Body Heat

She wrote that down. “And your friends?”

“Juan and Miguel Martinez.”

As soon as she’d recorded this, she eyed Enrique’s friends. “Can you tell me who these people are?”

They looked confused until Enrique jumped in. “Juan y Miguel no hablan inglés, señorita. I translate. But first, we talk price. One hundred U.S.” He tapped Juan’s shoulder, then Miguel’s and then his own chest to make sure she understood that they each expected one hundred American dollars.

Sitting back, she folded her arms. “That’s more than I offered.”

A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. “We have to live, to eat. And we have to pay the police, no?”

Juan and Miguel seemed to understand that Enrique was arguing for higher pay. They made noises of agreement.

She arched her eyebrows. “You expect me to cover your bribes?”

“They have to be paid or we no work.”

Some coyotes made several thousand dollars a week even after they shelled out the standard ten percent to the Mexican military and police. Many camped along the border, sometimes for days at a time, tracking border agent activity, searching for any vulnerability. Among other things, the bribes helped insure that the Mexican police wouldn’t interfere with their reconnaissance. But if Enrique went to the extra effort of scouting the guards, Sophia had a feeling he wasn’t too successful. “There are no snitches here to tell anyone about our deal,” she pointed out. “Why get greedy?”

His pitiable expression changed to grave. “They will find out. Soplónes…snitches…they are everywhere.”

An additional hundred wasn’t enough to argue about, not when it was getting so late. Sophia calculated the amount of money she had in her pocket. “I have two hundred and fifty-three dollars. That’s all. Take it or leave it. And I’ll pay you only after you’ve given me what I want.” If they could give her what she wanted. She had no delusions; these men would cheat her if they could.

They conferred and quickly agreed, as she’d expected them to. Everything in Mexico was negotiable. “Gracias, señorita.”

“What can you tell me?” she asked.

“Nombres.” Enrique nudged Juan, who pointed at the two pictures.

“José y Benita.”

Sophia’s heart began to race. She hadn’t mentioned that she knew the man’s first name. Enrique wasn’t trying to con her. He’d found the people she needed to talk to.

“Can you give me a last name?”

Her words made no sense to Juan, but Enrique explained.

“Sanchez” came the response.

“José and Benita Sanchez,” she repeated. “He’s sure?”

“Sí.” All three men nodded in agreement and apparent satisfaction.

“Does he also remember where they’re from?”

Again, Enrique addressed his companions before responding. “Nayarit.”

Sophia didn’t recognize the location. Despite growing up so close to the border, she’d spent very little time in Mexico and hadn’t studied it except as it related to basic American history. “That’s a city?”

“A state.”

“Where? Is it far?”

“Sí,” Enrique answered soberly. “It is south, near the ocean.”

The two men at the front table leaned toward each other, talking. They paused every now and then, their eyes shooting imaginary daggers at Sophia. They weren’t happy that she’d found the help she needed. But she ignored them. She’d decide what to do about them later. “How did they get here from so far away?”

“Probably by bus.” He checked with Juan, who agreed. Bus was easy to understand in either language.

Juan’s brother spoke up, and Enrique listened to what he had to say before passing it on. “Miguel, he go to meet them when they arrive.”

“When was that? How long ago?”

There was more conversation between them, and Sophia heard the word cuatro, which made sense when Enrique answered, “Four days. They rest at hotel on Thursday. Friday, they wait for night. And then—”

“Which hotel?” she broke in.

“Hotel California. That way.” He motioned to indicate south.

“And then what?” she asked.

“And then Juan and Miguel, they pick them up at—” there was a rapid burst of Spanish before he finished “—seven-thirty.”

“Just them? Or were there others?”

This question was passed on before it was answered. “Many others. A…” He rubbed his hands together as he again struggled to find the right English word. “A…group. About thirty.”

“That many?” she asked in surprise.

“Sí. Mucho. Is better.”

Sophia could see that there might be some safety in numbers. She also knew that coyotes often sent out smaller groups as decoys to confuse the patrol officers. But if the CBP couldn’t keep groups of thirty from crossing the border, America didn’t have much hope of stopping illegal immigration. “Who else was in this group? Can he give me a list of names?”

The men discussed this but Enrique ultimately shook his head. “No, señorita. Some names, maybe. He take groups two, three times a week, you understand? He no remember every one.”

“He remembered Benita and José.”

“Because she was muy bonita—pretty, eh? And scared. He tried to talk to her, to calm her. And her esposo, her husband, he no like it.”

Okay, so the Sanchezes’ youth, looks and relationship had set them apart, made them memorable. That was encouraging. What else could she get from these men while she had the chance? Because of the language barrier, it wasn’t as if they’d volunteer information. She had to ask for it. “Where did Juan and Miguel take this group? Where did they cross?”

“There is an abandoned cattle rancho. About cinco kilometers from here. They go there to cross, after the fence turns to barbwire.” He walked two fingers across the table to make sure she understood that they went on foot.

Sophia tried to imagine what that day must’ve been like for José and his wife. Leaving their families, their home. Arriving in this dirty town from somewhere deep in Mexico, a place that was bound to be cleaner if not more affluent. Being met by Miguel and shown to a hotel to wait for night. Being taken to a ranch and herded across the border like cattle. Being chased by the CBP.

“If José and Benita left with thirty people, how’d they end up alone?” she asked. “How is it that Juan and Miguel are sitting here alive and well, and this couple is dead?”

“La Migra,” he said simply.