now, but Old Bisbee was where his mother’s brother lived, and Luis knew she didn’t want to run into him. So she stayed away from Bisbee proper, limiting her trolling to the broken-down bikers and toughs who preferred hanging out in Naco or even at that place outside Huachuca City. Luis hoped she hadn’t gone there. It was a long way away and it would make getting the car back a lot tougher.
Luis was a smart kid. At fourteen, he knew the score. He understood what his mother did for a living. Everyone else in town could pretend that Marcella Andrade kept her head above water by selling cosmetics for Avon, but Luis knew that was a lie. His mother was a whore. Men paid money to have sex with her—unprotected sex. The more men Marcella saw, the more money she and her son had for rent and groceries and gas.
Luis had learned enough in his eighth-grade sex ed classes to be scared to death about that. When his mother was drinking too much—as she usually was—she never bothered to wear her seat belt. He doubted she made her customers wear condoms, either. Marcella liked to say she was a “free spirit” and she wasn’t going to be forced into doing anything she didn’t want to do—like being a grown-up, for example. Apparently she also didn’t much like being a parent.
Sometimes Luis envied his cousin Pepe. He had two parents instead of one. They both went to Pepe’s baseball and basketball games and to his parent/teacher conferences at school. As far as Luis knew, his mother had never attended a single one. And that was probably just as well. Luis was smart and got good grades, whether she was there or not, and if Marcella showed up drunk or high, it would have been far worse for Luis than not having her there at all.
But it was his mother’s line of work, along with the hot pressing rays of the sun, that drove Luis out of bed early that Saturday morning. Careful not to make any noise so he wouldn’t disturb her, he pulled on his clothes and shoes. Then he crept out through the door, closing it softly behind him. He knew Marcella would sleep until noon at least. That gave him several hours to do what he wanted without anyone being the wiser.
Once out of the house, Luis cut out across the desert at an angle, making straight for the wash. The sooner he was in it and out of sight, the less likely he was to attract anyone’s attention. They had one neighbor in particular, Mrs. Dumas, who was always watching him and threatening to call Child Protective Services when his mother left him home alone. Not that Luis wasn’t used to that. He’d been taking care of himself for a very long time. Now, though, he was hoping to find a way to take care of his mother.
One of the things Luis did when he was home alone was watch TV. At least his mother had sprung for Basic Cable, and what Luis liked to watch more than anything was news—all kinds of news. CNN. Fox. He didn’t care. Luis liked them all.
He knew everything there was to know—at least everythingthat was reported on television—about the War on Terror and the War on Drugs. He knew about the army of illegal immigrants that came through his neighborhood every day of the year, and he knew all about what some of those border crossers had to leave behind as they lightened their loads, abandoning backpacks and debris along the way.
And that was what Luis Andrade was doing that steamy July morning—scavenging for whatever leavings there were to find. He knew it was likely that plenty of illegal travelers would have been tempted to take advantage of the previous night’s storm. They would have set out in the face of the lightning and pouring rain in hopes of evading the hordes of Border Patrol agents whose job it was to keep them from moving north. Everyone knew that Border Patrol agents were the same as everybody else. They naturally preferred sitting in the comfort of their dry vehicles to stomping around in mud and rain in search of prey.
Luis understood that
Luis was a smart kid. At fourteen, he knew the score. He understood what his mother did for a living. Everyone else in town could pretend that Marcella Andrade kept her head above water by selling cosmetics for Avon, but Luis knew that was a lie. His mother was a whore. Men paid money to have sex with her—unprotected sex. The more men Marcella saw, the more money she and her son had for rent and groceries and gas.
Luis had learned enough in his eighth-grade sex ed classes to be scared to death about that. When his mother was drinking too much—as she usually was—she never bothered to wear her seat belt. He doubted she made her customers wear condoms, either. Marcella liked to say she was a “free spirit” and she wasn’t going to be forced into doing anything she didn’t want to do—like being a grown-up, for example. Apparently she also didn’t much like being a parent.
Sometimes Luis envied his cousin Pepe. He had two parents instead of one. They both went to Pepe’s baseball and basketball games and to his parent/teacher conferences at school. As far as Luis knew, his mother had never attended a single one. And that was probably just as well. Luis was smart and got good grades, whether she was there or not, and if Marcella showed up drunk or high, it would have been far worse for Luis than not having her there at all.
But it was his mother’s line of work, along with the hot pressing rays of the sun, that drove Luis out of bed early that Saturday morning. Careful not to make any noise so he wouldn’t disturb her, he pulled on his clothes and shoes. Then he crept out through the door, closing it softly behind him. He knew Marcella would sleep until noon at least. That gave him several hours to do what he wanted without anyone being the wiser.
Once out of the house, Luis cut out across the desert at an angle, making straight for the wash. The sooner he was in it and out of sight, the less likely he was to attract anyone’s attention. They had one neighbor in particular, Mrs. Dumas, who was always watching him and threatening to call Child Protective Services when his mother left him home alone. Not that Luis wasn’t used to that. He’d been taking care of himself for a very long time. Now, though, he was hoping to find a way to take care of his mother.
One of the things Luis did when he was home alone was watch TV. At least his mother had sprung for Basic Cable, and what Luis liked to watch more than anything was news—all kinds of news. CNN. Fox. He didn’t care. Luis liked them all.
He knew everything there was to know—at least everythingthat was reported on television—about the War on Terror and the War on Drugs. He knew about the army of illegal immigrants that came through his neighborhood every day of the year, and he knew all about what some of those border crossers had to leave behind as they lightened their loads, abandoning backpacks and debris along the way.
And that was what Luis Andrade was doing that steamy July morning—scavenging for whatever leavings there were to find. He knew it was likely that plenty of illegal travelers would have been tempted to take advantage of the previous night’s storm. They would have set out in the face of the lightning and pouring rain in hopes of evading the hordes of Border Patrol agents whose job it was to keep them from moving north. Everyone knew that Border Patrol agents were the same as everybody else. They naturally preferred sitting in the comfort of their dry vehicles to stomping around in mud and rain in search of prey.
Luis understood that
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