The compound’s wall is on his right. On the left, pi?ons grow close enough for their branches to thwap the sides of his truck. Billy can imagine bigger vehicles – trash haulers, propane gas delivery, a septic pumper – waddling their way along, their drivers cursing a blue streak every time they have to make this trip.
Then the wall makes a right angle turn and the trees end. The 20-degree grade does, too. He’s now on a plateau, probably bulldozed flat especially for the house and grounds. The maintenance road loops out, then curves back toward the much humbler gate Billy is looking for. Beyond the wall he can see the upper fifteen feet or so of the barn, painted rustic red. The roof is metal, heliographing the sun. Billy keeps his eyes off it after one quick look, not wanting to compromise his vision.
The gate is open. There are flowerbeds on either side of it. There’s a security camera mounted on the wall, but it’s hanging down like a bird with a broken neck. Billy likes it. He thought Nick might be relaxing, letting down his guard a bit, and here’s proof.
In the flowerbed on the left, a Mexican woman in a big blue dress is down on her knees, digging in the dirt with a trowel. A wicker basket half-filled with cut flowers is nearby. Her yellow gloves might have been purchased in the same place Billy bought his. She’s wearing a straw sombrero so big it’s comical. Her back is to him at first, but when she hears the truck – how can she miss it? – she turns to look and Billy sees she’s not Mexican at all. Her skin is tanned and leathery, but she’s Anglo. An old lady Anglo, at that.
She gets to her feet and stands in front of the truck with her feet spread, blocking the way forward. She only moves to the driver’s side when Billy slows to a stop and powers down the window.
‘Who the fuck are you and what do you want?’ And then, another good thing to go with the broken security camera: ‘Qué deseas?’
Billy holds up a finger – wait one – and takes the pad from the front pocket of his biballs. For a moment he blanks, but then it comes to him and he writes Estos son para el jardín. These are for the garden.
‘Got it, but what are you doing here on Sunday? Talk to me, Pedro.’
He flips a page and writes mi es sordo y mudo. I am a deafmute.
‘You are, huh? Do you understand English?’ Moving her lips with exaggerated care.
Her eyes, dark blue in her narrow face, are studying him. Two things come to Billy. The first is that Nick may have let his guard down … but not all the way. The security camera is broken and his guys may be in the house watching the football game with him, but this woman is here with her trowel and her basket of blooms. Maybe that’s what his old friend Robin used to call a coinkydink, but maybe it’s not, because there’s a bottle of water and a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper in the shade of a nearby tree. Which suggests she might be meaning to stay for awhile. Maybe until the game is over and she’s relieved.
That’s one thing. The other is she looks familiar. Goddamned if she doesn’t.
She reaches into the cab and snaps her fingers in front of his nose. They stink of cigarettes. ‘Lo entiendes?’
Billy holds his thumb and forefinger a smidgen apart to indicate that yes, he understands, but only a little.
‘Bet if I asked to see your green card, you’d be shit out of luck.’ She gives a laugh as raspy as her speaking voice. ‘So why you here on Sunday, mi amigo?’
Billy shrugs and then points at the barn looming over the wall.
‘Yeah, I didn’t think you came for tea and cookies. What have you got to put in the barn? Show me.’
Billy likes this less and less. Partly because she could look in the truckbed herself and see the bags of gardening stuff, mostly because of that troubling sense that he’s seen her before. Which can’t be true. She’s too old to be one of Nick’s guard dogs, and he’d never hire a woman for that kind of job anyway. He’s old-school and she’s just old, a domestic they shoved out here to keep an eye on the service gate while they watch the game, and she decided to pass the time by cutting some flowers for the house. But he still doesn’t like it.
‘ándale, ándale!’ More finger-snapping in front of his face. Billy doesn’t like that, either, although her assumption of superiority – her very Trumpian prejudice, if you like – is another sign that his disguise is working.
Billy gets out, leaving the door open, and walks her to the back of the truck. She ignores that and goes on to the little trailer. She looks in the barrels, gives a disdainful sniff, then comes back to look in the truckbed. ‘How come you’ve only got one bag of Black Kow? What good is that gonna do?’