Around two hours after they set out, they noticed it was hard to breathe and they couldn’t see ten feet in front of them. It was as if someone had spread a dense layer of fog over the road.
“They’re burning sugarcane,” said the Bus from the passenger seat.
Not even the slightest breeze stirred the fields to either side, and sweat trickled into the copilot’s eyes. It felt like the sun had landed right there on the ground.
“Fucking hell, Treviño.” The Bus mopped the sweat from his face with the back of his arm. “You couldn’t have picked a car with air-conditioning?”
Focused on keeping his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, the detective didn’t answer. At times, the waves of smoke seemed intent on erasing all trace of the highway. They’d passed three or four ranches harvesting cane since leaving La Eternidad.
“Man! You detectives can be real dumbasses, you know that? Pull over at the first fucking gas station you see. If we don’t get some coolant in this thing, it’s going to overheat.”
At a bend in the road they think they see three old indios with machetes, dressed in white muslin, watching them pass. Ever since the start of what many call the War, it’s unusual to see young men working the fields in that part of the country.
“Hey, Treviño,” said the Bus. “If you find the girl, Mr. De León’s gonna roll out the red carpet for you. He’ll probably invite you to come work with us. Or did he do that already?”
The detective didn’t answer.
“Hey, Treviño. Don’t act like you can’t hear me. We’ve still got a long way to go. Just tell me one thing: you make good money, you private detectives? Can I ask how much you’re getting for this job?” The bodyguard snorted. “Maybe I’ve been wrong all this time. Maybe I should consider a new line of work. Why don’t you give me some lessons on this detectiving business?”
Treviño couldn’t help smiling.
“Look, my dear Bus. All I want is to keep my brother from getting kicked out of Gringoland. They’re after him here in Tamaulipas.”
“Shit, man. What did the little angel do?”
“He made some enemies.” Treviño wasn’t about to tell the bodyguard that his brother quit his gig with a company in Matamoros as soon as he figured out it was a narco front.
“And now he’s scared? Doesn’t sound like such a big deal.”
The detective’s brother never made trouble with his bosses, never reported them to the police. He just resigned, saying he wanted a change of scenery. But the fact that he was still alive was inconvenient for them.
As though he were just remembering the question, Treviño asked, “Hey, how long has Moreno been working for Mr. De León?”
“About two years. He arrived just after your humble servant here.”
“Where did they find him?”
“He was a bodyguard for Manuel Sainz, who breeds cattle. Mr. De León offered him more money. He did a bunch of training in Germany.”
“And Rafita?”
“He’s been there ten years. He was Mr. De León’s first bodyguard.”
“Who were his references?”
“He worked for some of the boss’s relatives. When he came to work with us, they sent him to train in Gringoland.”
“And you? How did you arrive at such a distinguished post?”
The Bus answered him frankly.
“I worked my way up in one of Mr. De León’s businesses. When he realized the situation in the city was getting worse, he sent me to take classes at the same military academy where Rafita went. And I just kept climbing the ladder. You know how it goes. Where there’s talent …”
“And this was your first job?”
The Bus said nothing for a moment.
“No. Before, I was doing odd jobs here and there. I was even a soda delivery guy. I could carry three cases of soda with one arm. But the pay was bad, and it was boring, annoying work. Which is why I started on the security side of things.”
“And when did your love affair with gorditas begin?”
“I don’t like them plain. But add a little Tabasco, now that’s a different story.”
As they passed the billionth wave of smoke, the bodyguard said, “Hey, Treviño. They say El Tiburón’s killed three or four people, but they haven’t been able to catch him. Do you realize that if you get him it’ll be the second time you’ve caught a serial killer? You’re gonna be famous, pinche Treviño.”
The detective kept his eyes on the road. After a while, the bodyguard spoke.
“Listen, if you don’t make it … I just want you to know I’ll make sure your wife is well taken care of. Brother to brother, no need to worry.”
The detective shot him a look, but didn’t respond.
After driving for a long time without seeing so much as a bent sign or any other indication of where they were, they stopped at a roadside orange stand somewhere in the vicinity of Ciudad de Maíz. “Gotta take a leak,” said the Bus, and he disappeared behind the curtain of smoke. Treviño took the opportunity to stretch his legs. The stand’s attendant was a young man in swim trunks and flip-flops dozing in the shade of a large beach umbrella.
Across the road, he could see something that looked like it had been a food stand once, but was now just a collection of rusted and scorched sheets of metal, scattered in the brush. As he approached the fruit stand, Treviño caught a glimpse of an old indigenous woman rocking nervously back and forth beside the roots of a fallen tree. She made a move toward the detective but stopped herself, as if she’d been kicked away by generations of travelers.
“She’s crazy,” said the young orange vendor, without looking up. The detective walked over to him and pointed at a pile of fruit. “Give me a kilo of those.”
Before he knew what was happening, the old woman had grabbed him by the arm. Her hand emerged so quickly from the smoke that the detective almost jumped back.
When she saw his reaction, the old woman threw herself on the ground, begging his pardon with her hands, and Treviño understood that she’d also been scared to death. Trying to calm her, he raised his hands and leaned forward, then offered her an orange and rolled it toward her.
The old woman picked it up and flashed him a toothless smile. Treviño took out a fifty-peso bill and set it on the side of the road with a small rock on top to keep it from blowing away. He gestured to her that it was for her, then turned without waiting to see the old woman’s reaction.
The Bus rematerialized in the fog, zipping his fly.
“Why don’t you just adopt the old bag? I mean, while you’re at it.”
The detective paid for the oranges and was getting in the car when he noticed the old woman beckoning him.
“Come, come here. Yes, you.”
Treviño walked over to her slowly. When he was close enough, the old woman said, “That’s where the spaceships are. Over there.”
“The spaceships?” he asked, looking toward the horizon.
“Don’t go that way. Better to go back,” she said softly. Then she added, “That’s where the spaceships are, over there. That’s why no big trucks pass through anymore. Because the spaceships come flying over. People drive by here in their cars.” The old woman pointed at the road, which disappeared into the fog. “And then later the same car comes back this way with a soldier driving. Better not to go there.”
The old woman nodded in the direction of the sheets of metal across the road.
“There was a food stand once. Look. One day they took the owner, cut him up in pieces. Brought him back in four cans. Get out of here. Go back home.”
Treviño saw in the smile the old woman offered him the same thing he’d seen in the face of the owner of the taco stand in La Eternidad. The terror. The smile that says, You see what we have to live through. How could they leave us like this?
“What’s up?” The Bus had put the car in neutral and let it roll silently toward the tree.
“According to the lady,” replied Treviño, standing, “we’re not lost, after all. They’re around here.”
The Bus swallowed hard and looked straight ahead. The detective got into the car and held the bag of oranges out to him. The Bus took one and peeled it halfway, then took a bite. The juice ran down his cheeks.
“You have any sort of plan, even a half-assed one, for how the hell we’re going to get out of there, pinche Treviño? Do you realize they’re asking the impossible?”
“It’s not impossible. There must be a way. And yes, I’m going. I gave my word. You can turn back if you want, I’ll understand.”
The Bus, a graduate of the school of hard knocks, spat orange seeds out the window, stepped on the gas, and muttered something that sounded like: I fucking hate guys who think they’re immortal.