Critical Mick

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Death in the Desert
Francine Biere
Treble Heart Books, 2005

Via Con Dios, Mojaditos

Gunshots or thunder? The ragged group dove for shadow. Hearts beat as deafeningly as the snips that introduced a hole into the high chain link fence, and their entry to America. The dust of the Border Patrol SUV settled on backs drenched with nervous sweat.

When the night had settled the silent guide led them forward through another fresh-cut hole. The border blocked the migrants no more than it did the thunder that echoed northward from slope to slope of the San Pedro Valley.

"Can we trust that slippery vato?" Alejandra's cousin whispered to the closest dim outline. "Theses guides are called coyotes. I have heard they will abandon you at the first danger of Border Patrol, now that our dollars are in their pocket."

"I've heard worse!" Miguel de Criticali held aloft an object he had tucked close to his heart. A rare ray of moonlight shone off a slick, colourful cover. "Mira, I've read this librita, chica. Death in the Desert. Though it's written by an Anglo, it contains great information about illegal crossings and the dangers that must be braved."

Perhaps the coyote's ears burned. "No talking," he appeared from darkness with a command hissed. On small feet he vanished as silently as he came. The dim outlines of Alejandra's cousin and Miguel de Criticali dared not offer even a humble lo siento. To be left behind would mean disaster. The chastened pocho pair tagged after, swallowed swiftly by Arizona's thirsty dark.

2

Through jagged rocks to grasping scrub. Westward through moonlight and canyons, always climbing. Under la bamba's rattle through ash left by last summer's wildfires. During hours of frozen terror muscles in crouched legs burned like cattle brands. Eight ran blindly, desperately, as Border Patrol brake lights flared red.

And then atop a frosted Huachuca Mountains mesa the moon cleared a night-time convoy of fugitive thunderheads. The coyote's strict silence crashed with a groan.

The coyote tipped his hat, flipped his finger, and vanished.

"What? Am I wrong?"

"Not wrong," Alejandra's cousin cursed. Mojado voices hissed suggestions of other adjectives as they faded on frigid wind.

3

Doesn't this payaso gordo know when to shut his mouth? Alejandra's cousin wondered right at the introduction of the chapter from her point-of-view. The bulk of Miguel de Criticali, with his fair green eyes and bad haircut, alone remained at her side.

Si, estupido, Alejandra's cousin appraised. And certainly not on this trip north because he is starving.

"Who is that down at that ranch, I wonder?"

Pages were flipped. "The chica bonita matches the description of local resident Meagan Wagner. Death in the Desert says that she is an award-winning journalist who has even interviewed el presidente! Raised in a nearby town, she has returned after many years away from the Arizona skies."

"Is she friendly? Will she give us water, do you think?" Since being abandoned by the coyote, Alejandra's cousin was growing thirsty enough to discover if the folklore about tapping cactuses contained any truth.

"No. Traumatized by the events of 11 de Septembre Meagan is distrustful of foreigners. Especially ones like us who are breaking the law. It's a terrible situation."

Alejandra's cousin placed faith in the book that was never far from her fellow fugitive's pudgy mano. If only every mojado and mojada had a copy!

"I wonder if we will ever find out what happened to the rest of the coyote's group?" Alejandra's cousin wondered aloud. "They looked like they were headed into dangerous territory, the last time we saw them. That will bother me if we never learn their fate."

"Hmmm," hummed Miguel de Criticali. "No, no. We won't."

"And how are you so certain, you-"

Just in time Alejandra's cousin remembered her own advise about cayate la boca.

They skirted the isolated ranch, their scent disturbed only a distant pair of dogs and horses.

4

Miguel de Criticali offered the bottle to Alejandra's cousin. As she shook her head, the long black hair shone with the reflection of a distant highway light.

"Maybe you should conserve your aqua, señor. God only knows who was kind enough to leave these plastic bottles out here for us. And God bless them, whoever they are."

"This card says Left by Tender Mercies. There is the name of a fiery young Hispanic lawyer Tomas and his sister Lucinda. It says they are concerned about the health and rights of us illegals."

"Well who know who to thank in our prayers then."

"Hey!" The approaching car revealed Alejandra's cousin more clearly with each passing second. Her young face was so beautiful that the enraptured Miguel de Criticali spoke almost too late. "Maybe this is Tender Mercies now! Shall we hitch a ride, do you think?"

Her tackle was sudden and fierce. "Get down, pendejo!"

The driver slowed, perhaps a glimpse or a hunch. Then a spotlight swept the hard scrub. All breath froze. Then the white tail of a startled jackrabbit ricocheted away. The police cruiser, satisfied, sped off toward Bisbee.

"Was that the Border Patrol?"

"Border Patrol, Sheriff's Department, Department of Public Safety, Arizona Rangers, The Hidden Knight Ranch's private security men led by decorated Special Forces veteran Tommy Don Beeler… who knows? Unnecessarily complicated if you ask me. That is authentic detail but hard to keep straight. Why not just have one or two police forces?" Miguel de Criticali hoped this beauty would be impressed by his knowledge of local law enforcement. She stood, slapping dust from her dress, and carried her new water bottle north across hard land.

5

The patrol car carried Deputy Sheriff Luke Mendez toward Uncle Billy's ranch. Meagan had called. Her animals had been spooked by unseen parties passing in the night.

Was it a band of ignorant vigilantes out riding down illegals for murderous sport? That pissed Luke off. He was a good dude, and determined to keep the peace now that old Cochise County Sheriff John Wayne Teague was getting on in years. Though Luke would take any excuse to visit Meagan, he was especially interested should he find any clue about these self-proclaimed homeland defenders. Who were these stupid redneck punks?

6

"Oh I have their names right here. In chapter three, see? It tells exactly who the murderous masked posse are. And that we should stay clear of them!"

Alejandra's cousin would have preferred if that had remained a mystery. Would this critical fool never shut up? She was filled with a desire to beat her head against the boulder they hid behind. Better yet, his fat head. Alejandra's cousin decided that she would run and let the vigilantes have this loudmouth if they spurred their horses up this ridge.

"Say! Those trasteros down there can't ride. My left leg is more macho than the lot of them! And that one has a gut, aye carumba! I thought my paunch hung out below the border! And white hats? How cliché is tha-"

Alejandra's cousin stuffed Miguel's mouth with her tongue. Carajo! Only a few minutes and the vigilante horsemen would pass. This disgusting aftertaste of red beans and rice was a small price for a lifetime of freedom.

7

So these were the lights of Arizona. All these little golden lights! Miguel de Criticali felt he was on top of the world.

Carumba! This chica at his side loved him. She had kissed him, those hours ago, and teased him with the curves of her calves, the supple huíla, all the way up this parched, winding trail. Always just ahead, just out of reach, encouraging him on with the carrot of her cúlo! He didn't get the chance to peek up her dress though. Cochise County, just as Francine Biere described it in Death in the Desert, wasn't that type of place. Now they stood beside the hilltop chapel, beside the giant illuminated Celtic cross that had served so well as a beacon.

"Magnifico, isn't it?" Miguel de Criticali clamped an arm around the slim shoulders of Alejandra's cousin.

"I'm glad I came. Good place for a visit." She wiggled free and bent to rub her bare feet. "Dios mia! Damn are my feet tired."

"My Humvee has a foot massager!"

The Anglo's announcement rattled them like lightning. But when Miguel de Criticali whirled, he saw a gringo's friendly smile.

"No joke, ma'm! It's parked right over there."

"Who-?" began Alejandra's cousin.

"Hilliard Nathan Quinlan. Call me Hill. A precocious, mischievous millionaire in these parts. I even get a mention in that book your sweaty compadre is holding, Death in the Desert! I am glad that you made it through without anything more than sore toes, my desert rose." Hill kissed the calloused but tender hand of Alejandra's cousin. She giggled. "Of course it's a mighty small mention. I always jump at the occasion to round myself up a few maverick lines of dialogue, you know?"

Miguel de Criticali found himself at a desperate loss for more than water.

"Say, did either of you two see any drug smugglers sneaking sacks across the border? What you call zacate ingles, English hay? No?" asked Hill. "I'm not asking for myself. It's medicinal marijuana, for this cranky old bat named Amelia Slaughter who lives down yonder. That philly needs something to get her to chill out. Man!"

Alejandra's cousin giggled again. Hill flashed dental work enough to feed an entire Mexican village through a long dry season. "Myself, I prefer Guinness's new Brew 39. The gift of the Gift of God. Very strong, pardners. Here! Here!" Hill poured each a tall pint from the optional keg attachment in the bed of his luxury vehicle. The magic in the welcome glass was as black as desert night, bubbles racing as fast and bright as shooting stars. O sweet, hearty biere! One sip and the parched Miguel de Criticali found new reason for speechlessness.

"Why, don't that just beat all- my keg's dry. There's another back at my hacienda, señorita- would you give me the honor of your company?"

"Si!"

"Well thank God for that! I'll be honest. Ever since I was a kid I've had my eye on a certain cowgirl, but I ain't getting any nearer her heart than you would be getting into the United States of America, pretty lady. Hear them there sirens? Border Patrol."

At a shift in the dry wind Miguel de Criticali leapt again into the air. The caballero Americano spoke the truth.

"Shall we, darling?"

Alejandra's cousin smiled over that slim shoulder so briefly, so apologetically. Hill led her to the passenger door of the boxy car, then, muy suave! Saluted a farewell as he climbed behind the wheel. Spitting gravel the rugged Humvee passed the arriving Border Patrol SUV with a friendly beep.

8

At least one mojada made it, Miguel de Criticali consoled himself as the big hombres in their new uniforms led him to the stout door with its wire-meshed windows. At least they're giving me water.

"Fraid we've got to confiscate this seditious literature, mister," spoke the monobrowed federale who had bound Miguel de Criticali's cuts and bruises. Death in the Desert was passed to the front of the van.

"But I haven't finished it!" Miguel de Criticali pressed his protest. "Who is responsible for the murder of one of my favourite characters? Will Meagan have a change of heart? Will she get together with Luke?"

"That's not for me to say, mister. But I can tell you this. As of now you are one de-portee. Where can we ship you this time? Aqua Prieta, Mexico?"

In dawn's subdued shades of scarlet Miguel de Criticali reviewed the highlights of the torturous night's journey. Hill may have driven off with his chica, but the taste he had given in exchange!

"AP? No, señor. If you have been there you would see that that town is a place miserable enough to break the hardest heart."

9

As the Border Patrol van jolted quickly over Cochise County, the critical detainee faced proudly the dawning desert sun. "Send me to Ireland!"

Death in the Desert is a novel with its heart in the right place. Well done, Francine Biere!

Read Critical Mick's interview with Francine Biere!

Yo! This review and all content on the DFA Guide site are copyright 2006 Mick Halpin. All links to other sites and documents are copyright to whatever source wrote something cool enough for Mick to give it a referral. Try to claim them as your own work and bad karma will catch up with you, baby. Believe it.

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This Page Was Last Updated On 6 March, 2006.