15. Illegal Alien

Tillie turned onto the Maricopa road, passed through the gate and over the cattle guard, and rattled on to the parking lot. As they climbed out of the truck, she told Nqong, “We’re early, but Mick’s already here. That’s his Beemer. Good. You can go in and deal with the paperwork and still be on Herbie’s platform at the start of the work day. You don’t want to be late for work when you’re working for Herbie. He tends to take it personal.”

“Thank you,” Nqong said. “For everything.”

“There’s more where that came from,” Tillie told him with a blush and a grin. She turned and headed around the back of Mick’s parked mobile home to the lunch counter.

Nqong walked over to the mobile home and knocked on the door. He heard steps, and then the door opened. Mick nodded and said. “Oh yeah. Kong, right?”

“Nqong.”

“Right. Come on in.” The mobile home consisted of one large room, which served as a simple office, with a desk, a filing cabinet, a typing table, and four folding metal chairs. The office was furnished with track lighting and a telephone. The venetian blinds on the windows were shut, and one window contained an air conditioner, which was already humming. Mick set a metal chair in front of his desk, then walked behind the desk, sat down, and placed a yellow pad in front of him. He picked up a ball point pen.

“Spell your name.”

“N-Q-O-N-G.”

Mick wrote the name at the top of the page. “Is that your first or last name?”

“Only.”

“Got a Social?”

“A what?”

Mick tapped the pen on the pad. “Social Security Number.”

“I don’t have one,” Nqong said.

“Then how am I supposed to put you on the payroll? Are you a United States citizen?”

“No. But I’ve lived in this country for more than fifty years.”

“Green card?”

“What’s that?”

“Do you have a passport?” Mick sighed and stared.

“No.” Nqong stared back.

“Driver’s license?”

“No. But I can drive.”

Mick laid his pen down and frowned. “I can’t hire you, buddy. You’re an illegal. Fact is, I’m supposed to report you. I’m supposed to call the sheriff and hold you here till they come and take you to Taft and book you, and they’ll keep you in jail till the INS gets there and picks you up and deports you to where you came from. Which is where, by the way? Where did you come from?”

“Hope Springs,” Nqong said.

“Hope Springs where?”

“Tecolote Valley. Mathilda Springs before that.”

“Where is that?”

“Nowhere. It was blown up.”

“Never mind.” Mick sighed. “I won’t bust you. Just go back out the way you came in, and don’t make any trouble. You got that?”

“You’re not hiring me,” Nqong said.

“That’s right. Get off the property, and I won’t turn you in.”

“You have my bag,” Nqong reminded him. “My stuff.”

“Oh, yeah.” Mick rose from the desk, went to a cupboard, and pulled out Nqong’s valise, which he handed over to Nqong.

Nqong accepted the valise, but did not turn to leave.

Mick said, “What?”

Nqong said, “I worked yesterday. Do I get paid?”

“Shit, man, will you just get out of here?”

“Shit, man, will you just pay me what I earned?”

Mick shook his head, puffed up his cheeks, sat back down at his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. He handed the money to Nqong and said, “Get out of here before I call the police. If I ever see you again, or if you ever give me any grief, you’re going to jail. Is that perfectly clear?”

Nqong stepped out of the mobile home into a day that was fast becoming hot. He walked around back to the lunch counter and set his valise down on the concrete terrace. Tillie came out front, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Inngg Kong, you better get over there and report to work. Herbie’s already at his station. You don’t want to piss him off. You want me to hold onto that bag of yours?”

Nqong shook his head. “I stopped here to say goodbye. I’m leaving.”

“You’re what? Why? Where are you going? Inngg Kong, what happened?”

“I’m an illegal.”

“So? That means you work for cheap. Mick hires illegals all the time. What’s the big deal?”

“I have to leave.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know.”

Tillie shook her head. “Oh boy. Go back to the parking lot and wait by my truck. I’ll be there in a minute. I just have to lock up.”

———

Tillie opened the door to her apartment and ushered Nqong inside. She turned on the air conditioner. “You stay inside here, okay? Stay inside till I get back at the end of the day. Lock the door and make yourself comfortable. Help yourself to anything in the fridge. Shit. Don’t leave this apartment, you hear me?”

“What should I do?” Nqong asked.

“I don’t know yet. We’ll think of something. Did Mick pay you for yesterday?”

Nqong nodded and pulled the twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket.

“Let me see that.”

Nqong handed the twenty to her. She inspected it with widening eyes. “Holy shit, this money is dated 1927. It’s a gold certificate! An antique.” She turned it over. “Mick gave you this? It’s over fifty years old. It’s probably worth a lot of money. This could be your lucky day, my friend.” She handed the twenty back to Nqong, and he stuffed it back into his pocket.

“Okay. So wait here. Door locked. You promise?”

“I promise.”

Tillie gripped his beard with both hands, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed his nose. “You’re going to be okay. I promise you.”

She left, closing the door behind her.

Nqong carried Professor Livingston’s valise back to Tillie’s bed and opened it up. He pulled out all of his clothing, and looked at the old man’s treasures: the hunting knife, the tweezers, the ring of useless keys, the gold-rimmed spectacles. And fourteen copies of Organism of My Delight.

The old man’s United States currency was not in the valise.