Nine
Storm
Night fell while they waited in traffic, and the storm dumped rain, but there was no sign of the green pickup. Ash inched the Galaxie to the next exit off the highway. As they splashed along night-blackened roads, he kept a watchful eye ahead for flooding. The wipers slammed back and forth across the windshield, pushing around an endless stream of water.
“So tell me about the señora ,” Cleo said. The dashboard lights hinted at the soft curves of her face, but Ash couldn’t read her expression.
“Well. Mauricio wants to just settle down, right? Have a ‘normal’ job, whatever that means. He’s got this crazy idea about the two of us buying this old hotel in Arizona.”
“You’re right,” she deadpanned. “Hotel management usually appeals to the insane.”
“Whatever. This cleaning lady who works there, her husband and son were in trouble. She hired a coyote to smuggle them into the States. But the coyote decides to double his money and hold them for ransom. If she doesn’t pay, she’ll never see them again.” A lump rose in Ash’s throat.
Cleo nodded, watching him.
“It was just wrong .” He cleared his throat. “So Mauricio and me, we decided to take on the coyote.”
“You couldn’t just call the police?”
He gave her a sour look. “Please.”
She held up her hands in surrender.
“So anyway, the setup goes like this: Mauricio goes into the bar dressed up like a migrant worker. He sits next to the coyote and starts crying into his beer. I mean, just absolutely sobbing.”
“Mauricio?” A half-smile crept across her face. “Our Mauricio?”
“Well, he’s half Colombian. He can pass for a Mexican.”
“I guess, but what, he’s an actor now?”
“Hey, film school paid off. Anyway, he gets out this lottery ticket. Powerball. Sixty-seven million dollars.”
“A real lottery ticket?”
Ash held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor. A real, honest-to-God Powerball ticket, printed with the winning numbers. And Mauricio’s bawling up a storm, saying he’s an illegal, so he can’t cash it.” He gave Cleo a sly look. “It’s Arizona, you know. And he’s crying about how cruel life is, he gets this winning ticket and he can’t cash it.”
She stared at him. “So it’s not a winning ticket.”
“That’s where I come in. I go up to the bar, overhearing this, and tell him he’s a liar, no way is that ticket a winner. I make a big scene, get out my phone, threaten to call the lottery. The phone number’s printed right on the ticket. So guess what the coyote does?”
“He calls the number,” Cleo said.
“Everybody in the bar calls the number. And I’m watching the coyote’s eyes, under the brim of his hat, as he hears the recording read off the winning numbers, the ones right there on Mauricio’s ticket. Sixty-seven million dollars. His eyes light up, and at that exact moment, I pull out my wallet, slam down a thousand in cash on the bar. ‘I’ll buy that ticket,’ I tell him.”
Cleo nodded thoughtfully. “So the coyote isn’t going to let you buy that ticket.”
“Exactly. He says he’ll give Mauricio two grand. I say four. He says ten. We go back and forth, this guy’s yelling at Mauricio in Spanish, ‘Don’t sell it to the gringo.’ People start getting hostile—it’s going to get ugly. Mauricio flips open a lighter, says he’s going to burn the ticket before he gets killed in this bar. He wants to see his wife and kids again. Whole place goes dead silent.”
She leaned forward in her seat, listening. The wipers slapped out a rhythm on the windshield. “And?”
“And Mauricio sells the ticket to the coyote for twenty grand in cash.” Ash couldn’t keep the grin off of his face. “Seriously, I expected maybe five, ten at the most. Guy had a duffel bag with twenty gees.”
She blinked. “You could’ve been killed.”
“Well, maybe if we stuck around. Mauricio drops a couple hundred on the bar, buys a round for the house, and
Storm
Night fell while they waited in traffic, and the storm dumped rain, but there was no sign of the green pickup. Ash inched the Galaxie to the next exit off the highway. As they splashed along night-blackened roads, he kept a watchful eye ahead for flooding. The wipers slammed back and forth across the windshield, pushing around an endless stream of water.
“So tell me about the señora ,” Cleo said. The dashboard lights hinted at the soft curves of her face, but Ash couldn’t read her expression.
“Well. Mauricio wants to just settle down, right? Have a ‘normal’ job, whatever that means. He’s got this crazy idea about the two of us buying this old hotel in Arizona.”
“You’re right,” she deadpanned. “Hotel management usually appeals to the insane.”
“Whatever. This cleaning lady who works there, her husband and son were in trouble. She hired a coyote to smuggle them into the States. But the coyote decides to double his money and hold them for ransom. If she doesn’t pay, she’ll never see them again.” A lump rose in Ash’s throat.
Cleo nodded, watching him.
“It was just wrong .” He cleared his throat. “So Mauricio and me, we decided to take on the coyote.”
“You couldn’t just call the police?”
He gave her a sour look. “Please.”
She held up her hands in surrender.
“So anyway, the setup goes like this: Mauricio goes into the bar dressed up like a migrant worker. He sits next to the coyote and starts crying into his beer. I mean, just absolutely sobbing.”
“Mauricio?” A half-smile crept across her face. “Our Mauricio?”
“Well, he’s half Colombian. He can pass for a Mexican.”
“I guess, but what, he’s an actor now?”
“Hey, film school paid off. Anyway, he gets out this lottery ticket. Powerball. Sixty-seven million dollars.”
“A real lottery ticket?”
Ash held up two fingers. “Scout’s honor. A real, honest-to-God Powerball ticket, printed with the winning numbers. And Mauricio’s bawling up a storm, saying he’s an illegal, so he can’t cash it.” He gave Cleo a sly look. “It’s Arizona, you know. And he’s crying about how cruel life is, he gets this winning ticket and he can’t cash it.”
She stared at him. “So it’s not a winning ticket.”
“That’s where I come in. I go up to the bar, overhearing this, and tell him he’s a liar, no way is that ticket a winner. I make a big scene, get out my phone, threaten to call the lottery. The phone number’s printed right on the ticket. So guess what the coyote does?”
“He calls the number,” Cleo said.
“Everybody in the bar calls the number. And I’m watching the coyote’s eyes, under the brim of his hat, as he hears the recording read off the winning numbers, the ones right there on Mauricio’s ticket. Sixty-seven million dollars. His eyes light up, and at that exact moment, I pull out my wallet, slam down a thousand in cash on the bar. ‘I’ll buy that ticket,’ I tell him.”
Cleo nodded thoughtfully. “So the coyote isn’t going to let you buy that ticket.”
“Exactly. He says he’ll give Mauricio two grand. I say four. He says ten. We go back and forth, this guy’s yelling at Mauricio in Spanish, ‘Don’t sell it to the gringo.’ People start getting hostile—it’s going to get ugly. Mauricio flips open a lighter, says he’s going to burn the ticket before he gets killed in this bar. He wants to see his wife and kids again. Whole place goes dead silent.”
She leaned forward in her seat, listening. The wipers slapped out a rhythm on the windshield. “And?”
“And Mauricio sells the ticket to the coyote for twenty grand in cash.” Ash couldn’t keep the grin off of his face. “Seriously, I expected maybe five, ten at the most. Guy had a duffel bag with twenty gees.”
She blinked. “You could’ve been killed.”
“Well, maybe if we stuck around. Mauricio drops a couple hundred on the bar, buys a round for the house, and
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