Thirteen Senses (20 page)

He was in Mexicali, Mexico, just across the border from Calexico, California, and it was early morning, still dark, but already it was hot and muggy—completely different from the cool, ocean air of Carlsbad, over the mountains to the west, where he'd left Lupe the day before.

Yesterday, Salvador had driven up to Lake Elsinore for just a few hours to check on his distillery . . . which his brother-in-law Epitacio was attending to while he, Salvador, was on his honeymoon. When he got there, Epitacio had told him that his mother, Doña Margarita, needed to see him immediately, that it was urgent!

Driving up to Corona, Salvador's old mother had told him that she'd had a terrible dream of Domingo in prison, and then sure enough, here had come this Chinese man from Hanford, California, needing to see Salvador right now,
pronto;
something about if Salvador could help them, then they, in turn, would help him with his brother, Domingo, in prison.

Hearing this, Salvador had immediately driven over to San Bernardino, just a few miles east of Corona, to see the Chinese man from Hanford, California.

This Chinese man and Salvador had spent time in jail together and knew each other very well. The man had quickly explained to Salvador that some problems were cooking up in San Quentin, but for him not to worry, for they handled the laundry in the prison like they did in most prisons in all of California, so they could help him with these upcoming
problemas
if he, Salvador, brought this Chinese doctor for them across the border from Mexicali.

“You deliver this doctor for us to Hanford right now, tomorrow, for this emergency we got,” said the Chinese restaurant owner, “and we'll pay you five hundred dollars in cash when you deliver him alive and well.”

Salvador's whole heart leaped into his mouth. My God, five hundred dollars was a fortune! And this restaurant owner's word was as good as gold. When they'd done their time together in the Tulare jail, it had been this Chinaman who managed to get the supplies into the jail, so Al Cappola could give Salvador his final lesson on how to make fine liquor. Why, the guards themselves had gotten drunk with them. Every business dealing that Salvador had ever done with the Chinese people had been nothing but straight-up dependable and honest.

“What emergency is this?” asked Salvador.

“My people are dying in Chinatown,” said the restaurant owner.

“I see,” said Salvador, remembering how the influenza had hit the people in the
barrios
of Arizona, Texas, and California a few years back and the American doctors wouldn't come to see them. It had been his own mother, Doña Margarita, who'd thrown open the windows, gotten the people out of their blankets, and had them drink the special herbs that she'd picked in the fields of God's Garden. “And you'll be able to help me with my brother?”

The man nodded. “No problem. But we need this doctor quick. My own daughter, she's sick,” said the man, his face suddenly twisting with fear. “And my wife, she already died.”

Hearing this, Salvador nodded. “I'll do it, what the hell!”

So throwing caution to the wind, ignoring everything that Archie and his attorney, Fred Noon, had told him about needing to be careful and lay low because this FBI agent Wessely was still in the area and gunning for him, Salvador said yes, that he'd do it. But what really bothered him wasn't the law or the dangers of the job; no, what really hurt him here in his
heart-corazón
was that he wouldn't be able to go home to Carlsbad and tell Lupe, his truelove, that he'd be gone for a couple of days and nights.

And poor Lupe, why, he'd simply told her—when he'd left home yesterday morning—that he'd only be gone a few hours.

Salvador now quit watching the huge, iron wheels of the different boxcars going slower and slower as they came in to be loaded with fresh produce. He got back in his Moon automobile. He and the big doctor looked very out of place at the railroad yard in their fine suits and grand car, but Salvador didn't care. He was in a hurry to get this Chinese doctor across the border so he could collect his money and get home to Lupe, but also ... he had to be very careful, or he could end up going to prison again.

“Okay,” he said to the big, tall Chinese doctor, whom he'd picked up in Mexicali's Chinatown the night before, “we'll go back to the border stop and take one more look around, but if it still doesn't look good, then we're coming back to this train yard and figure things out one way or another,
a lo chingon!
”

“Okay,
a lo chignon,
however you speak,” said the big doctor.

This was the first Chinaman who spoke any English that Salvador had ever smuggled into the United States. He was also the biggest, tallest, strongest-looking Chinaman that Salvador had ever seen.

Starting the motor of his Moon automobile, Salvador turned on his headlights and gave it the gas. Ever since Salvador had first started buying cars, he'd always made sure to get vehicles that had plenty of horsepower, so that they could really move in case he ran into any
problemas.

Approaching the little border stop in Mexicali, Salvador could see that there were still several American guards at the crossing station. Driving by, he headed west, staying on the Mexican side of the border, thinking that maybe he'd just drive out across the desert and circle the whole town.

But then, getting to the first little group of hills west of town—there was some color in the Father Sky of the approaching day—and Salvador could just begin to make out the towering black mountains in the distance, the mountains that separated the California deserts from the coast.

He lit up a cigar, smoking leisurely, and ahead he could also begin to see the huge, flat, dried-up salton sea just this side of the black, towering mountains. Salvador turned to the right, and in much closer to himself, maybe only a half a mile away, he saw the dark outline of a car parked on top of a little hill. A man was standing tall alongside the vehicle, silhouetted against the night sky.

“Damnit!” said Salvador, tossing his cigar out his window. “The Border Patrol! I guess we're going to have to do this
a lo chingon!
”

“A lo chingon!”
repeated the big, tall, dignified-looking man, once again repeating Salvador's words with such a terrible mispronunciation that this time Salvador burst out laughing.

Salvador turned the Moon around, driving into a little
arroyo,
and here, in the wash, he cut his headlights. Now, they were completely out of sight, and the first light of day was just starting to break in the east, but already it was so damn hot that Salvador was pouring with sweat. He'd hoped to get this job done last night, but all night the border had been swarming with officers, as if they were expecting something special.

“All right,” he said to the big Chinese doctor, getting out of the Moon. “Get out quick! Quick! I need to put you in the trunk of the car!”

The big doctor got out and came around the back and looked at the little trunk of the Moon. He shook his head. “Oh, no, I don't think I like this
a lo chingon,”
he said, mispronouncing the words again. “I'm too long, too big for the back of this car.”

“Look,” said Salvador, taking off his suit jacket and throwing it inside the Moon, “just get your damn feet in there, and I'll cram you down with the lid.”

“Oh, no!” said the doctor. “It too hot and I can't breathe in here!”

“Damnit,” said Salvador, pulling out his .45 automatic, which he always carried for big jobs, “we don't have much time! Just get your ass in there, now!” And he jumped up with the .45, hitting the doctor on the head as hard as he could, wanting to knock him out, but the man was so strong that he didn't go down.

“No!” protested the doctor, rubbing his head as if he'd just been bit by a
mosquito.
“They don't pay you to hit me on head! I'm going to be indebted for twenty years!” He began to cry. “I die, if I get in here. And I have wife and kids, and little, little baby boy,” he added, crying all the more.

“Aaaaah, shit!” said Salvador. “I got family, too! I just got married, in fact, and I was only trying to knock you out so you wouldn't suffer in there, but, man, you're one big, strong son-of-a-bitch!

“Here, you want to breathe?” said Salvador, raising up the .45 again, “I'll fix it for you to breathe!” He shot two quick bullet holes through the open trunk lid of his beautiful new car, while the doctor stared at him as if he'd just gone completely
crazy-loco.

“There,” yelled Salvador, “now you got air holes, so get your ass in there, you big
cabrón,
before I shoot you, too! I could get ten years for smuggling your Chinese ass across!”

He raised his .45 to hit the doctor again, but this time the big, tall man just jumped into the trunk by himself, squeezing down as best he could. Salvador slammed down the lid, banging the doctor two or three times on the head before he could get it completely closed.

He was really a big man, and all the time, he kept yelling, “I don't think I like
a lo chingon!
I don't think I like
a lo chingon!
”

Salvador was laughing. This big doctor was a good man. In fact, all the Chinese people that he'd smuggled in over the last few years were good, honest, hardworking people. Salvador just couldn't figure out why the United States government was so dead set against the Chinese.

Putting his .45 away, Salvador wiped the sweat from his face and let a little air out of each back tire so he could go across the sandy soil without getting stuck. Then he got back in his Moon and drove out of the
arroyo
with his headlights off. Quickly, he glanced around, didn't see the car up on the little hill anymore, and so he gave the Moon the gas, going north out across the flat, sandy desert.

“Okay, here I go, running across the border
a lo Gregorio Cortez!”
said Salvador, feeling the excitement of the chase coming into his heart as he referred to the popular ballad of the day about a Mexican cowboy who'd outrun all the Texas Rangers a few years back over in Texas.

So, there was Salvador, really moving across the sandy, hot land, when suddenly, out of nowhere, right in front of him, was that damn car he'd seen up on the hilltop.

And one of the officers had his gun drawn, as the Moon came leaping out of the little dry riverbed, and the other officer then jumped out of their vehicle, pointing his weapon at Salvador, too.

But Juan Salvador had been dodging bullets all his life, and so he now just gave his fine automobile the gas and went flying straight at the two officers, turning away only at the very last moment, just as the first gunman leaped out of the way, firing wildly.

Salvador was grinning, feeling full of the Devil, having one hell of a wild, good time as the two officers now opened fire on him as he sped away.

Then he remembered the doctor in his trunk and he hoped to God that a stray bullet hadn't killed him. He turned left and started northwest out across the sandy, flat desert.

“Are you all right?” he yelled at the doctor, but the man didn't answer him as they went bouncing, leaping out across the broken desert.

Then, out of nowhere, there were two more dark cars with glaring headlights, right up ahead of him next to some tall cactus.

Salvador glanced back around and saw that the other car was headed his way, too. He braked, slowing down. He didn't know what to do. All around him was sand and brush and treacherous, little
arroyos.

Then in the early morning light, he saw those famous, orange and white sand hills at the base of the huge, towering, black mountains, and in closer, toward him, he then saw that long, white salt flat of a forgotten sea.

Salvador turned, heading for the flat, dry sea and the little orange and white hills. He hoped to God that the doctor hadn't been shot. He now gave his Moon all the gas, wanting to make it to that flat, dry sea before the officers caught him.

But as soon as the officers saw him turn toward the sea, all three lawmen gave their vehicles the gas, too, hoping to cut him off.

Seeing this, Salvador quit smiling. “Oh, please, dear God, help my car fly away like an eagle from these no-good Texas Ranger sons-of-a-bitch. Give me the wings of an eagle,
Papito Dios!”

Just then Juan Salvador heard the screech of a great Golden Eagle, “EEEIII-EEEEEE!” as he went leaping, bouncing across the beautiful, open desert toward the salt flat. But the two cars in front of him had a shorter distance to go, and they were closing in on him fast, jumping, bouncing, lifting clouds of dust.

“Oh,
mama, mama,
help me! You, too, Lupe, help me with our love!” yelled Salvador, feeling a rush of wild excitement.

The Golden Eagle screeched again and Salvador now knew that his old
mama
had come to help him in the form of an eagle because she, too, really didn't want him to be caught.

After all, he was a married man now, and his
mama
wanted him to live and have a life with Lupe, and not be doing any more of these crazy, wild things that he'd been doing for survival ever since they'd had to leave their mountainous area of
Jalisco.

But, also, he had to start making his own miracles. And all miracle making, his
mama
had told him, started by bringing peace to your heart.

He breathed, trying to calm down, but then he couldn't believe it. From the car that was closing in on him, on the right, an officer was now hanging out of his window, trying to shoot him.

For the life of him, Salvador couldn't figure out what was going on in this crazy man's head. Hell, he hadn't robbed a bank. He hadn't hurt anyone. All he, Salvador, was doing was trying to get a doctor across the border so he could help his people.

The officer was so close now that Salvador could see his young, sunburned, face. His blue eyes were full of wild excitement as he took careful aim at Salvador, firing once, twice, just barely missing him.