getting nastier. Too many people. They got a slum on the edge of town that looks like how I imagine parts of India look. Hell, there’s gangs in Calexico. Not like we remember. Not a bunch of pachucos in hairnets and that top button. But real, honest to God, Crip/Blood, Mexican Mafia gangs. With guns and shit. You can see their tags all over the place. It ain’t Tijuana bad, but it could get there.”
A green Border Patrol SUV passed us, followed closely by a white Homeland Security SUV. We had entered Calexico and drove past the edge of town with all the box stores and a surprising amount of freshly built industrial parks.
The lights of the border crossing approached. It had definitely changed. Now a NAFTA route, there were six lanes instead of two, and it looked more high-tech. More lights, newer building. Trucks lined both sides of the road waiting to change countries.
Bobby turned off the main road before the border crossing. He drove up Anza, then down First, and found a place to park in front of a mercado that looked like it specialized in creepy dolls and Tupperware.
“We’re walking?” I said, suddenly aware that I was going to have to get out of the car.
“You don’t take a car this cherry that far south,” Bobby responded, not kidding.
“How far is it?”
“Relax. Cachanilla’s, that’s the place, is only a few blocks from the tunnel. Less than a hundred yards. Easier to walk. Faster getting out.”
I nodded, reaching for the door handle.
Bobby grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Where you going? You ain’t ready. Give me your wallet.”
“No. What for?”
“Just give it to me,” Bobby said, reaching over insistently.
I rolled my eyes, but took my wallet out of my back pocket and handed it to him.
“Put your passport in your boot. On the bottom, under your sock.”
After we left Morales Bar, I had stopped by my house and grabbed my passport. Times had changed. You couldn’t just walk across without ID anymore. Scratch that. You could still get into Mexico, but you couldn’t get back into the U.S. without a passport.
“In my boot? Isn’t that a little paranoid?”
“We’re going to a third-world country to find a hooker. We ain’t going to be looking in churches and museums. It’s better to be safe than stupid.”
I took off my boot and tossed my passport in it, and then I put the boot back on. As I laced it up, I watched Bobby pull the cash from my wallet and stuff it in his pocket. “We’ll leave the credit cards here.”
“They’re maxed anyway. Can I at least have some of my own money? I promise not to spend it all on candy.”
Bobby reached into his pocket and pulled out my wad of bills. He picked out a twenty and gave it to me.
“Very generous.”
“You still carry a knife?”
I nodded. Part of the country boy in me. I’d carried one since I was a kid. I felt naked without a knife in my pocket.
“Let’s see it,” Bobby said.
“I really doubt that I’m going to get in a knife fight.” I pulled out the small, two-inch folding Buck knife from the front pocket of my jeans.
Bobby let out a snort. “I don’t want to get all Crocodile Dundee on you, but that’s for cleaning your fingernails.”
He reached past me and unlocked his glove compartment. After he tossed my wallet inside, he rummaged around the maps, tools, and pencils. He found a watermelon knife, a thin, six-inch, folding pig-sticker. When open, a watermelon knife is like a small, foot-long sword. I took the knife and put it in my sock, wedged tightly against the inside of my boot. It gave me no comfort, just more unease.
Bobby smiled. “Now we’re prepared.”
All the fun stuff is in Mexico. And when you live on the border, it’s always tempting. Mexico has a lenient drinking age and booze aplenty. Drugs are everywhere. Women are available and willing. And for the kids, firecrackers, switchblades, and Roman candles are abundant. Hell, you can buy Cuban cigars. You can go to a bullfight, a
A green Border Patrol SUV passed us, followed closely by a white Homeland Security SUV. We had entered Calexico and drove past the edge of town with all the box stores and a surprising amount of freshly built industrial parks.
The lights of the border crossing approached. It had definitely changed. Now a NAFTA route, there were six lanes instead of two, and it looked more high-tech. More lights, newer building. Trucks lined both sides of the road waiting to change countries.
Bobby turned off the main road before the border crossing. He drove up Anza, then down First, and found a place to park in front of a mercado that looked like it specialized in creepy dolls and Tupperware.
“We’re walking?” I said, suddenly aware that I was going to have to get out of the car.
“You don’t take a car this cherry that far south,” Bobby responded, not kidding.
“How far is it?”
“Relax. Cachanilla’s, that’s the place, is only a few blocks from the tunnel. Less than a hundred yards. Easier to walk. Faster getting out.”
I nodded, reaching for the door handle.
Bobby grabbed my arm, stopping me. “Where you going? You ain’t ready. Give me your wallet.”
“No. What for?”
“Just give it to me,” Bobby said, reaching over insistently.
I rolled my eyes, but took my wallet out of my back pocket and handed it to him.
“Put your passport in your boot. On the bottom, under your sock.”
After we left Morales Bar, I had stopped by my house and grabbed my passport. Times had changed. You couldn’t just walk across without ID anymore. Scratch that. You could still get into Mexico, but you couldn’t get back into the U.S. without a passport.
“In my boot? Isn’t that a little paranoid?”
“We’re going to a third-world country to find a hooker. We ain’t going to be looking in churches and museums. It’s better to be safe than stupid.”
I took off my boot and tossed my passport in it, and then I put the boot back on. As I laced it up, I watched Bobby pull the cash from my wallet and stuff it in his pocket. “We’ll leave the credit cards here.”
“They’re maxed anyway. Can I at least have some of my own money? I promise not to spend it all on candy.”
Bobby reached into his pocket and pulled out my wad of bills. He picked out a twenty and gave it to me.
“Very generous.”
“You still carry a knife?”
I nodded. Part of the country boy in me. I’d carried one since I was a kid. I felt naked without a knife in my pocket.
“Let’s see it,” Bobby said.
“I really doubt that I’m going to get in a knife fight.” I pulled out the small, two-inch folding Buck knife from the front pocket of my jeans.
Bobby let out a snort. “I don’t want to get all Crocodile Dundee on you, but that’s for cleaning your fingernails.”
He reached past me and unlocked his glove compartment. After he tossed my wallet inside, he rummaged around the maps, tools, and pencils. He found a watermelon knife, a thin, six-inch, folding pig-sticker. When open, a watermelon knife is like a small, foot-long sword. I took the knife and put it in my sock, wedged tightly against the inside of my boot. It gave me no comfort, just more unease.
Bobby smiled. “Now we’re prepared.”
All the fun stuff is in Mexico. And when you live on the border, it’s always tempting. Mexico has a lenient drinking age and booze aplenty. Drugs are everywhere. Women are available and willing. And for the kids, firecrackers, switchblades, and Roman candles are abundant. Hell, you can buy Cuban cigars. You can go to a bullfight, a
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