IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME THEY REACHED LAREDO’S SPRAWL, AND they ran smack into gridlock as the interstate funneled toward the international bridge. Taillights stretched clear on, presumably halted all the way across the bridge. “Shit,” Jonah groaned.
He eased them off the highway and onto an access road. He turned west into an older neighborhood, wheels drumming against the brick surface. There were shops and boutique hotels and restaurants separating them from the grade toward the river. They parked and went into a nearby Tex-Mex diner and got a booth. A young waiter with a heavy accent arrived and they ordered water, and Jonah asked the kid about the traffic.
“They close the bridges all the time.” The kid twirled his pen. “Sometimes there’s fighting across.”
Colby wanted to know if it happened often. “Fighting, I mean.”
The kid held his hand out and wobbled it.
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Nuevo Laredo? No, man. I’m born in Laredo. I’m American. Got a sister and a nephew, they live across. She thinks things will get better. But I don’t know.” He shook his head and walked away.