Iclimbed into the middle seat of the Chevy van. Leslie the chalice had used her mortuary makeup magic and fixed me up with a mustache, soul patch, and a wig. The rug gave me a disheveled look, like I hadn’t found my way to a barber’s chair since I’d crossed the border from Mexico.
Another Mexican climbed in behind me, so I was squeezed in the middle next to Pablo from Nicaragua.
Angelo Sosa, the foreman, handed us Styrofoam cups of coffee and said in Spanish, “Here’s so you sleepyheads are awake when we get to the hotel. Don’t spill anything on your uniforms, you clumsy tarugos.”
We were the night maintenance crew for the Grand Atlantic. That a bunch of immigrants were let onto a secure site should surprise no one. Back in Colorado, the newspapers had discovered that undocumented workers, most of them from Mexico (where else?), were tending the landscaping and cleaning toilets inside the perimeter of the satellite complex at Buckley Air Force Base. Weeds and dirty toilets don’t take care of themselves.
I had zapped Angelo earlier and made him forge identity papers for my application and assign me to this crew.
He looked inside the van and counted heads. He lingered for a moment on my face, his expression perturbed. My post-hypnosis control wasn’t perfect but was still good enough. I smiled at him. He smiled back and slammed the door shut.
The van pulled away from the curb and followed a panel truck loaded with clean laundry. Our headlights cut a swath through the darkness. The driver turned up the stereo and sang along to a ballad in Spanish.
We drove out of Bluffton and over the bridge onto Hilton Head Island. Traffic was light. I pretended to sip from my cup. Even with premium blood, this frog water wouldn’t have been drinkable.
How was Carmen? My kundalini noir curled anxiously. How had they captured her? What was it like being in that capsule? She had looked okay, even peaceful.
Whom was I kidding? She was on her way to a kennel on another planet.
How many other women had Goodman pimped for the aliens? And at what price? In what other evil plans was our government in cahoots with Clayborn?
The fingers of my right hand closed as if gripping the edge of Carmen’s cylinder. Before daybreak, she’d be free.
Step one was getting on this van.
Step two was getting past the guard. We made the final turn toward the resort. The headlights made the guard in a black SWAT uniform stand in relief against his shadow cast on the wall of the guardhouse.
The driver turned the stereo down. He asked, “What’s with the guard’s getup? Why all the guns?”
Pablo replied, “You know how it is. Somebody skips on their hotel tab and they blame us. Good thing we work in this country. The rich gringos have someone to blame for their troubles.”
The panel truck halted at the striped traffic bar blocking the road. The guard went to the driver’s window and shined a flashlight. He was handed a paper, which he scanned by the beam of the flashlight and then stuck his head through the driver’s window.
The guard stood away from the truck and waved. The traffic bar pivoted upward.
“Okay, desgraciados,” our driver said, “make sure eagle-eyes can read your badges.”
Everybody in the van opened their nylon jackets and flipped out the badges clipped to our neck lanyards.
The van pulled up to the guard and scrolled down the window.
“Good morning, sir,” the driver said.
The guard shined a flashlight into the driver’s face. He turned the interior lights on. The guard read from the paper the panel truck driver had given him, and counted faces.
I followed everyone’s example and avoided eye contact.
The guard pointed the flashlight at me. “You. Are you new?”
I glanced at him, then at the driver. I raised my eyebrows and feigned ignorance. “¿Que?” What?
The driver turned in his seat. Damn, what if he had tried looking for me in the mirror?
“The guard wants to know if you’re new,” the driver said.
“It’s my first time here, so of course I’m new,” I replied in Spanish. I looked at the guard, nodded, and gave him my most simple-minded grin.
The guard stepped back and waved us through.
We turned left where the road forked, and passed the front of the hotel. I saw guards paired up and on patrol. On the roof of the hotel two more guards watched us drive by.
The van continued to the service area and parked. The panel truck backed up to an open bay.
The driver got out. “Everybody inside. The dollar is calling.”
Step one. Check.
Step two. Check.
Now for step three.