Triple Crossing by Sebastian Rotella Page A

IB station, The Patrol, The Line. It chews people up and spits them out.”
    Her face softened in a way that intrigued him. “I told you, the Border Patrol is an outfit with a lot of problems.”
    “Yeah, I’m burned out. I still respect the agents, though.”
    “Respect?”
    “Damn right. You deal with the bad guys. But most PAs aren’t like Garrison at all. They work damn hard. People think we’re
     stone soldiers out there. Nobody has a clue what we feel. The activists are always whining about us thumping somebody. They
     care so damn much about the aliens. Hell, does anybody care about the aliens more than us? Does anybody spend more time with
     the aliens, hold their hands, carry their kids? The activists, half the time they’re getting hustled by some thug that convinces
     them he’s a poor
pollo
who didn’t deserve a beating.”
    Puente pursed her lips. “There may be individuals who actually deserve a beating, as you put it. But it’s illegal. Period.”
    “Listen. Say you come up against fifteen guys. Solo. It’s hard for you to imagine, but it happens all the time. Say only two
     or three want to brawl, the rest are regular peaceful Guanajuato Joes. Those are still bad odds. You gotta hit the biggest
     meanestone and hit him hard, knock him down. So the others know you’re not a punk bitch. That’s not illegal. And the hoodlums who
     want to throw hands are the ones making the thump allegations.”
    “I’ve investigated excessive-force cases. There were plenty of bona fide victims. Plenty.”
    Pescatore tried to slow himself down. He could not remember the last time he had spent so much time talking to someone with
     such immediate intimacy.
    He continued, his voice low. “All I’m saying is, the Border Patrol gets a bad rap. The Mexican government has some nerve saying
     we’re heavy-handed. Fuck them. They practically kick their people out of the country: Don’t let the door hit you in the ass
     going north. They abuse them all their lives, all the way up to the border. The minute the aliens cross, the Mexican government’s
     like: ‘Hey
gabacho,
you put the handcuffs on that guy too tight! Police brutality! Racism!’ Can you imagine if they replaced us with Mexican
     cops? They’d be like piranhas. Killing and raping and robbing every night. Considering everything, we are damn humane.”
    “How about Garrison?” Puente said. “Explain to me how that guy got to be a supervisor.”
    “That’s just weird. They been getting rid of Old Patrol guys like that. But supposedly he’s got a lot of yank with the bosses
     at the Federal Building. Related to when he was in the military, you know? Some guys think he’s got intel connections.”
    “He just plays Mr. Big,” Isabel scoffed. “Don’t you worry about him. What’s the matter, Valentine?”
    He paused. “The fact is, us PAs have a code: We look out for each other. Nobody rats. And you just signed me up for rat of
     the year.”
    Puente paid the check. She suggested they take a walk. They followed a promenade out to the corner of the coastal park. They
     passed a mother with a baby carriage, a couple holding hands ona bench, eyes closed, faces offered blissfully to the sun. Puente and Pescatore found a secluded spot along a wood railing
     in the shade. They leaned on the rail, staring down at small waves foaming on boulders. Beaches and wooded residential neighborhoods
     stretched along the shoreline to the north.
    He did not look at Puente as she spoke. She explained how they would communicate, procedures for making contact. “You need
     to watch your back, Valentine. These people are serious business.”
    “Tell me about it.” He turned and saw that she had put on sunglasses. The breeze played with her hair and her skirt, which
     had a long slit on the side. They went back to the car.
    “What do I tell Garrison about the investigation of me and Pulpo and everything?” he asked.
    “We’ll spread the word that we suspect you