change.

Marta would never understand the hostility that most Americans seemed to have toward illegal Mexican immigrants. Sure, they were illegal, they were breaking the law, and Marta wasn’t arguing that. But these people are still
people
. People who are only trying to find a better life for their families, trying to escape the poverty of Mexico where the poor don’t even have a chance. They come here and take any job they can get, do work nobody else wants to do, but are treated like vermin. Like criminals.

But Marta knew there wasn’t anything she could do to change how the American people felt about the Mexican immigrants. Her focus was to shed light on the mistreatment of these people when they are caught crossing over. She needed raw footage, and she knew the only way to do that was to get in there and get her hands dirty. From her research, the prisons were nothing short of hell. Where men are beaten or killed, women are raped, and the sick are denied their medication.

Marta didn’t know how long she would be kept there. This was something she didn’t tell Felix. She would be going out there with no form of identification, no evidence that she was actually a United States citizen. She wanted to feel what her mother and father went through, stay for as long as it took to get the evidence she needed.

Felix would surely bring some kind of ID along, and she wouldn’t stop him. He might even chicken out when it all came down to it, and she wouldn’t blame him for that either. This was her destiny, not his. But she was glad for the company nonetheless.

He’s in love with you, stupid.

She jumped out of bed, stretched. Her stomach roared, demanded her attention. Anxiety mixed in with the hunger pangs, but she felt energized.

This might be my last day of freedom.

Of course, that was if all went according to plan. She could very well get out there and not get caught by anyone, just like millions of illegals do every day. But she would never give up. She would keep at it until the Border Patrol caught up with her, no matter how long it took.

She took a look at her room, wondered how long she would have to call it home. Wondered how long Felix would realistically stick this out.

She pulled her shirt and shorts off, slid on a pair of panties and a bra, then put the clothes back on over them. After sliding her bare feet into her tennis shoes, she grabbed her wallet and headed out the door.

Whatever food the motel had to offer didn’t interest Marta in the least, so she walked right past the front office and into the street. Looking left and right, nothing popped out as a restaurant, or even a running business. It was as if the town was abandoned, most store fronts covered in a thick layer of dust, the windows boarded up.

She walked down the street, back the way she had driven in. On the drive in, she was so distracted by her own thoughts, she couldn’t be sure if she passed any restaurants or food marts, so she figured she’d just walk until she found something.

As she rounded the corner, she wondered if she should have knocked on Felix’s door before walking off. She half expected his car to be gone, but it still sat parked in the tiny parking lot, now with a thin layer of dirt. Her stomach growled again, and she decided that she would just bring back some breakfast for him, apologize over some food. Let the guy sleep in.

She only had to walk a few blocks before she saw the corner store.

Oh thank god.

At this point, she’d take a bag of chips and a candy bar. But as she grew closer, the smell in the air brought her belly to bubbling. Saliva filled her mouth and her nostrils widened, taking in the succulent scent of cooking meat.

Just beside the store sat a taco trailer, hooked up to the tow hitch of an old beat-up, maroon pickup. A line of Mexican men and women stretched out from the order window, and parked in front of the store was a brown sheriff’s car. The man she figured was the sheriff sat on the hood, stuffing tacos into his mouth and wiping the grease from his chin. A sagging belly stretched his shirt, hung over the front of his belt. One of the buttons was undone to reveal the white of his undershirt. His face was unshaven, and she could see the sores on his lips from where she stood, a bright irritated red. She thought he was staring at her, though it was hard to tell with the cliché‚ mirrored sunglasses he was wearing.

The smell from the trailer was incredible, and Marta smiled wide as she joined the end of the line. The man taking orders from inside of the trailer, his dark brown face sticking out of the window, locked eyes with her for a moment, smiled to reveal a golden front tooth. Young but weathered-looking, rough. Tattoos crept up from under the collar of his shirt and ran over his neck and throat.

Creepy fucker.

But Marta didn’t care. If this guy’s tacos tasted as good as they smelled, he could stare at her ass all he wanted. The line went quick, and when it was finally Marta’s turn, she bounced from foot to foot as she glared at the small, grease stained menu pinned beside the window.

“Buenos dias, bonita,” the man said. “
¿
Qué‚ te puedo dar?”

A woman stood behind the man inside of the trailer, her face wide and flat and lacking any trace of beauty. She reminded Marta of a fat, brown toad. She scooped meat from silver tubs and spread it across fresh tortillas that she had lined up on a small griddle. She glared at the back of the man’s head as she rolled the tacos in tinfoil. When she turned to hand him the paper sack, Marta saw that she was pregnant. Nearly full term from the look of it. She bumped the man with her belly, and he gave her a sideways glance.

Marta realized she was staring and moved her attention back to the menu. “Can I please have four barbacoa tacos? Oh, and how is your menudo?” She was delighted to see it on the menu, hadn’t had menudo in years, always loved it.

The man smiled, rubbed his chin. He leaned his body further out of the window and licked his lips. “You ain’t had menudo like this, baby. Mamá's is the best.” His eyes slowly roamed Marta’s body and he sucked on his teeth and rubbed his palms together. “I know you’ll love it, bonita.”

“He’s not kiddin’. You oughtta give it a try, miss.”

Marta started, put her hand to her chest and chuckled when she saw the sheriff standing next to her. He tossed his garbage into the plastic trash can, wiped his hands on his pant legs, smiled at Marta. The sores on his lips were scabbed over, though the one at the corner of his bottom lip looked freshly picked at. A translucent goo oozed out, and when the man caught Marta looking, he wiped at it.

The man at the window eased his self back into the trailer, his smile never leaving his face. His eyes ping ponged from Marta to the sheriff and back.

Marta forced a smile, crossed her arms over her chest. “Okay, I’ll take two bowls of menudo then.”

The pregnant woman now stood beside the man, her eyes narrow slits as she stared Marta down. The man wrote down Marta’s order, his grin widening, tongue sliding over his gold tooth. When he turned and found the woman hovering over him, he shoved her backward, slapped Marta’s order to her chest. Even as she was pushed back into the trailer, her eyes stayed on Marta.

The man said something to her under his breath, and the woman nodded, got back to preparing the food. She shot one final glance in Marta’s direction, her mouth a perfect arch, eyes as sharp as razors.

The man leaned back out the window with a grease-stained paper sack in his hand, called out an order number. One of the Mexican men standing by quickly retrieved his food, wiped the shine from his lips as he waddled off, already opening the bag and glaring into it.

Marta’s stomach gurgled as she paid. The rough man spread Marta’s change over her palm, running his fingertips over it. Marta yanked her hand away, frowned at him, and stepped aside. Her face nearly plunged right into the sheriff’s chest. She had forgotten he was standing there, and he tipped his hat with one hand, the other caressing his fat stomach in a circular motion.

“How you doin’, ma’am?”

“Hungry.”

“I hear that. I hear ya. You’re gonna love Cristobal’s food. That’s a guarantee. No doubt about it.” He cleaned his teeth with his tongue, hooked his thumbs into his belt. “What brings you ‘round these parts, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

Marta sat at one of the wooden picnic tables lined up on the side of the store, flies suckling at its surface. Various etchings marked the wood, declarations of love and hate carved into its gray surface. The smell swirling off the taco trailer hit her in waves, and her stomach churned in response.

“Am I in trouble, sheriff?”

He glared at her with one eye squinted. “Trouble? Didn’t say nothin’ about no trouble. Just ain’t never seen you before, and pardon me ma’am, but we don’t usually get pretty young girls like you ‘round here.”

“Just passing through. I’m staying at the motel down the road…can’t remember what it’s called.”

“I know the one. Only one we got.”

“Yeah, well I’m staying there with my husband. We’re on a drive across the state, and we decided to stop and take a few days off, relax a little bit.” She smiled, rested her elbows on the table and her chin on top of her fists. She didn’t know why she lied, especially about Felix being her husband. It just sort of slipped out that way. Like she would feel safer if this man thought she was a married woman. It didn’t.

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. Sorry to say we don’t have much to see here. Where y’all headed to if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“Mexico. Gonna cross the border, buy ceramic donkeys and cheap tequila. Always wanted to go, never had the chance.”

“Four barbacoa tacos, two orders of menudo. Para la bonita.” The man held the paper bag out of the window, his pock-marked face hovering right beside it. The sun caught his tooth and it twinkled yellow.

The sheriff nodded, stepped aside so Marta could pass him. She snatched the bag, the smell nearly making her drool on herself. She waved back to the sheriff. “Nice to meet you, sir. Have a good day.”

“Same to you, ma’am. Enjoy the food. Best damn tacos you’ll ever have. And the man wasn’t lyin’ ‘bout that menudo, either.” He tipped his hat. “Tell your hubbie I said hello.”

“Um, okay.” Marta calmly walked away, but as soon as she was out of sight, she hurried her pace. Though the guy at the window made her uncomfortable, it was nothing she hadn’t grown used to throughout the years. Wandering eyes and creepy smiles she could deal with. But there was something about the other man, the sheriff, that bothered her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but just knew she wanted to get away from him and back into her room where she could eat in peace.

She checked over her shoulder but there was nobody there. The scent wafting off the food in her hand swirled into her nostrils and she ran up the stairs two at a time once she made it back to the motel. She stopped in front of Felix’s door, rapped her knuckles against it.

No answer.

Not able to wait any longer, she opened the bag, and snatched out a taco. She unwrapped the foil, pulled out one of the small plastic tubs of chile, and poured it over the steaming brown barbacoa meat. The second she bit into it, her eyes rolled to the back of her head and a moan seeped out through the tender meat in her mouth.

It was absolutely the best she ever had. The meat was perfect, seasoned and cooked to perfection, and she took another bite before she had finished chewing the last one. “Mmmm.”

She knocked again. “Felix, I brought some breakfast for you. Best fucking tacos you ever had, I mean it. I’m having a taste bud orgasm out here.”

Still no response. She pressed her ear to his door, listening for any rustling around, but got nothing.

She sighed through her nose, still chewing, then took another hefty bite.

So goddamn good.

“All right. You’re pissed at me, and I understand. I’m sorry, okay?” She finished the first taco, licked the brown grease from her fingers. “I got you two barbacoa tacos and a cup of menudo. I’ll just leave it out here for you.”

She pulled out her remaining taco and her Styrofoam cup full of menudo from the bag, along with a couple more tubs of chile, rolled the top of the paper bag, and set it in front of Felix’s door.