Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [122]
“Barbiturates of some sort.” He massaged his eyes. “I’ve been sleeping so much I don’t even know what day it is. And now I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me. That Salazar bastard broke my glasses.”
“I know. It’s Sunday, June thirteenth … well, Monday, actually.” I waited for a truck to pass, then pulled onto the highway.
“Christ,” Mourning said. “Almost two weeks.” He paused. “I really owe you people. RKI’s one hell of an outfit.”
I didn’t respond to the latter comment, and neither did Hy, clearly as unwilling to go into the whole story as I was.
Hy asked, “Have the drugs pretty much worn off by now?”
“Yeah, except every move makes me feel winded and gets my heart pounding. And I’ve got a splitting headache.”
Which meant he’d require a fair amount of assistance during our crossing. I said, “We’ll get you something for your headache. Try to rest now.”
“Where’re you taking me?”
“Tijuana, then San Diego.”
Hy glanced questioningly at me.
I shook my head. I didn’t want Mourning getting anxious about the way he’d have to cross the border yet.
Tim asked, “Where’s Diane?”
“In a San Diego hospital. Do you remember anything about her being shot?”
He was silent. “I don’t remember much of anything,” he finally said. Then he lay down and closed his eyes.
I looked at Hy. His expression was as puzzled as mine must have been. The man’s wife had been shot, but he didn’t ask about her condition. Granted, he had reason to hate her, but wouldn’t that make him all the more anxious to know how badly she’d been injured? And why wasn’t he interested in whether or not she’d been arrested?
“Still in shock?” I mouthed.
Hy shrugged and slumped against the door, his hand pressing his leaking bullet wound.
Half an hour later the lights of Tijuana formed a glowing dome in the post-midnight sky. Tourist cities—sin cities, in some people’s opinion—never sleep. I said, “We’ll take Tim to Al Mojas’s house, get him some coffee and aspirin, maybe some food. Then one of us can return the car and take a cab back there.”
“I’d better; it’s rented in my name. Besides, I want to check the border control. There’s still a chance we won’t have to go over the fence.”
“You sure you feel up to that?”
“I feel up to it,”
“I don’t have to tell you to be careful.”
“You don’t have to, but thanks, I will.”
The streets of Colonia Libertad were as busy as if it were high noon. Children ran about, dogs barked, adults crowded the food stands or stood around trading shots of liquor. Many had the bundled look of would-be emigrants, wearing layer upon layer of clothing. I drove to the corner house with the palm tree and the statue of the Virgin Mary in its front yard, parked and left the keys in the ignition. Then I went to help Tim Mourning on the next step of his journey home.
2:36 A.M.
“I don’ know, I just don’ know.” Al Mojas sat across the rickety kitchen table from Mourning and me, shaking his head. The room had a linoleum floor so worn that its original color was indiscernible; pink paint was peeling off the walls in scales. On the iron cookstove, a pot of spicy tomato sauce simmered. Mojas’s wife, a heavyset woman named Nita, had been in and out of the room half a dozen times to stir it and offer us food. I’d declined because I wasn’t hungry; Mourning had said he didn’t feel well enough to eat. Nita fussed and kept pouring us more coffee until Al told her to get out and stay out.
“What don’t you know?” I asked him.
“You got a guy here”—he gestured at Mourning—“so stoned he can’t walk right. I’m all set to go when you get here, but now where’s the others? I tell you, this whole thing’s looking fuckin’ iffy.”
“The other man’ll be here soon.” I glanced at Mourning, who leaned heavily on the table, mug of coffee in a death grip. I wasn’t sure he comprehended the situation, although I’d explained it to him after we came inside the house. “This one will make it just fine,” I added with far more confidence than I felt.
“I don’ know,” Mojas said again. “You knocked my price way down. And now I got this dummy.” He shot