Terror filled Cucho’s eyes. The clouds behind them had turned dark red.
Mancini sliced through the tape around Cucho’s ankles, grabbed one of his hands, and held the knife ready. Then he nodded to Tré, who ripped the tape off Cucho’s mouth and covered it with his hand.
“Ready?” Crocker asked.
Cucho nodded. Tears were already welling in his eyes.
“Three men who claimed to be Venezuelan contacted you today. What did they want?” Crocker asked.
Cucho moved his head as if he was ready to talk. Crocker pointed to Tré, who removed his hand from Cucho’s mouth.
Tré said, “Boss, I don’t think Cucho is a guy.”
“What?”
“Check the neck. No Adam’s apple.”
Tré was right. The loose clothes, the insolent attitude, the rough but pretty face. They all pointed to the same conclusion.
Crocker said, “I don’t care what the fuck you are, I’ll still tear you apart.”
Cucho took a deep breath, coughed, and said, “Okay.…Three men did contact me. I didn’t ask where they were from. They had money, cash, and said they were looking for a way to cross into the U.S.”
“They wanted to be smuggled in illegally?” Crocker asked.
“Yes.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them I couldn’t help them.”
Crocker looked at her and said, “You’re a stubborn bitch, aren’t you?” He didn’t expect an answer. Turning to Tré, he instructed, “I’ll hold her hand against the wall, you tie something over her mouth.” Then, to Mancini: “Ready?”
Cucho thrashed her head from side to side: “No, don’t cut me! I told them—I told them I couldn’t do it myself, but I sent them to someone I know. A man who has a tunnel.”
“Who is this man, and where can we find him?” Crocker asked urgently.
“His name is Ruiz. I’ll draw you a map.”
“Fuck the map. You’re taking us to him. Now.”
An off-kilter half moon shone like a cruel smile in the sky. Cucho sat in back, between Mancini and Tré, with Randal next to Crocker up front. Her desperation seemed to grow as they wound through residential streets to a wider industrial road lined with warehouses and businesses.
Mancini said, “Two cannibals are talking. One says to the other, ‘I don’t like my mother-in-law.’ The other one says, ‘Then try the noodles.’ ”
Tré chuckled. “Where do you come up with this stuff?”
Mancini had more. “What’s gray and comes in quarts?”
“What?”
“An elephant.”
Tré laughed hard, then, turning to Cucho, said, “It ain’t funny. I can’t help laughing, but it really ain’t funny at all. You into men or women?”
Cucho: “None of your business.”
“Focus,” Crocker said from the front seat.
“Not to worry, chief. I’m sharp as a razor blade.”
Cucho directed them off the road to a decaying parking lot with several stores at one end. She pointed to the building on the far left. “That’s it.”
“That’s what?”
“The tunnel I told you about is located inside that building.”
In the dim yellow streetlights Crocker saw a one-story tan-colored cement building with green trim. The white neon sign overhead read “Mercado Ruiz.” As he watched, a big girl with braids chained a row of battered shopping carts together out front. The place looked like it was closed for the night.
Tré said with a sigh, “Fucking dead end, if you ask me. Let’s kick her ass.”
Cucho pointed to the rugged landscape behind the building and said, “I’m telling the truth. You see the U.S. is over there, past those hills.”
“What time were the Venezuelans planning to cross?” Crocker asked.
“Probably after the market is closed for business. After dark.”
Crocker looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past 1900. He asked, “Where does the tunnel start?”
“Inside the market.”
“Where?”
Tré, like an echo: “Yeah, where? Be specific!”
“I can’t be specific. I’ve never been inside. I don’t shop there.”
Crocker started the engine. Without turning on the headlights, they slowly circled around the building. Parked behind the Mercado Ruiz was a panel truck. Men were moving bags from the truck to inside the market.
Turning to Mancini, he said, “Take a radio with you and watch the front. Alert us if anyone enters.”
“Roger, boss.”
“Tré, you wait here. I’m going to check the dock.”