A Kidnapped Woman For Sale
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1:10 Thursday, June 6th, 1991
United States Border Patrol Station,
441 Duncan Hwy (US 70), Lordsburg, NM
Osvaldo Reynaldo Batista de Moreno hated Lordsburg. Southern New Mexico he disliked intensely. Though the mountains far to the north were beautiful, he really missed the brownstone canyons of New York. He'd been 'sitting on an X' for seven years now. Though he was competent, did his job, and liked police work in general, the poor condition of the area and his general lack of respect for the locals made it harder on him. He needed more experience points to relocate to another sector. San Diego was his dream.
Not for the first time, he resented his choice to leave New York City. He had the Navy after him because of his grades in highschool, they wanted him to operate nuclear powerplants in submarines. He ran away, almost, rather than come home to find the recruiter sipping tea with his mother in her tiny kitchen again.
News from far away was one of his secret vices, hidden from the other kids on the block. It fired his imagination to read about faraway places and imagine what they were like. Osvaldo had been in the Public Library hiding from the recruiter and from the gangs, when he stumbled across the ad in the back of the newspaper from Laredo, Texas.
The Wild West had captured his imagination, all right, and the rest of him, too. Six weeks after he'd signed up at the Federal Building, he'd boarded an airplane, and then some whirlwind period of training had happened. He was pretty sure he hadn't learned anything substantial. Instead, he learned what the Border Patrol expected of him, which wasn't much.
For the next year or so, he was paired with a journeyman Patrol Agent, a GS-9 who made it clear Osvaldo was lower than shit on the ocean floor in the grand scheme of things. He made Osvaldo carry everything, drive everywhere, fetch his things, even his laundry on more than one occasion. That Agent drank, and killed himself driving drunk into a bridge abutment on Highway 90 near Silver City.
Osvaldo was more-or-less accepted then, never really talking much to anyone, other than the 'clients' he filled out I-213 forms on and brought in for 'voluntary return' to Mexico. Occasionally, he was pressed into service at interrogations, to look mean. His planar features bore a scar from a fight at Theodore Roosevelt High, back in The Bronx.
Every once in a while, Osvaldo would drive to California, and look at the ocean. The last six years had dramatically downsized his dreams. Now he wanted to move to the San Diego sector, attend classes at a school, and get out of the Border Patrol. Yet, school wouldn't happen while he worked nights, and nights were when the border was active.
So, today, here was something new. A Supervisory Patrol Agent, a GS-12, asked for volunteers for a special mission. They were going to go into the field, on foot, with a bunch of soldiers. The soldiers were there to drum up pollos y coyotes, to beat the border and cause interest in those interested in crossing it. With luck, they'd capture those who were set to watch the increased activity, then 'roll them up', meaning interrogate them and find out the names and locations of who they worked for.
A Border Patrol Intelligence Agent took Osvaldo's name (Osvaldo Moreno, to the Border Patrol. To his ear that made him sound like a fatherless bastard, it was Puerto Rican tradition to blend the husband and wife's last names. Chopping the second name off was a disservice to his father and slandering Osvaldo, but the US Government was indifferent to the niceties of his ancestry). Osvaldo wanted out of Lordsburg. He was tired of sitting on the damned 'X'.
11:00 Saturday, June 8th, 1991
Sanderson Ford,
Grand Ave & 51st St Phoenix, AZ
The blonde could be better dressed, Jim Barnes thought. She was obviously one of the ASU students who drove across the city to buy a cute Ford Escort, rather than deal with the sharks over in Scottsdale or even in Mesa. College students warned each other away from the dealer down in Tempe. The smarter ones drove across town to Sanderson, or all the way up to Lou Grubb in North Scottsdale.
But this one was beautiful, silken hair falling in a shimmering cascade off her forehead, almost to her neck. He wished she wore it longer, but you can't have everything. A pair of baggy fatigue pants and a really baggy shapeless cotton blouse which belonged on a hospital nurse hid what should have been a fantastic body.
He watched her walk down the row of pickups in the sun. It was already 103°, headed to probably 108°. She didn't seem too fazed by the heat, so he figured she'd been here in Arizona a while.
He climbed out of the seat in the air-conditioned office, headed out to see her, a smile plastered on his face. Jim revised his original assessment of what she was shopping for. Some 6-cylinder F-150s were pretty economical to buy, but he'd see if he could talk her into a Ranger instead since the margin, and hence his commission, would be higher.
Just before he reached her, a redheaded kid slipped out from between two pickups and slipped his arm around her waist. Jim realized he'd been reading the Mulroney sticker.
Jim sighed a little. So much for asking her out, if she weren't really interested in a car. Not that Jim would have, it was sort-of a major no-no to pressure customers that way, but he could fantasize, couldn't he?
He wondered what she saw in the kid as he closed the distance to the couple. She clearly did, though, the kid was comfortable with her, and she had a familiarity with him, too. "Hi! Can I help you two?"
The blonde looked over at him, friendly, but not overly so, he gauged. The boy smiled, and Jim suddenly found himself reevaluating the two.
"Um. You two are looking for a pickup?"
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