contested game. Young women, with babies in their arms and toddlers running and shouting nearby, sat at a picnic table. A radio set on a picnic table was playing a bouncy song with Spanish lyrics that was heavy on guitars and accordion. As Keller and Angela pulled their rented sedan to a stop behind a new-looking Ford pickup, the basketball game and the joking around the grill stopped. Everyone but the young children stopped what they were doing and watched them get out of the car. The only sound was the shrieking of the younger ones as they played on, oblivious. The smell of grilling meat reached Keller as he walked toward the house, Angela beside him with her cane. It was making his mouth water. He glanced over at the basketball players. They were watching him with stony faces. The tallest one, who looked to be the oldest, held the ball under his arm. Keller gave that one a nod. He didn’t respond.
A man with a single streak of gray in his dark hair detached himself from the group at the cooker and intercepted them halfway to the porch. “May I help you folks?” he said, with only a trace of accent and no trace of a smile.
“Yes, sir,” Angela said. “We’re here to see Mrs. Miron.” She held out her hand. “Angela Sanchez.”
The man took it and looked at Keller. “And you are?”
“Jack Keller.” Keller extended his own hand. The man released Angela’s hand and shook Keller’s. His grip was firm. “Frank Flores,” he said. “Does Mrs. Miron now you’re coming?”
“Yes, sir,” Keller said. “We called ahead.”
“It’s all right, Frank,” a woman called from the porch. “They can come in.” She said something in Spanish that Keller couldn’t catch. But the man seemed to relax.
“Okay,” he called back, then he smiled. “You want something to eat?” he said. “We got plenty. A beer, maybe?”
“Thanks,” Keller said. “Maybe later.”
“Get Maggie to fix them a plate, Frank,” the woman said. She’d come down off the porch to meet them. She was short and plump with a broad, strong face. She looked to be in her early fifties, but her hair was still mostly jet-black, with only a few strands of gray. She was clad in a bright red dress and matching heels. Keller noted the diamond ring she had on one hand, as well as the large gold earrings in her ears. Her eyes looked them both up and down appraisingly as well.
“Okay,” Frank said. He may have been the oldest one present, but it was clear that the woman was in charge.
She held out a hand to Angela. “So,” she said. “You haven’t heard from Oscar?”
“No,” Angela said as she took the hand. “Have you?”
“Come inside,” Miron said. She looked at Keller. “You’d be Jack Keller, then.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Keller said. “I’m a friend of Oscar’s.”
“So he said. Well, you might as well come in, too.” They followed her up the steps and into the house. There were more people inside, mostly women of varying ages and their children. There was a loud conversation going on in the kitchen. Two children were arguing over a toy in the hallway. Miron barked something at them in Spanish and they quieted down. “CONSUELA!” she yelled toward the kitchen. “Come do something with these two!” She turned back to them. “Sometimes I can’t hear myself think in this place,” she grumbled. “This way.” She led them into a bedroom, which had been converted into an office and closed the door. “There,” she said, taking a seat in an old leather chair behind a large antique desk. “That’s better.”
“Sorry to disturb your party,” Keller said. He took a seat in a large armchair in one corner as Angela sat down in the other. “What’s the occasion?”
She smiled at him indulgently. “This isn’t a special occasion, Mr. Keller. This is how it always is here on the weekends. Latinos don’t need a special occasion to spend time with family.”
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” Miron called. A pretty, dark-haired teenaged girl came in, balancing a tray in one hand and carrying a couple of bottled beers by their necks in the other. The smell of roasted meat, peppers, and limes came in with her. She stopped when she saw Keller and her eyes lit up. “Well, hi,” she said.
“Just put the tray down on the desk, Magdalena,” Miron said. “And close the door behind you.”
“Yes ma’am,” the girl said, abashed. But she gave Keller a flirtatious look as she left.
Miron sighed. “Pardon my niece,” she said. “She’s at that age.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Angela said. “He gets that a lot.”
“Thanks,” Keller said.
“Please,” Miron said, “eat. No one goes away from my house hungry.”
Keller was chafing to get down to business, and he could tell Angela was about ready to jump out of her skin with impatience. But Miron was so emphatic, it felt rude to turn her offer down. Besides, his stomach had been growling since he got out of the car. “Smells great.”
The meal—carne asada with rice on the side—was juicy and flavorful, the peppers and spices exploding in the mouth with a hint of lime to moderate the heat. They washed it down with ice-cold Sol beer while Miron chatted about her family. When they were done, their plates were both clean. The woman nodded as if they’d passed some sort of test. “Now,” she said, “Let’s talk about Oscar.” She looked at Angela. “First,” she said, “I don’t know where he is. Not exactly.”
Angela seemed to deflate a little in her chair. “What can you tell me?”
Miron looked back and forth between Angela and Keller for what seemed like an eternity. “Ma’am,” Keller said finally, “I know that you’re worried. You don’t know us. But we’re not the cops. We’re not Immigration. We don’t care what you do.”
“I wouldn’t have to do it if your country was even a little more realistic about its immigration policy,” the woman said.
“I don’t care about politics, either,” Keller said. “I just need to find my friend. If he’s in trouble, I need to help him. He did it for me.”
“I help people, too,” Miron said. “I help them find better lives.”
And it looks like you get paid pretty well for it. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.
She took a deep breath. “Okay. My nephew occasionally sends people to me. People who, for one reason or another, need help getting into the country. Or who have family members they need to get in, but who can’t get in legally.”
“Like Oscar,” Angela said.
Miron nodded. “I put him in touch with some other people. In Mexico. They made the arrangements.”
“What arrangements?” Angela asked.
“I don’t know exactly,” Miron admitted. “He had people that were going to get him to where people left Mexico to cross the border. And he was going to meet them on the other side. In the U.S.”
“Where were these places?”
“Again,
