“I don’t regret you. I regret how selfishly I acted. I was…scared. I didn’t want what I’d done to cost me my wife and family.”
Roderick rolled his eyes. “Or your inheritance.”
“My father wouldn’t have been sympathetic. Times were different back then. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but it’s true.”
Bruce, Sr., had never once acknowledged Rod, even when his mother made it a point to cross his path and say, “That’s your grandpa.” She was so proud of her son she couldn’t understand why the male Dunlaps, at least, couldn’t see things her way. It was the male Dunlaps who, in her mind, held the power and controlled the money.
“I wish I could go back and do things differently,” his father said. “But it’s too late for that. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”
Roderick glanced at his watch. “Then why are you calling?”
Bruce sighed. “Some racist son of bitch is killing illegal immigrants as they come over the border. Shooting them at point-blank range and leaving their bodies to rot.”
“The only racist son of a bitch I know is you. Besides your father. But he’s not around anymore.”
There was a moment of silence. One that told Rod he’d hit his target. Then his father said, “I deserve that. So would he, if he was alive. But this isn’t about me. Or him. I think this case is more than the local police can handle. They don’t have the funding, the manpower or the experience to deal with it. I’m afraid a lot of people will wind up dead if we don’t get some help.”
Noise, coming from the reception area, indicated the other operatives were returning from lunch, so Rod stepped into the conference room Milt had just vacated and shut the door. He was acting tough, but speaking to his father shook him, made him feel like a little boy again. A hurt little boy. And the hurt resurrected the anger he’d shoved down deep inside. News of the killings brought that anger back, too. He kept imagining women like his mother creeping across the border with the hope of being able to make enough to feed themselves and their families, and being murdered by some vigilante who felt he had the right to take the law into his own hands. It was so easy to feel self-righteous and superior when you had a comfortable home, a safe place to live and a full stomach. “What, exactly, do you expect me to do?”
“According to Jorge, you’ve got the skills to help. If you want to.”
“I’ll have to thank Jorge next time we talk.”
His father ignored the sarcasm. “You won’t believe this, but I’m proud of you.”
“Like you were proud of me when I was cutting lettuce in your fields and you’d come by and completely ignore me?”
Bruce didn’t respond to the jab, but the tenor of his voice changed, grew softer. “You could make a difference to what’s happening here. I know it.”
“Since when did you start caring about Mexicans?”
“I’ve been a member of this community all my life. Do you think I want to see senseless hate crimes tear it apart? I’m not a monster, Rod. I may not be happy about droves of people entering this country illegally, but that doesn’t mean I want to see them murdered.”
“Yeah, where would you be if you had to pay for white labor?”
“I’m good to my workers.”
It was true that he’d been more generous than some farmers. That was another reason his mother had stayed. She interpreted this generosity to mean more than it really did. But Rod didn’t want to give him even that much. Besides, what was happening in Bordertown wasn’t Rod’s problem. He’d finally escaped. No way was he willing to let this draw him back. “I live in California now, Mr. Dunlap. Since my mother died, there’s nothing left for me in Arizona.” Except Jorge. But speaking to him on the phone and sending the occasional package was enough.
“I’ll pay you,” Bruce offered.
“Absolutely not.” He rubbed his temple to relieve the beginnings of a headache. “I don’t want your money.”
“You took it readily enough when your mother died!”
Clenching his jaw, Roderick spoke through gritted teeth. “Are you kidding me? I was sixteen years old and had just lost the only person I had in the world. I couldn’t have paid for a decent burial without that money, and you know it.” That was the only reason he’d taken it. He would never have accepted it if it hadn’t been for her. “Besides, I paid you back. I made a payment every month afterward, even if it meant I went hungry.” He’d had a hard time surviving the next two years. He’d mostly drifted, taken odd jobs as a dishwasher or a field hand or a painter. He’d probably still be rambling around without tether or anchor if not for a certain navy recruiter who’d worked down the street from an office he’d been painting. After badgering him for weeks, Linus Coleman had talked him into getting his G.E.D. and joining the navy. Rod had signed on the dotted line mostly because he’d been promised a free college education. But his commitment to the armed forces had quickly evolved into much more than that. In the navy, he’d found a home, friends who were more like brothers, purpose in what he did, some self-esteem. But it hadn’t been an easy road.
“I never cashed those checks, Rod,” his father said. “That’s your problem. They were money orders. It’s not as if you were doing me any favors by not cashing them.”
“I thought there might come a time when you’d actually include a return address on the envelope so I could send them back. I brought them with me to your BUD/S graduation, but…you didn’t give me the chance to pull you aside long enough to speak privately. I never begrudged you a cent of that money.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.”
“I guess…I guess I was trying to point out that there’ve been times when I’ve…tried to help.”
“If that’s ‘trying to help,’ you’re even more pathetic than I thought,” he said, and disconnected as Rachel Ferrentino, a fellow operative and good friend, came into the room.
“Hey,” she said. “What’s up?”
She looked concerned, so he plastered his usual easygoing smile on his face. “Nothing. Why?”
“Milt’s throwing a fit. Says you have no respect for his time.”
“It’s not just his time. I have no respect for him.”