The Coyote's Bicycle by Kimball Taylor

Author:Kimball Taylor
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tin House Books

17

El Indio, Javy, Juan, and Solo prepared to pass nine pollos through the little canyon across from the Comercial Mexicana. It was about ten on a weekday morning. The blue sky was striated with the last bands of a tropical storm that had withered and diffused hundreds of miles away. The air still hung thick with scents of the southern latitudes. Indio’s crew had progressed to crossing in broad daylight as long as all of the other factors came into agreement. The high visibility left an even tighter margin for error, so they arrived earlier than usual. Each bike was double-checked, and the migrants seemed eager.

East along the fence, a tan-colored pit mine defaced the west side of Bunker Hill. It didn’t seem so much like a pit, rather as if someone had cut the rounded hill with a cake knife and taken a piece. The border fence looked dangerously close to falling in with the sage and scrub as trucks withdrew more and more cobbles and dirt. The access road that served this operation also dipped down into the canyon, almost to the polleros’ camp. Betraying its scarce use, however, the rutted track dwindled and died out before it reached El Indio and his band of gold miners.

At about 10:15 AM, a white-and-blue Tijuana police truck entered the access road at the dirt excavation. It was not an uncommon sight. The polleros knew that cops often chased vagabundos and indigentes up the hill. The hurry-scurry was entertaining but not dramatic—like obese terriers loping after lizards. But this particular vehicle slowed at the entrance, and then descended toward the fence. The smugglers caught the faces of a familiar officer and his female partner. This pair sometimes brought bicycles they’d snatched from riders they’d stopped on minor infractions—leaving the commuters to hoof it. Indio and his workers paid $100 for each of these stolen bikes, and considered it a pretty good deal to receive a bicycle out of what was essentially an extortion situation. They could easily have gained nothing and still had to pay. Locally, the cop was known as Gordito—Little Fatty. He was chubby, the partner even more so. Along with the bikes, Gordito sometimes brought pollos he’d stolen off of area recruiters. He received $150 for each of these. The victimized enganchador, in order to smooth business relationships, was also paid by Indio, receiving $100 for each of the pollos stolen and delivered by Gordito.

The police truck stopped at the end of the track. Gordito and the female officer stepped out and walked into the declivity where the polleros waited. Gordito rested his hands on his gun belt the way a man might hold the rails of a rowboat in risky seas. The woman proceeded with outstretched arms while gazing at her feet, a fat lady balancing on a line. Their dark uniforms could not mask the darker marks in the armpits.

“Hola, muchachos,” Gordito called, his breath heavy and short.

The timing was particularly bad. If he’d come about some pollos he wanted to sell, it was too late to check them out.

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