Greenbaum glanced at the map on the passenger seat and then at the odometer. The turnoff he was looking for should be coming up in about five minutes and he didn't want to miss it. The road was parallel to the border and through several smaller towns and burgs that used a friendlier crossing about sixty miles east. He gave the air conditioner an extra twist and inhaled as a blast of icy air hit his face.

A huge transport rocketed past and his car buffeted in the draft and he swore at the driver. The transport's wheels slid off the pavement and onto the shoulder, spewing up clouds of dust that engulfed Greenbaum's car. He jabbed at the vent button as the dust wafted into the car and for an instant, lost control of the wheel.

He jammed on the brakes and swerved to the right away from oncoming traffic, finally coming to a stop on the dusty shoulder, his hands shaking and his temper rising.

************

Over the car radio, Ortega took directions from his technician monitoring the chip's progress.

"He's stopped."

"Where?" Bettmeir leaned over the seat.

"Wait a sec. Yeah. Yeah. What do you think?"

"What's up?"

Ortega held up a finger, listened for another few seconds and then turned in his seat. "The car has stopped in the middle of nowhere on the freeway about twenty-five miles from here. They're watching it closely."

"Probably needed a leak." Jerry scoffed and sat back closing his eyes.

"You never know." Ortega indicated to his driver to close the time gap and the police car surged forward, bending and finally breaking the accepted speed limits.

************

His nerves back under control, Greenbaum eased the car back onto the pavement and accelerated, seeing his turnoff only a few dozen yards ahead. If he'd missed it because of that truck he would never have found it again. He slowed and turned onto the rougher secondary road. The dust he fumed against a few moments ago now trailed out behind his car in a flume of dirty beige.

Small signs began to appear announcing soft drinks and cigarettes at gas stops and diners. The dead looking earth flanking the road was littered with papers, fast food containers and empty beer cans. The occasional ragged tire lay like a tired traveler among the burnt blades of scrub grass. The first town name appeared and he checked the map, satisfied that he was on the right trail.

Just another hour and he would be ready to cross into a new life with not only a gift of a bag full of cash but a trunk packed with product as well. The first small town was about one hundred feet long, consisting of a cantina, some tired looking shacks with pots and serapes hanging out front and a garage, and he was past the lot before it even registered. He checked the gas and decided the next station would be his first and last stop before his destination.

**************

"He's turned off and is now heading east."

"What's in that direction?"

Ortega unfolded a road map, getting it all bent and crumpled against the dash and the driver's console.

"Jesus, I hate these things."

"How come you don't have the GPS reader thing in the car?" Jerry asked.

"If you wanna chip in to our budget, detective, we'd be happy to equip the cars with the latest technology." He finally wrestled the map onto his lap and studied the roads. "There. Watch for a turnoff to your left about five minutes—or less at this speed." He glared at his driver as he handed the map back to Bettmeir. "Looks like a bunch of small towns along the border. He must have a plan to cross without using the official route."

The driver swore as the car bucked and yawed after whacking through a mighty pothole as he made the turn onto the side road. Dust swirled up through the vents and all the detectives began swearing at once, waving their hands and covering their faces.

"Manny what the hell are you doing!" Ortega yelled.

"Sorry chief, didn't see the damn thing."

"I'd like to get home to my wife tonight... in one piece."

"Sorry. I was trying to close the gap." He stopped abruptly and concentrated on the horizon. "See that, chief? Dust cloud? Bet it's his car."

They all leaned forward as if six or seven inches would bring the horizon right up to their noses. The cloud was faint but it was definitely not a cloud or some other natural phenomenon.

"If we can see him..." Ortega started. "Pull over for a minute, Manny."

"What are we doing?" Bettmeir rested his hands on the seat back.

"I'm looking for another approach. If he sees someone coming he'll bolt even faster."

"Not on these roads, I hope." Jerry complained.

"But we don't know where he's going."

"Hang on." Ortega flipped on his radio. "Where is he?"

The radio crackled and Ortega squinted as he concentrated, listening. "You sure? Okay, good." He looked at the map and poked a finger at some spot he found. "The car has stopped in this little town... San Miro... it's about ten minutes from here at our current speed or thirty at a sane pace." He glanced at his driver.

"Gas? Food? Another leak?" Jerry asked.

"Whatever. If we hurry," another glance, "we can catch up before he tries to cross over. The information is this strip of small towns have a reputation for friendly crossings."

"Meaning big bucks," Bettmeir said.

"Right."

"So let's go, and it's her, Ortega, not him."

"Yeah, yeah."

************

Greenbaum climbed out of the car and brushed the dust from his face and pants then sauntered over to the entrance to the garage cum diner. A stained open sign hung at an angle on a piece of dirty string and it flipped over when he pushed the rickety door open. Inside three people sat crowded at a table in the corner and a worn looking woman dried dishes behind a warped and worn counter.

"This San Miro?"

She nodded and watched him with disinterest then went to the door and fixed the sign.

"Give me a coffee, please and some of that pie." He looked around and selected a plastic kitchen chair by a fixed table next to the window.

The woman poured the coffee and sliced a piece from the pie and carried them to his table. He noticed she was barefoot and when he looked at the pie he saw a light film of dust on the crust. Not the epicurean standard Milton Greenbaum was accustomed to, he thought. Small inconveniences before the big gains though, he reminded himself and without another thought forked off a chunk of pie and shoved it in his mouth. The three other customers watched until he chewed and then turned away as if satisfied that he'd completed some test.

"Can I get gas here?" He called to the woman.

She nodded and pointed to one of the other customers. "Palo will fill your car."

"Okay. When I leave."

The coffee was hot and even flavourful and he held up his mug for a refill. The woman shuffled over and poured another serving and then paused, looking out the dirty window. Greenbaum followed her attention and saw the tiny plume of dust swirling in the sky on the horizon. She turned to the other men and snapped off a string of Spanish and they all nodded and laughed.

"What's funny?" Greenbaum asked, curious.

"One car is unusual visit. Two is a convention." She waddled back to the counter and continued her robotic drying of the dishes.

He sipped his coffee watching the cloud draw closer and wondered if it was something he should be concerned about.