The day labor camp had moved to a nearby group of shacks, and Juan sat on one of the porches propping up a bandaged hand with a can of beer.
He half-smiled when we exited Shamu and he said, “Amigos.”
I pointed to his hand, “What happened?”
“I wass running and fell on rocks.”
“Was the Border Patrol chasing you?”
“No, the Kiowa.”
I said, “Do you know where he is?”
“Gone.” He did a pantomime of pulling out a cell from his shirt pocket, “The phone, she ring and he answer, then leave.”
“Know where he went?”
Juan pointed, “To the place I first see you. I follow heem, and watch from the hill as three weemens and the two big black men put a gringo on the ground. He wass tied with ropes.” Juan’s eyes teared, “They keel him. The weemens do it. They beat heem and stab heem many time with knives.” Juan shook his head, “So many times. I was very ‘fraid. And one with black hair, she write theengs on the rock in his blood.”
I felt the anger building in me like heat. “If you know where the Kiowa went after that, tell us and we’ll take care of him. You won’t have to be afraid again.”
“I don’ know. I came here just to sit. Your California iss muy peligroso, how you say, very dangerous. Soon I will go home to Mexico. I am very sad now.”
“Come with us. You can stay at the office again.”
Juan shook his head, “No. I stay here for now with my friends, but not long I theenk. I come see you soon.”
I took money from my wallet, which wasn’t much and gave it to him. “In case you need something.” I hesitated and said, “Juan we have to tell the police about what you saw, who you saw. Our friend is a lawman, and a good person. He needs to hear this.”
Juan nodded. He said, “I go inside now. I wait for heem.” He rose and opened the door, then turned to us, “The Kiowa, he cut his hair. No braids now.” He held up his hand with the thumb and forefinger a half-inch apart. “Eets chort like Hondo’s.” Since we only had descriptions and had never seen him, that would make him harder for us to visually identify, but not that much harder.
We watched the door close. Hondo said, “Juan said he wanted to go home, so Vick can talk to Immigration and arrange it. The main thing is catching the Kiowa and find out who’s behind all this.”
We walked to the truck as Hondo called and filled Vick in on everything.
I drove into the city toward the office. We both remained silent. And angry.
I said, “I’m tired of reacting, I want to cause a reaction.”
Hondo said. “We know the Kiowa hangs around undocumented people, labor camps, places like that, so where do you think?”
“You up for Bakersfield?”
“I am.”
We took 118 east through the Simi Valley and connected to Interstate 5. I made one stop before driving North, and that was at a Starbucks. Hondo looked at me, “What are you going to get?”
“Tall Mocha and a muffin, nothing extravagant.”
He rolled his eyes, but went inside with me. I placed my order, and heard Hondo tell them, “I’ll have the same.”
I said, “You dog, you. Making me feel bad about what I ordered.”
He said, “Today’s my free day. I feel the need for sugar, chocolate, and caffeine.”
“That should make your arteries sing.”
We got our orders and returned to the road through the mountains and along the lowland route. Traffic seemed less than usual and we made good time, driving fast through the long oxbow curve to the west after passing through Gorman, and then straightening again to continue north at Lebec.