May, 1999
I met the guy in a patch of rutted dirt by an onion farm. The hand-off took less than thirty seconds, and when his little Honda tore back onto the empty country road like he was late for his wedding, I knew something was wrong.
I looked at what he had given me: a little sausage-shaped package wrapped in a blue latex party balloon. When I pinched it, the stuff inside didn't feel right, so I tore it open.
It wasn't heroin, it was weed. Pretty good weed—green, spicy, and sticky—but still.
When I got home, I called my contact. "Uh, this isn't what it was supposed to be, and I'm not risking my ass for a forty dollar bag."
"Yeah, they didn't want to give you the other stuff yet, not until you'd proven yourself."
I twisted the phone cord between my fingers. "I'm not running this in there. No fucking way. I get busted, I'll be facing years of time, and for what?"
He was silent for a moment. My heart hammered, and my parents' bird screeched cuss words in the back room.
"Okay," he sighed. "It's cool. I understand. Let me make some calls."
The first thing next morning, I parked behind a closed hamburger stand, a place at the end of the road out of town. Red and white paint peeled off its wooden siding, and crows fluttered around the dumpsters, fighting over scraps of trash. I sat in my car and looked out over the surrounding cornfields.
A dark green Honda with tinted windows and custom rims pulled up beside me, and a guy got out, peering through my windshield. It was a new guy this time, mid-height and stocky, his dark hair cropped close. He jerked his chin in greeting.
I climbed out of my car. He slipped the stuff into my palm, his eyes wandering over my face and tits before settling on the track marks on my arms. He gave me a wry grin. "You okay? You got everything you need?"
He had a tear tattooed on his cheek, the mark of a killer, but I liked his smile. I imagined for a moment telling him no, I was lost and lonely, dopesick and broke, and didn't have anything I needed. I'd get in his car, and he'd get me blasted and fuck me in the backseat. Then maybe he'd discover I'm funny, that I'm good company. He'd take me with him on his next run down to Juarez. We'd turn up the stereo and tell jokes the whole way, eat asada tacos at all the best food trucks, and he'd help wean me off the dope because Thou Shalt Not Shoot the Stash is one of the prime commandments of drug running.
We'd save our money and retire before we lost the game. We'd buy a farm in Michoacán and grow old together.
The blustery wind blew through my short hair, carrying a greasy, sour smell from the dumpsters. I smiled. "Yeah, I've got everything I need."
He grinned wider. "What's your name?"
I chewed the inside of my cheek, but for some reason I told him. "Gracie."
This made him laugh. "Your haircut is cute, you look like that fairy, what's her name, Tinkerbell." He turned away, walked back to his car. "I'll see you later, Tink."
I watched him drive off, wondering if I'd just been given my gangster name.
I did a shot to calm my nerves, my hands shaking so badly that I missed the vein twice, stinging lumps blooming under my skin of my arm. I started the car and drove eastwards, sticking my hand out the window to cup the cool morning air. I sang along with Miguel Aceves Mejia as the sun spread golden over the desert hills, the dope tickling my spine with warm fingers.
The prison rose out of the wheat fields like a jumble of tombstones. I parked in the wide, crowded lot, resting my forehead on the steering wheel for a moment. Then I put my hand down my shorts and stashed the package, slipping it in like a lumpy and unlubricated sex toy.
It was more uncomfortable than I'd been expecting. When I got out and made the long trek to the entrance, I could feel phantom eyes on me. I imagined the guards in the towers: "Hey, Bill, look at the chick down there. She's walking like she's saddle sore." And Bill would squint down at me, assessing my gait. "Looks like we got a smuggler, Sam. Go ahead and shoot her."
My shoulders hunched up around my ears, and I took a deep breath, let it out. Everything's cool. No one knows. But in reality, it was another thought that sustained me: I didn't care if I got busted, because prison would be an improvement in my life right now.
By the time I got to the security desk I had relaxed enough to smile and chat with the guards. They checked my ID, patted me down, searched my shoes and pockets, and passed me through a metal detector.
I was in.
Masa was waiting for me in the visitors' center, a windowless concrete room painted sickly yellow. He smiled when he saw me and stood to give me a hug. "You got it, guerita?" he murmured against my ear. "I hear you had some trouble."
"I got it," I muttered.
We sat down in the circle of plastic chairs that lined the walls. It wasn't a normal visitors' day, it was a powwow, a sacred Native American ceremony. The room was filling up with prisoners and their families. A guy in buckskins and beads, the full headdress and everything, was fiddling with a portable stereo in the corner.
I didn't know much about Native American theology, but reading Pet Sematary had taught me it was dangerous to piss off Native spirits. With thousands of dollars of heroin stashed in my snack box, however, I was more worried about angering the mob if I copped out.
A man came around the circle with a stone bowl. The smoke of burning sage poured over the sides, heavy like vapor from dry ice. He put his fingers in the stream, coaxing it over my head and body.
"This is to purify your spirit," he said, grinning, showing stained, wide-spaced teeth. His face was hard and carved up by suffering, but his eyes were kind, almost tender.
I let the smoke settle over me, hoping it would somehow remove my guilt. Masa nudged me with his elbow as the smoke-guy moved on. "That's Daniel. He's serving life 'cause he shot a dude execution style, right in front of the dude's mom while she begged him not to."
"Jesus," I said. I watched the guy drape the curtain of smoke over the next guy, that scene playing in my imagination: Daniel with a pistol to some young guy's head, while the guy's mother knelt beside him on the matted shag carpet, crying and praying for Daniel to put his gun away.
BLAM!
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to clear the image from my mind. Daniel didn't look the part, but who did? We all looked like human beings, and human beings didn't do such things.
Except human beings were exactly the sorts of people who did such things.
After Daniel made the circuit, the man in buckskins got up and made a short speech about the potlatch tradition. Then the dancing started. Buckskin Guy was joined by a couple others in full costume, face paint and the whole deal, jumping around with their beads and rattles jingling. I was held transfixed until I caught Masa's darting glances and remembered why I was here.
Taking a deep breath, I glanced around. Guards stood along the walls. The one closest to us, a woman with mousy hair and a generous stockpile of flesh, seemed to be watching me, her tiny eyes glittering under heavy lids.
"That big bitch has her eye on me," I whispered to Masa.
He snickered. "Who, the Rhino? She probably just has a crush on you."
"If she sat on my face, you'd probably never see me again."
Masa hunched over his knees, laughing.
I gathered my courage and stood up stiffly. "I'm going to the bathroom."
He quit laughing, his face falling into tense lines. "Have fun."
I approached the Rhino, starting to sweat. "I need to use the restroom," I said, and she looked me over, her stern expression softened by the dimples in her cheeks.
She nodded. I followed her out through double blast doors, noticing how the fabric of her khakis stretched taut over her meaty ass. She had a lot of nooks and crannies in which she could smuggle things, if she wanted.
She patted me down in the hallway, running her plump hands along my sides, my legs. I'm sure she had to feel my rapid breathing, the pounding of my heartbeat, but she didn't say anything. She let me into the bathroom.
I locked the door and pulled down my shorts, sitting on the stainless steel toilet to extract the package. I stuffed it in the heel of my black suede boot and flushed the toilet, my heart galloping. Would she check my shoes before I went back out? I ran water at the sink, staring at my reflection in the polished steel mirror. I sent up a prayer: Please don't let her check my shoes.
I imagined God up in Heaven, looking up from whatever he was doing—reading The New Yorker, probably—and smiling down upon me. "Go forth and deliver thy drugs in peace, blessed child. I'll tell the big lady not to check thy shoes."
I watched my lips twitch in the mirror, and shut off the water.
The Rhino was waiting for me outside the door, and I smiled at her. Sweat ran down the back of my neck, trickling all the way down my spine. She told me to lift my arms. My shirt stuck to my wet skin as she ran her latex-gloved hands down my ribs and caressed me under my breasts. She checked the pockets of my shorts, her thick fingers pinching the creases in the denim. I held my breath, the drab walls pressing in closer.
She ran her fingers along the inside of my waistband, and I knew her gloves would be slippery with my sweat.
She took her hands away, and stood looking at me. I stared back, sweat beading in places on my body I'd forgotten about, waiting for her to slam me against the wall and cuff me.
"Okay, you're good," she said.
Relief rushed in, my head swimming with it. The Rhino held the door open to let me back in the visitor's room.
Masa was trying to look cool as I sat back down, but his eyes were wide. "You get it out?"
I nodded.
He let out a breath and grinned lopsidedly. "Which place were you keeping it in?"
I blushed. It was ridiculous.
He grinned wider. "Your pussy?" When I nodded he laughed. "It's gonna bring a good price in here. Where you have it now?" My eyes darted to my boot, and he looked down. There was a bulge in the side where the dope was, and he cursed under his breath. "Everyone's gonna see that, guerita."
The man in the headdress was telling a story now while airy flute music hooted through the tinny speakers of the boom box. The other prisoners and their visitors watched him, or chatted with one another. I leaned down and pretended I was itching my foot, hooking the latex of the package with my fingernail, but it was wedged in tight against my heel and wouldn't budge. I tugged harder.
"Tssst!" Masa hissed. "The Rhino!"
Adrenaline shot down my spine, and I glanced up to find her watching me. My heart gave me up as a bad job and was trying to run away, thinking that even an asthmatic, pork-rind-eating chain smoker must be better than this. I sat up again, eyeing her, but she didn't move from her post by the door.
"You're not smooth at all, girl," Masa said.
"Shut up." I wiped sweat from my upper lip and glanced over at The Rhino again. She wasn't looking at me anymore, and I took a deep breath and bent over my foot.
I yanked hard, stretching the latex until I worried it would break, but the fucking thing still wouldn't come out. I cursed. The lady sitting next to me was watching me with a horrified expression, but I ignored her. The Rhino had started talking to the guard next to her, her dimples showing, and I tugged desperately, feeling that by now it must be blisteringly obvious to every semi-astute person in the room what I was doing. Please don't let the guards look over at me, I prayed. Please please please.
God looked over his reading glasses and winked. Finally, the dope pulled loose with an elastic thwap and I palmed it, passing it frantically to Masa.
I sat up quickly. The lady next to me was sending me little disgusted glances. A couple of the prisoners across from us were smirking openly. But none of the guards seemed any the wiser, and I leaned back in my chair, the tension slowly draining out of me and leaving a delicious feeling of relief behind. It was Masa's problem now.
His lips quirked. "I've gotta go get this thing up my ass," he announced quietly, and got up to go to the bathroom.
The guy finished his story and announced they'd be serving frybread and stew. I got up to get some, feeling giddy.
The man in front of me in line smiled. "You Masa's girl?" He had a swastika tattooed on his neck and his eyes were loose in their sockets.
"Naw, we're just friends."
He grinned wider. "What's your name?"
"Tinkerbell."
"Tinkerbell! That's cute."
I got some food for Masa, too, and handed it to him when he came back. He had an uncomfortable look on his face as he sat down.
"I know, it's big, right?" I said, and he laughed.
"Tasted really good, though."
"Fuck you, Masa."
"Jeez, just teasing you." But he probably wasn't.
"It's not going to bring such a good price after where you put it now," I said.
"Don't be so sure," he said, and I snorted into my stew.
After we all finished eating, Daniel stood up and explained that part of the potlatch tradition was to give gifts, and he came around handing out little trinkets the prisoners had made. When he got to me he gave me a pair of tiny, beaded moccasins on a leather cord, and smiled meaningfully. "Thank you for coming," he said, sounding truly sincere, as if I'd done a heroic deed today.
When I got back out to my car, I hid my head in my hands and laughed. "I just did that shit! Oh, my God."
I did another shot, then started the drive home, giggling as I imagined myself with "Tinkerbell" tattooed on my neck in sprawling script.