The van arrived back at Home Depot with the rising dawn. To the east, pale blues and lavenders suffused the clouds where mountain met sky. Los Angeles is most alluring as it bookends the day. A city with a million secrets to keep and a million promises to break, so much deceit and ugliness hidden beneath that violet splendor.
There Gordo stood, alone in front of the stucco wall as if he’d never left. It was like a police lineup once the innocent suspects cleared out. He glared at the approaching van as it coasted to a stop just past him.
The gringo got out and swung open the rear doors.
As the workers emerged, he handed out rubber-banded rolls of hundred-dollar bills and thanked them for their work. They nodded and smiled, showing off questionable dentistry and a kind of gratitude that no school can teach.
As the others drifted off, Rogelio paused and scratched at the shiny patch scarring his forearm. “The explosion,” he said. “It targeted the gas line?”
The gringo studied him. “Why do you think that?”
Rogelio said, “The dress factory I worked at in Culiacán as a boy met the same fate. The owner was a courteous man.” He lifted the cross pendant and pressed it to his lips—respect for the departed. “But at some point you can only pay so much protection. And who do you turn to when you need protection from your protection?”
“That’s a fine question.”
Over by the building, Gordo started bickering with the other workers, but the gringo paid them no mind.
“This work we did for you…” Rogelio scratched at his scar some more, his eyes lowered. He held the roll of money at his hip; he still hadn’t put it into his pocket. “I’d like to know that it isn’t bad work. That it won’t hurt anyone. That we didn’t help you if…”
“If what?”
“If you are a bad man.” Rogelio wet his lips. “Are you a bad man or a good man?”
“I suppose both.”
“What is it you do?”
“I help people who are desperate. Who have nowhere else to turn. Who are powerless.”
“Do you have power?”
The gringo thought about it. “I don’t know if I have it. But when I am trying to help others, sometimes it finds me.”
Only now did Rogelio pocket the cash. But he remained where he was, staring down at the toe of his boot, which he ground into the asphalt as if crushing a bug. Weighing something.
The gringo waited patiently, and finally Rogelio spoke. “I know someone who needs help like this. He is desperate. He has nowhere else to turn. But he is not powerless, my friend. Far, far from it.”
The gringo looked at the sunrise, the light turning his face bronze. “Is he a bad man or a good man?”
“He is both. Like you.”
“What he needs help with—his cause. Is it just?”
“It is the most just cause I have ever known.”
The gringo looked at Rogelio. Rogelio looked back at him.
The gringo thought about how hard the kid had toiled. How he’d refused to pocket the money until he’d confirmed that the work he’d done wasn’t dirty.
The gringo said, “1-855-2-NOWHERE.”
As he walked away, Rogelio called after him. “What’s that?”
The gringo paused at the driver’s door. “When your friend calls, he will find out.”