I kneel by the side of the walk and dig in my pack, making sure there’s nothing in it with any of my names. I take out my Steinbeck and put it in one of the thigh pockets of my pants, then walk to a trash barrel and dump the pack. At another vendor’s stall I buy a serape and an ashtray shaped like a sombrero. There’s also a liquor store, where I get a bottle of mescal. I put on my sunglasses and walk into the border station.

The line is long but moves fast. The American officers thoroughly check the ID on anybody brown, but give just a quick eyeball for most of the white people. My turn at the front of the line comes.

– Nationality?

– U.S.

– ID.

I hand him Carlyle’s driver’s license, not knowing at all what will happen. The Man Who Got Away was published about a year after I left New York. Cramer says I disappeared virtually without a trace and that the NYPD and FBI assume I was either killed by rivals or fled the country. But that doesn’t mean he was right about what the authorities really knew, or that they haven’t put together more information since the book came out. For all I know, the name Carlyle being entered into an Immigration computer could open a trapdoor beneath my feet and send me dropping into a hole with Charlie Manson.

The Immigration officer looks at the license.

– Can you take off your sunglasses please, Mr. Carlyle?

– Sure, dude.

I push them up on my head.

– How long you been down?

– Friday.

He looks at the license again.

– From New York?

Fuck me.

– Naw, I lived out there for a while, but I came back after the economy tanked.

– Where’s back?

– Fresno.

– You know this is expired?

– Yeah, dude, but I don’t have a car anyway. I’m living with my folks right now. No work. Took the bus here.

I flash my Greyhound ticket.

– OK, but once it’s expired, a license is no longer valid ID.

– Dude! No! Shit!

– It’s OK, but get it renewed before you come back down.

– Yeah, right. Thanks, man.

He passes it back.

– Anything to declare?

I hold my shopping bag open.

– Some crap for my folks.

– OK. Have a nice day.

– Yeah, you too, dude.

I drop the sunglasses over my eyes, cross over onto American soil for the first time in three years, and see the camoed special forces types with black berets and automatic weapons. Well, that’s new.

ACROSS THE border, I walk past the Greyhound terminal and follow the signs for the trolley to downtown San Diego. It costs two bucks and takes about forty-five minutes. Having just shown that Immigration officer my ticket, I have no intention of getting on another bus. I don’t want to risk flashing the Carlyle ID anymore, so flying is out, and I don’t have any credit cards to rent a car. What I do have is a little over four grand in cash.

As we enter the city we pass through a couple sketchy neighborhoods that look promising. I hop off at 12th and Market and stand on the corner in front of a liquor store. I see a couple coin-operated news racks across the street and step off the curb. I’m in the middle of the crosswalk when I register something I saw back on the corner. I stop, turn, take a step, and almost get sail-frogged by a heavily primered VW Westphalia. The bus swerves around me, missing by inches, and I get to the sidewalk and light up. Three years of Mexico have killed my traffic instincts.

I walk over to the little stucco house behind the liquor store and it’s there in the driveway: a pale yellow 1968 BMW 1600 with a For Sale sign in the window and a sense of desperation in the air. I look back over my shoulder at the newspaper racks. Screw the Auto Trader. God knows how long that might take. I walk up to the front door and ring the bell. A little girl, maybe five years old, opens up and stands there behind the screen door. I smile.

– Hey, is your mom or dad home?

She slams the door in my face. I raise my hand to ring again, decide against it, and start for the street. I hear the door open behind me.

– What?

I turn. There’s another girl there, this one about seventeen.

– Yeah, I wanted to know about the car. I asked your sister if your folks were home.

– Daughter.

– Right. She’s a beautiful girl.

– Uh-huh.

– So. The car?

– What about it?

– It’s for sale?

– Yeah.

– Is it yours?

– Yeah.

– How much you want for it?

– Five.

– Does it run?

– Yeah.

– Can we start it up?

She squints at me.

– You a process server?

– Uh, no.

– ’Cause if I come out there and you try to stick some fucking piece of paper in my hand, I’m gonna take it and ram it up your ass.

– I am not a process server.

– I’ll get the keys.

The car starts right up. She switches on the radio to show that it works, tells me the brakes need fluid, and asks if I want to take it around the block. I pop the hood, make sure the oil is full and not too black, quickly eyeball the plugs, fiddle with the carburetor for a second to even out the flow, and shake my head.

– No test drive, I’ll take it as is, four hundred.

She turns the key, switching off the engine, and nods.

– OK, but I need a ride before you take it.

Christ.

– Where?

– ’Bout a mile. I need to drop my daughter at her dad’s place.

Last thing I need is this girl sitting in the car with me for a mile, and getting a good look at my face.

– Look, I’m sorry, but I really need to get rolling.

– C’mon, give us a ride. Otherwise I got to call the son of a bitch to come get her and he’ll take all day coming over and I’ll never get to work on time ’cause I got to take the bus now ’cause I’m selling you the car and I’m knocking a hundred off it for you anyway.

Oh, man.

– OK. I’ll give you a ride, but let’s get going.

– Thanks. My name’s Leslie. Pink slip’s inside.

The daughter is sitting on the floor in front of the tube watching MTV. A girl her mom’s age is shoving her ass into the camera. Leslie points at a chair.

– Wait here.

She goes into a bedroom and I can see her take a box down off a shelf in the closet. I stand next to the chair and watch the girl watch TV. The video ends and she becomes aware of me.

– You like Britney?

– Not really.

– I used to like her, but now she’s all dirty.

– Looks that way.

– You like Christina?

– Not really.

– My mom likes her.

– Who do you like?

– Eminem. Do you like him?

– Sometimes.

Her eyes are locked on the screen as she flips channels. Leslie walks back into the room, a massive black purse over her shoulder and a pink slip in her hand.

– Got the money?

I slip some bills out of my pocket and count out four hundred. She takes it and looks at the rest of the cash in my hands.

– You a dealer?

– No.

– Hn.

She hands me the pink slip, already signed, and I put it in my back pocket. She puts the cash in her purse and looks at her daughter.

– Cassidy, turn that off, we’re gonna go to daddy’s.

Cassidy switches off the TV, gets up, and walks out the front door without looking at her mom.

– She’s a little pissed at me right now because I told her we had to get rid of the cable.

– Right.

I wait on the porch while she locks the door, twists the BMW key off the ring, and hands it to me. I point at the trunk.

– Anything you need to get out?

– Some tapes in the glove box, you can have ’em.

– OK.

Cassidy scrambles into the backseat, Leslie gets in front and looks over her shoulder.

– Put on your belt, honey.

Cassidy sighs loudly but buckles up and we do the same. I start the BMW and pull into the street. At the first stop sign I tread lightly on the brake pedal and roll halfway through the intersection before we stop. I pull us the rest of the way across and look at Leslie.