Mexico Before the Wall
- A.L. DeNova
- Jan 7, 2018
- 5 min read
International Boundary
United States/México
Date: Thursday July 14, 1988
Time: 11:30 p.m.
THIS WAS THE WAY they had always done it. JC squeezed Carmen's hand and pulled her warm, fragrant form to him across the sticky vinyl expanse of the 1966 Chevelle. Long, dark, and sleek, Juan Carlos was aroused just looking at the tight sexuality of the Chevelle. Carmen was fun when he floored her.
"Cariño," JC smiled as he touched his warm lips to her perfumed neck, "This is so simple we'll be swimming on the beach in Coronado in two hours." He gunned the engine, the roaring V8 music to his ears. This was a trip he made so many times in his 25 years and even in his mother's womb. The drive across la frontera, one half mile from the dusty sage brush of Tecate, Mexico, through the Port of Entry at Tecate, United States.
The ease of border crossing was never wasted on JC. Within the hour he had been in another country with different laws, a different language and a more nuanced morality. Certainly, Mexico had laws. He grew to manhood learning that those laws could be dodged with the suggestive word or a less subtle stack of cash from a well-placed relative. He had many cousins who enforced Mexican laws. These same cousins, through family money and connections ensured such laws did not collide with JC. He lived only in Mexico but was glad he held his citizenship to the north. His parents had been too smart to let an accident of birth limit his future opportunities.
In the hot July air JC tasted the sage brush, dust and gas fumes. The air itself toasted out temperatures beyond one hundred and five degrees. More fragrant was his passenger for the night, Carmen Sophia Ruiz de Quintana. She was glued to him through her body heat on the gold vinyl car seat. As he approached the border north, he tried to slow his burning chest and racing pulse.
He rehearsed in his head all that he done so many times before, what Uncle Ramon Aguilar Santiago, "El Gordo" had drilled into his head: "Go through Tecate. At that lonely place only the dregs and American casts-offs are there you have nothing to declare, you are a U.S. citizen visiting your abuelita with your girlfriend and are returning to San Dimas where you live with your cousin. You own the car. Have Carmen flash a smile and show some skin," Ramon had confided. "You have nothing to worry about." It was for the family, for their business. They needed the delivery tonight for a deal later in the week. "In Tecate, make a call at the gas station. We'll give you directions from there. I will be waiting for your call."
JC had used those lines to his girlfriends at times, "I'll be waiting for your call." JC knew in his bones that Ramon really was waiting for that late-night call and that his own bones could be snapped if the right calls were not made on schedule. Nothing ran on time in Mexico except the drug smuggling.
Uncle Ramon had provided the encouragement that was needed, "El Gringo Flojo, the lazy gringo inspector, will be so much more interested in Carmen than you, the Chevelle, or more importantly, the 1000 kilos of cocaine well hidden in the trunk." JC was no virgin to this enterprise. Even so, he made sure to tell Ramon that the girl, Carmen, knew nothing of the cocaine. JC watched American TV and he saw the "War on Drugs" commercials. All those American Presidents declared on the television and the skinny wife Nancy Reagan always whined in her red dress, "Just say no." They had the money in America, they had the cops but they just let it all come in grams, kilos, and tons.
JC tuned the radio dial to his favorite English station, slowed the car and pressed his tongue deep between Carmen's welcoming lips as a preface for what would come later that night. He turned up the volume of the techno chords pulsating through the metal of the muscle car.
JC had every belief that this was going to be a lucky crossing and a very lucky night in oh so many ways. The yellow international boundary line appeared into his rear-view mirror and he slowed to a stop at the primary inspection booth welcoming JC and Carmen into The United States of America.
A grizzled ex-Marine, pressed, thin and erect in a blue United States Customs uniform, a cigarette dangling from his lips, greeted JC by stooping at the driver's window of the Chevelle.
"Good evening," the U.S. Customs inspector told JC.
"Hi," JC replied, in perfect, unaccented English. JC was not much of a student but his family paid a driver to cross him and his five school age siblings Monday through Friday for thirteen years of public education in Chula Vista, California. The results were now in, he could speak American like the native that he was. And he crossed the border like the professional border crosser that he had been schooled to be.
"Where you coming from?" asked the inspector.
“Tecate,” replied JC.
"Where are you going?"
“San Dimas.”
"Who owns the car?" asked the inspector.
“I do,” responded JC.
"Let's see the registration," demanded the inspector. JC opened up the glove box, pulled out a standard white business-sized envelope and removed the 1988 registration for the inspector. The registration showed an address in San Dimas, California. The inspector handed the registration back. JC could see the inspector's name on the blue uniform: Stewart. "Inspector Stewart?" asked JC.
Stewart shook his head, continuing "And what is your citizenship?"
JC smiled and told the inspector in perfect English, “U.S.”
"Let's see your identification," Inspector Stewart demanded.
JC unbuckled his seat belt. He bent forward and slid out a nylon surfer's wallet. He pulled out his smiling California driver's license which revealed his grey eyes, ruddy complexion, perfect teeth and dark hair that fell to his shoulders.
Stewart looked at the driver, scanned the photograph on the driver's license and then glanced up in time to see the young couple kissing. Stewart shrugged, yeah, Mexican passion, typical. Stewart cleared his throat then smiled as he saw a flash of cleavage from the young Latina in the front seat. He nodded to Carmen.
"Miss, do you have ID?" Carmen opened up her red purse, pulled out a red wallet, found her current California driver's license depicting a luscious 23-year-old girl (herself) in a halter top, with long dark hair, abundant make-up and irreverent eyes. Stewart wondered about the rest of the body that was not shown in the ID.
The inspector peered at her license. “Is that you miss?" asked Stewart, in his most passive grumble.
"Yes," Carmen nodded.
"Citizenship?" asked Stewart.
"USA," Carmen responded. "Bringing anything in from Mexico?" queried Stewart.
"No," said JC. As the driver, he answered for the two of them.
The routine of the job comforted the inspector after twenty years in the Marines. “Then you kids have a safe drive home." Stewart winked at JC and waved his hand to permit entry.
JC fingered his Jesus Malverde pendant underneath his collared cotton shirt. He mouthed the words "gracias," as he knew gratitude in the thrilling moment of entry.
Together, they passed through the Tecate Port of Entry, with a smile and an effortless wave into the land of opportunity.
Another 1,000 kilos of cocaine crossed. That was money in his pocket tonight, at the latest tomorrow. Not bad for one hour of driving. Sweeter still with Carmen by his side.
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Drink down the thrill of an eye-opening novel as astonishing and bracing as a shot of topshelf Tequila. The heartbreak and bloodshed of the Southwest Border are as common as rattlesnakes and cactus, and as memorable as your first kiss.
Read the full novel, and the continuing story in the series:
Scandal City.
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