Payroll by William James Johnson Chapter 25

Rona saw a marked improvement in Silky since he had resolved to change his life. For the first time, he was willing to trust others. As his hope soared, he was convinced they would find the child somehow, and be able to raise him as their own. She was afraid his new determination to return to the US would get him into serious trouble. Despite his confidence in his simple, but well meaning Mexican friend, Rona doubted that Fernando could carry out such a dangerous mission. After much soul searching, she decided to confront the farmer.
"I'm afraid if Silky goes back across the border with you to find Pedro, he may be turned over to the police. He won't listen to me Fernando. He's determined to find that little boy at any cost. What am I going to do?"
"I have a cousin who works in records at customs. He owes me a favour. Leave it to me Senora Rona. I'll have him check his machine and see if they have anything on Senor Silky."
"You'll need his full name."
"What do you mean?"
"His real name is Stanislaus Zylkowski."
"Wowie! That is some name. I see now why he likes to be called Silky. Please write it down and I'll take it to my cousin Tomaso. I'll do it tonight, when not many people are working."
Tomaso was careful with the spelling of the strange sounding name, looking carefully at the keys and the screen, as he entered each letter. Suddenly the warning lights flashed and the bells rang. Fernando was glad there were only the two of them when the computer had its fit.
"Corporal Stanislaus Zylkowski, formerly accounts clerk, stationed at Canadian Forces Base Riel, and a woman companion known as Rona, waitress, wanted by the RCMP of Canada and the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation, in connection with an army payroll robbery in Southern Saskatchewan. Also wanted for questioning in the theft of a Cherokee aircraft and attempted murder of its owner. Approach with caution. Suspects are armed and dangerous."
The Mexicans looked at each other, not knowing what to say.
"I can erase the file Fernando, but not without alerting all the other border computers. What do you want me to do?"
"Change nothing Tomaso. Give me the paper with the message and I will take it to him. And promise me cousin, you will tell no one about this...Ever."
"I swear Fernando...on my mother's grave..."
"But cousin, your mother is not dead."
"If she were dead, I would swear...oh you know what I mean. None of this has happened. We are even now my friend."
"Yes we are even. Thank you Tomaso."
"He knew his cousin would keep their secret. Mexicans in border towns have an inborn hatred of the Federales, and their dishonest exploitation of simple people. It was this exploitation which had left Tomaso in Fernando's debt in the first place.
Down deep, Fernando felt guilty about obtaining this report behind Silky's back. He would have been happier not knowing about his friend's problems with the law. As he saw it, everyone has a problem with the police at some time in his life. It was now Silky's turn.
After much persuasion Rona convinced him he had not betrayed his good friend, but instead, had helped keep him safe. Unless they gave Silky a good reason for staying in Mexico, he would risk being picked up at the border in his desperation to find the child. Fernando felt much better when Silky thanked him for taking such a chance getting this vital information. He agreed to stay in Tijuana until he could get new identity papers. A border crossing at this time was too risky.
"You're right about the danger, and waiting for new ID would take too long. If we're to have any chance of finding the boy, we've got to do it now. I'll stay here like you say. Going together would risk your neck as well as mine. You'll have to go alone."
"Do not worry. I promise I'll do whatever I can to find him and bring him back."
"I know you will. I only wish I were going with you. And call me no matter what you find...Call collect...Everyday. I must know what's happening."
"God will help us find him."
"Good luck amigo."
Silky offered him the use of his new jeep instead of the old truck, but he was afraid it would attract too much attention. Before dawn, carrying a partial load of chickens, he headed for the market in San Diego. He wanted so much to succeed, but if the truth were known, he really had no idea where to start.
The market was buzzing when he arrived. Unsure how to begin his search, he parked his truck, and spent several hours wandering amongst the other farmers, asking everyone if they knew anything about a young Mexican half-bred called Pedro. He felt he might arouse suspicion if he began asking about child smuggling. As the day wore on, he became more and more depressed. Not one lead, after all his attempts. Many knew of the boy, but no one had seen him for weeks. The day had not been a total loss. At least he sold all his chickens.
Stacking the empty cages on his truck, he wondered how he would be able to face Silky.
"Hey! Fernando, my friend. Where have you been? It's been weeks since you came to market."
"Too much work back home."
Carlos Velasquez was a well respected leather craftsman and artist of note who lived in the hills south of Tijuana. Both men had been coming to the San Diego market for years, and were more acquaintances than friends.
"With that large family of yours, I wonder what you're doing for money these days when you're not selling chickens."
"Me and my sons are making my place bigger. Soon my oldest son will be able to come to market for me, and I'll just stay home and count my money."
"That'll never happen my friend on your kind of chickens."
"What do you mean, my kind of chickens?"
"I know a man who is, how do Americanos call him, 'feelthy rich'. He made it all selling chicken."
"If he can do it selling chickens, then I can do it too, with my chickens."
"You don't understand. You're just a poor farmer. I'm not talking about the same kind of chickens. This man became rich with different chickens."
"Another kind?...What other kind Carlos?"
"The kind of chicken you are looking for. My friends told me about it."
"I don't understand."
"Little boys like the half-breed Pedro."
"You know Pedro?"
"I don't know him, but I know of a man who might know him."
"Why do you call Pedro a chicken?"
"That's what they're called amigo. Rich men pay much money to have these young boys. They're called chicken because they're so tender...so innocent. Very rich men who own thousands of acres of orchards and vineyards, buy these kids and keep them as slaves to work for nothing but their food. They do all kinds of terrible things to these poor little ones. There's no one to stop them once they have bought them."
"I don't understand."
"Once they own them, they can do whatever they want with them, even kill them."
"Kill them!...Why would they do such a terrible thing?"
"As the children get older, they try to escape. These beasts would rather destroy them, then risk being caught. A shallow grave with a bag of lime is all it takes to make another young Mexican rot in the powerful USA. It is a hellish racket my friend. I'm sorry I had to tell you. But this is what could happen to Pedro."
Fernando was stunned by his story.
"Is this true Carlos?"
"It is all true...Money has no morality."
"They buy these babies and kill them?"
"That's what they do after they've stopped being useful. I've never been a religious man like you Fernando, but I know the work of the devil when I see it. Believe me amigo, we are living in the last days. I hope to God the street-boy is still alive."
"You've got to help me find him Carlos. I'll pay you whatever you want. Please! I beg you."
"What could you pay me? You're nothing but a poor farmer who can hardly keep his family fed."
"That's not true. Me and Lucia take very good care of our family. Help me get the boy back."
"I'm sorry. I did not mean to get your hopes up. I know nothing of the boy. I know people who trade in little boys. That's why I came to talk to you. When the others told me about you spending the whole day asking about Pedro, I knew you must be very worried."
"I'd be so grateful amigo. Tell me of these men who sell children. Maybe one of them could help me find the boy. I've just got to get him back."
"You already have more children than you can care for."
Fernando didn't like the way Carlos kept characterizing him as a poor farmer. If it had been any other time, he who'd have shown his anger, but he couldn't risk losing the help of the only person who might be able to get Pedro back.
"My children want him. He lived for awhile in my house, then disappeared. It is for them and my good wife, I've got to find him." His voice trembled as he spoke.
"Easy my friend. You're so tense. Come to my pickup and have some tequila. Then we'll talk about the boy."
As they walked towards his truck, they saw that most of the farmers had already left. What had been alive with commerce just an hour ago, was now a large empty lot, strewn with cabbage leaves and discarded carrot tops.
"Take a good drink Fernando while I tell you about the man who trades in 'chicken'. His name is Sanchez, a monster of a man. His face is bloated like a pig, with great veins running up the sides of his fat head. That swell up when he's angry. Not only is he huge, but he's extremely powerful. It is said he squeezed a man's throat so hard, his eyes popped out. Sanchez is very dangerous."
"I'm not afraid. I must meet this man. Where can I find him?"
"Easy my friend. It is the tequila talking. No one wants to meet Sanchez."
"But I must...please tell me Carlos, where does this Sanchez live?"
"With all his money, he has a house on each side of the border. You cannot get near because he has many men who guard him all the time. He has many enemies."
"How do you know all this?"
"I am also his enemy. I'm ashamed to tell you, but at one time I worked for Sanchez."
"You helped him sell our little children?"
"Yes amigo, but I had no idea what he was doing with them. I thought he was bringing them to orphanages where they would be adopted into fine gringo homes. I was so wrong. It is impossible for me to sleep thinking of what terrible things are happening to them."
"What kind of work did you do for Sanchez?"
"I made a leather rocking horse for him, that opened up. It was big. Almost like a real horse. It could hold two small boys in its stomach. He said it was to be a surprise for a very rich Americano. I had to sew up the horse so that no one would rip it open."
"But the children...how did they breathe?"
"Through the horse's mouth. This rich man's toy was shipped with many other fine things on a truck. It got past the inspectors without being ripped open."
"Where did it go?"
"I followed the truck in my pickup. It was sent to an orphanage in San Francisco. Sanchez made me go with the horse so that I could let the children out after it arrived. One of the young boys died in the horse and the other was almost dead. It was then I realized how rotten it all was. I have lived with this secret for many months. I see the limp body of that child when I close my eyes. It was the worst thing I have ever done. I found out later that some men who supply money to the orphanage were given their pick of the children, no questions asked. The world is decaying my friend."
"This is terrible."
"I know. My soul will burn in the fires of hell for what I did."
"Why Carlos? Why would you do such a terrible thing?"
"Because I wanted money. Pig face paid me ten thousand pesos for my work. I am so ashamed. That is why when I heard you were asking about Pedro, I wanted to help."
"So how can you help me?"
"I will take you to Sanchez' home on this side of the border. I don't know if he'll be there, but we have to start somewhere. We must take the ferry boat across the harbour to Coronado. He has a big house near the naval base. You can leave your truck here and we'll go in mine."
"This is more than I could ask for. You are a very good man Carlos."
"I wish I were. I'm not doing this just for you and your family. I'm doing it for myself. If I can stop just one boy from being ruined by that swine, I might be able to sleep again."
"Then let us go to his house...now."
"First my friend I will take you to a real Mexican restaurant, where we will have a nice supper and some more tequila."
"I can't eat. I just want to find the boy."
"There you go again. You're so anxious, that I'm afraid you might make a mistake. We will not take the boat until it gets dark. There is no way I want to be snooping outside Sanchez' estate in daylight. It is too dangerous."
"You are right Carlos. I'll do it your way. Let's go and eat."
"After supper, we'll get ourselves a motel for the night. By then it should be good and dark."
"Are we not going home after our work is done?"
"We have to stay. There's no way to get off the island until the morning ferry."
After a leisurely meal and much conversation, loosened by their favourite drink, they took the last ferry. Before leaving the wharf, Fernando called Silky to check in. He was thrilled to hear the news, scant as it was. Silky advised against telling Carlos about their relationship. He thought Fernando would stand a better chance Mexican to Mexican, to locate the child.
"Is everything okay at home?"
"Yes. Whenever I have to stay over, I call Lucia. I don't like her to worry."
"I hope you didn't tell her about Sanchez."
"I just said we were going to see someone who might help us find the boy."
"And what did she say about that?"
"Oh she was very happy."
"I'm sure she was...well let's go find his house."
When they left the ferry, Carlos drove his truck into a secluded part of Coronado, with multi-million dollar estates, hidden behind high electrified fences. In the background they could hear the boat whistles in the harbour, and see the navy jets practising circuits and bumps at North Island.
"This is where he lived when I met him over a year ago. It was Sanchez who sent for me to make the leather horse. I did not come looking for him. Such a beautiful home inside, when I met him, and saw how rich he was, I thought for sure my luck was changing at last. This wealthy man would introduce me to his friends and I would be recognized as the great artist I am. But it was not to be. In many ways I'm lucky he hasn't killed me. Sanchez never let's anyone get away who crosses him, or lets him down."
"You didn't cross him."
"That's true, but I know of his filthy business. Maybe he hasn't hurt me because he wants to use me again sometime."
"You would work again for him, knowing what you know now?"
"If Sanchez sends for me, I would have very little choice. As much as I would prefer never to see him again, I have no idea what might happen. That is why he is so dangerous. The man does things you do not expect. We must be very careful not to give him the chance to surprise us."
Through the bars of the high iron fence, Fernando saw spot lights on the sparkling white mansion of this modern day slaver. It was difficult to see any details in the interior of the house set back so far from the front gate. In the distance they could hear the occasional barking of a guard dog.
"I think he's still here Fernando."
"Why do you say that?"
"That black van in the garage followed me to San Francisco. I'm sure he's still here."
"What should we do?"
"Wait...If anything is going to happen, it will happen soon."
"I don't understand."
"They usually get things ready at night, and make their deliveries at dawn."
As he spoke, he saw a man in a dark suit carrying the small body of a boy to the van in the garage. He opened the rear door and went into the back with his precious cargo.
"See. That's what I mean. He's loading up now."
"Is the boy dead?"
"No. He's drugged. That way they have no trouble moving them."
"Why would they begin loading up so soon? Why not just before leaving to go to the ferry?"
"They'll probably take the van to a motel near the harbour and check in for the night. That way Sanchez is not connected with the deal. This is a very smart man, and believe me amigo, if he knew I was helping you, he would snap my neck with one squeeze of his mighty hands."
As they watched, they counted five little boys being loaded into the van. The loading finished, he closed the rear van doors from inside, and was joined by another man in a suit who got into the driver's seat and started the engine. Soon the van was coming towards them. This unexpected change in activity was just what Carlos described. Fernando was paralysed by fear.
"What will we do Carlos?"
"Quick! Get out, and help me with the jack. We must make it look like we had to change a tire."
They got the jack under the front bumper just as they heard the iron gates open. Fernando's heart pounded so fiercely, he was sure they could hear it through his shirt. Kneeling by the left front wheel, the tire iron in his hand, Carlos pounded the hub cap. The black van almost struck him as it inched by him. A couple hundred feet beyond them, the van's brake lights reddened the front of Carlos' truck, as the vehicle began to back up.
Fernando trembled, but he had made up his mind he would do whatever had to be done. The driver got out of the van, and walked towards them.
"What the hell you guys doing here?"
Carlos went into his dumb Mexican imitation. "My truck she blow a tire Senor. We are just trying to fix her."
"You goddamn wetbacks have no business up here in God's country."
"I had to deliver something Senor, then we were going to take the ferry and go back to Tijuana."
The other thug got out of the van and joined the driver. "What the hell's goin' on?"
"Claims they got a flat. Doesn't look flat to me."
"That's because I have just change it Senor."
"You know what I think? I think these guys have been sticking their noses where they don't belong. Show me that flat tire peon or you're dead meat."
Both Fernando and Carlos knew the jig was up, when they saw his gun in the lights of their truck. Carlos took the driver to the back of the pickup. "There it is Senor," pointing into the darkness.
"Where? I don't see nothin'."
There was a sudden cracking sound as Carlos swung the tire iron across his skull, dropping him like a bag of cement. With a power generated by fear, Fernando swung the jack at the other crook, bouncing him off the rear of the black van before falling on his face in the dirt. Stunned, they looked at the bodies on the ground.
"Is he dead Carlos?"
"No. He's still alive...and the other?"
"He is also alive. What are we going to do now?"
"Tie them up. Then I'll drive the van, and you follow in my truck."
"Where are we going?"
"To our motel and wait until the drugs wear off. Then we will take the boys with us back to Tijuana to your friend Silky."
"Silky!...How do you know about him?"
"Everyone knows about him. He's a very rich man. You cannot be rich, and unknown in Mexico, especially in a small town like Tijuana."
"And my truck?"
"When we get back to the mainland tomorrow, I'll take you to your truck. You can take two boys with you, and I'll take the other three."
"What about little Pedro?"
"I'm sorry he's not here. But at least this is a start. Maybe these kids can help us find him."
"Gracias Carlos...You are truly a good man."
"I might even be able to sleep tonight."
"When we get to the motel, I must call my friend Silky."
"No Fernando. Please do not call him. If we make it, he will know soon enough. If we do not make it, there is no need to cause him more sadness."
When the sun came up the next morning, Sanchez saw a strange sight on his front fence. Hanging from their coats which were pierced by the iron spikes, two of his best men, naked from the waist down, were tied with their own trousers, about four feet off the ground. With splitting headaches, worsened by their frantic shouts, and the barking of guard dogs, it was a sight to behold.

Please include your comment about this novel...thanks Bill Johnson.