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Marisol knew, her aunt lived in Torrance, where she managed a trailer park. But that was ten years ago, and Marisol had no idea where the old crow lived now.
    Marisol did not like to lie. Her father taught her the value of honesty and hard work, and she tried to live up to his standards. As a young girl in Hermosillo, how proud she had been of him. In his crisp, clean jumpsuit with the Ford Motor Company logo, he looked . . . well, like an Americano . Proud, too, when he told her how he had refused an Anglo supervisor's request to falsify inspection records on Lincoln Continentals.
    "I told him I'll rot in hell before I lie to the company!" her father thundered.
    Soon after that, the supervisor arranged for Edgardo Perez to be fired. Her father, Marisol knew, was a courageous and honorable man. And, ultimately, a tragic one.
    "Sometimes, Papi, it is all right to lie."
    "I promise I will pay you," she told the fat and sweaty coyote. "I swear on my father's grave." Neglecting to mention that her nonbelieving father never attended church and the only time Edgardo visited Mexico City, he spat curses in front of Catedral Metropolitana. On the other hand, Marisol's mother attended Mass every morning. It made for interesting discussions over dinner. Marisol's beliefs fell somewhere between the two. She knew her Bible but was not blind to the failings of the Church. She sensed a spirit greater than her own and prayed it would protect Tino and her. Especially now.
    "I do not give credit," El Tigre said. "But maybe we can work something out."
    He placed a plump hand on Marisol's bare arm. She wore a short-sleeve white peasant blouse with two buttons undone. The pig was studying the rise and fall of her breasts. Nothing new. Marisol was used to men pawing her on job sites. She had learned to accept this fact of life. Only when the abuse became intolerable—a hand slipped down her pants—did she retaliate. Her father had taught her how to throw a punch with a turn of the hips and a straight, quick arm. In her experience at construction sites, a balpeen hammer worked even better.
    "Why the rush to leave Mexico?" El Tigre asked.
    "Family matters." Keeping it vague.
    "I cross tonight and come back tomorrow. Why not stay here a few days, and we can get to know each other better."
    "We go when we want!" Tino piped up.
    El Tigre scowled. "You go when I say."
    "Maybe we cross by ourselves," Tino shot back.
    "Tino, quiet," his mother ordered.
    " Mami, I could build a raft, and we could float up the New River."
    El Tigre burped a beer-and-anchovy laugh. "The river is full of shit, and so are you, chico ."
    Marisol winced but did not reply. There were times to kick a man in the kneecap and times to appeal to a slightly higher region. She softened her look and let her eyes water. "Your charges are so high."
    El Tigre launched into a defense of his prices. He had expenses. Lookouts and guides and vehicles and drivers. Stash houses on both sides of the border. Bribes to the judicales and the federales . Protection money to the mafia de los coyotes because he was a freelancer. Then there were the risks.
    "¡Pinche rinche por todas partes!"
    Fucking cops everywhere.
    Marisol did not appreciate the profanity in front of her son, but for now she must try to get along with this foul and repulsive man.
    "If you get caught, they just send you back," El Tigre said. "But for me, it's prison. Or I get shot by bandits. Or vigilantes. The Minutemen. Patriot Patrol. All those gabachos with guns. And now, the U.S. Army. The Border Patrol knows what they're doing. But the soldiers! Scared kids who think we're all drug runners."
    "Instead of the humanitarians you are," Marisol said, evenly.
    He did not catch the sarcasm, rambling on, boasting of his knowledge of the Border Patrol's motion detectors and TV cameras, infrared binoculars, and drone aircraft. How La Migra had beefed up patrols. Ford Expeditions, like always. But now on horseback, too, with Indian