Crossing the Line by Clinton McKinzie Page B

circumstances, I would have checked in with the marshal to get the lay of the land as well as to alert him that an operation was being conducted in his jurisdiction. But these weren’t normal circumstances, not with the Feds involved and not with Mary Chang’s mantra of
Take no chances
. I didn’t know the man anyway—for all I knew he could be on a first-name basis with Señor Hidalgo.
    There were two more bars at the other end of town, closer to the highway.
    One was the place where the previous night we’d seen the vaqueros pissing on the hood of the marshal’s patrol car. It was a tiny cubelike structure of dented brown stucco with Corona and Tecate signs flashing in the only window. At this early hour its dirt parking lot was empty but for crushed cans, cigarette butts, and a sleeping dog. Across the street, though, things were a little more active.
    There a neon sign read “Señor Garcia’s.” The building was big and well-lit and painted white, with broad windows facing the street and allowing me to see into a place that was a restaurant as well as a bar. Despite the barred windows, it looked a lot friendlier than the Anglo places on the other side of town. There were some battered straw hats like mine inside and a lot of dark-skinned faces. Outside the front door were some planters that held bright flowers.
    Among the trucks and cars in the lot was a slouching Oldsmobile sedan with Baja California plates. On its back window was a little sticker that caught my attention. It was a yellow smiley face, but instead of a smile there was the outline of a tongue hanging down beneath the two dots for eyes. Mary and Tom had mentioned that this was a sort of logo for the Mexicali Mafia—lots of the young bangers working for the cartel had it tattooed on their arms or chests.
    I guessed that this was where Hidalgo’s men would start an evening on the town. Across the street was probably where they would finish it. They wouldn’t want to mess with the Anglo place on the other side of town, not if they were halfway smart. They would be looking for fun, not trouble. I hoped I was right, because I was going to go in there despite Mary’s injunction of staying away from them. I wanted to get just a little whiff of what Roberto was getting himself into.
    I drove back down the street a block and left the Pig there. I put my gun butt-out under the driver’s seat, tapped it for luck—it had once brought me more than my fair share of good as well as bad—and set the alarm.
    There were a lot of people in the restaurant. Couples and families for the most part, with a few kids darting around. A brown tile floor magnified the sound of voices talking in Spanish. It would have seemed welcoming if it weren’t for the way everyone paused and looked at me. Even the kids slunk closer to their parents. When the talking resumed after a minute it was slightly more subdued.
    I stood shifting in my too-tight boots until a girl came out of the kitchen in the back. She looked me over without smiling and motioned me toward the rear of the restaurant. I saw that there was a small bar there—six or more stools before a rail and a couple of high tables. Two men were sitting at the rail. Both looked like hard cases, and they were staring back at me. I was sure it was their car with the Baja plates and the little yellow sticker.
    “I have come to eat, not drink,” I told the girl in Spanish.
    “You do not want to sit with your
compañeros
?”
    “I am a stranger here. I know no one.”
    She shrugged and led me to a small table against one wall. I didn’t look toward the bar area again but I could feel the two men’s eyes on me. A lot of other eyes, too. She set the menu before a chair with its back to most of the restaurant and the bar. I sat in the opposite chair and pulled the menu across to me. She walked away without a word.
    I studied the menu for a long time, trying to sit as still as possible and not look around. Slowly the families