– I already sent it.

– What?

– I already.

– Where?

– To your apartment. It should be there the day after tomorrow.

– Man. Man! I cannot believe you fucking. Fine! Fine! It can get here whenever it wants, but I will not be here to receive. You got me? I will not be here. Good-bye.

But he doesn’t hang up.

– Did you hear me? I said good-bye.

I take a last drag off my smoke, drop it on the ground, and crush the butt.

– Someone found me, Timmy. He found me and threatened my parents and I killed him. And now I’m coming home.

– Oh, shit.

I EXPLAIN how it will work. How FedEx employs customs brokers who usher their customers’ goods through U.S. Customs, pay all duty and taxes, and have the package delivered right to the recipient’s door along with a bill for services and fees. I tell him all the paperwork is in more than shipshape, that the only danger is if the package is singled out for a random search. I tell him I don’t know the odds against that, but he’d have a better chance hitting the jackpot on one of those million-dollar slots.

– I’m not sure how long it will take me to cross over, but I hope to be in California by early next week. All you have to do.

– Shit, maaaaaaan.

– All you have to do is hang on to the package, just stick it in a closet until I call and then you’ll just call FedEx and have them pick it up and bring it to me.

– Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!

– I’ll… listen. When you get a page from number code four-four-four followed by a phone number, that’ll be me. Just call me at that number and.

– Can’t you come get it yourself?

– I need to stay with my folks, Tim. Until I can figure out a way to deal with the Russians, I need to stay and keep an eye on my folks.

– Yeah, OK.

– And, Timmy, listen to me. If someone does come for it, I mean the law or the Russians, all I want you to do is give it to them and just sell me out. Nothing is gonna happen, but if it does, do whatever you have to do to stay alive and out of jail. Anything they want. Got it?

– Oh, I got that part, you bet I do.

– OK. So what else, is there anything else?

– Couldn’t you come straight here instead and just?

– No. You know I can’t.

– Yeah, right. Look, just take care of your folks. I gotta go.

This time he does hang up.

THERE’S THE usual collection of sunbathers spread around the beach, and a few hanging around the bar. Pedro is flipping burgers on the grill. I park the Willys next to The Bucket and get out. Pedro waves his spatula at me.

– Hola.

– Hey.

I go behind the bar, grab myself a seltzer from the tub, and go stand next to him at the grill.

– You get a chance to talk with your brother?

– I called.

He gives the burgers a flip. They look good. I open the cooler, rip off a lump of ground chuck, and start kneading it into a patty.

– What’d he say?

– Nada.

– He can’t help?

– He didn’t say anything.

I throw my patty on the grill as Pedro crumbles queso blanco on top of the ones he’s making.

– He didn’t say anything?

– Si.

I watch the cheese melting.

– Why didn’t he say anything?

– He was not home.

He chortles as he scoops the patties off the grill and onto buns. I grab the spatula from him as he places the burgers on paper plates with a handful of tortilla chips on the side and takes them to the folks at the bar. I poke my burger around the grill while he opens a few beers for his customers. He comes back and takes the spatula from me.

– You have to… You move it and… aplastar?

– Uh.

– Aplastar. Like this.

He makes little pressing motions with the spatula.

– Squash?

– Yeah! You squash the poor thing. All the juice, the good part, you squash it out. You got to wait. Tranquilo.

So I wait while he lets the burger cook, puts the cheese on it, toasts the bun, and hands it to me when it’s all done. And he’s right: I do try to rush the things and they’re never as good as his. Pedro makes a great burger.

– So do you know when he’s gonna be back?

– Back?

– Leo.

– He’ll come tonight. Talk to you.

– Cool.

I stand there and eat my burger while he looks at me funny.

– You going to talk to them?

– Who?

– Them.

He points up the beach toward my bungalow. And for the first time I look that way and see the white police Bronco parked out front and the two guys in blue uniforms sitting on the porch. Sergeants Morales and Candito.

I drive over. They stand up and brush off the seats of their pants.

– Senor.-

– Buenos tardes, Sargentos.

I gesture toward the front door.

– Entrar?

– Si.

– Si, gracias.

I don’t really want to invite them in, but it would be monumentally rude not to, especially seeing as I am perfectly innocent, have nothing to hide, and want only to help these men to do their job. I open the door, usher them into the cool shade inside, and we all stand there for a moment.

– Bebidos?

– Si.

– Si, gracias.

So I get us all lukewarm bottles of Jaritos from a cabinet and we all take a sip and Sergeant Candito looks at Sergeant Morales and tips his head in my direction and Sergeant Morales slaps his forehead.

– Si, si, claro.

And he pulls my passport out of his pocket and hands it to me. We all have a nice chat. It’s a hard chat because there’s no translator this time, but pidgin Spanish and pidgin English win out.

When we’re all done they have assured me that all is well. They are so sorry they have inconvenienced me. I’m starting to relax a little, and Bud comes scampering out from under the bed.

Candito squats down.

– Ay, gato.

He pets Bud, then stands up.

– He is a nice cat for you?

– Yeah.

And I can’t help but notice that Sergeant Candito now has a look in his eye as if he’s just run into someone whose face he should know, but he can’t quite remember why.

LEO COMES by after dark. He sits on my porch and sips Carta Blanca. I smoke and tell him exactly what I need. Leo listens, nods his head when I’m through.

– When?

– Tomorrow?

Leo shakes his head.

– No, man, too soon.

– Day after?

He squints, stares out at the water.

– Yeah, I think so.

– How much?

He shrugs.

– For me, nada. But something for Rolf, some other people…

– How much?

– Ten thousand U.S.

I go inside, come back out and hand him twenty thousand.

– And ten for you.

He looks at the money.

– I don’t want that.

– Leo.

– Fuck you, I don’t want it.

– Leo.

He peels off ten grand and tosses the rest back at me. I set it on the porch next to his knee.

– Leo, it’s gonna be dangerous.

– Chinga! What do I fucking do for a living, maricone?

– More dangerous than that, it could get. People, the people who are looking for me might come around. You might have to hide for a little while if they do.

– Hide? Fucking!

He starts spewing Spanish, stuff about me and my mother and pigs and what I can do with my money and what he’d do to anyone who came around and thought they could make him hide. He runs out of steam after a couple minutes, drains the rest of his beer, starts to say something else, stops himself, and throws the empty bottle toward the water. We hear it thunk down in the sand.

I get up and walk over, pick it up and bring it back. I sit down and nudge the money closer to him with my toe.

– If they come. They’ll be killers if they come, Leo. Take the money. I’m a pussy little girl and it will make me feel better if you take the money.

He snorts. I start talking in a high voice.