The Tortilla Curtain

kind of big for a coyote. Must have been a dog. Sure it was. Yeah. A dog.”
    Why was he lying? Why did he keep thinking of shadowy black-and-white movies, men in creased hats leaning forward to light cigarettes, the hit-and-run driver tracked down over a few chips of paint--or a cracked headlight? Because he was covering himself, that's why. Because he'd just left the poor son of a bitch there alongside the road, abandoned him, and because he'd been glad of it, relieved to buy him off with his twenty dollars' blood money. And how did that square with his liberal-humanist ideals?
    “I hit a dog once,” Kenny Grissom offered, “when I was living out in Arizona? It was this big gray shaggy thing, a sheepdog, I guess it was. I was driving a pickup at the time, Ford half-ton with a four-sixty in it, and my girlfriend was with me. I never even seen the thing--one minute I'm cruising, and the next minute my girlfriend's all in tears and there's this thing that looks like an old rug in the middle of the road in back of me. I don't know. So I back up and the dog like lurches to his feet, but he's only got three legs and I thought like holy shit I blew his leg right off, but then Kim gets out and we kind of look and there's no blood or anything, just a stump.”
    Kenny's face was working, as if there were something trapped under the skin trying to get out. “Friggin' thing only _had__ three legs to begin with,” he suddenly shouted, “no wonder he couldn't get out of the way!” His laugh reverberated through, the vast hollow spaces of the room, a salesman's laugh, too sharpedged and pleased with itself. And then his face came back to the moment, sober suddenly, composed round the pale tawny bristle of his mustache. “But it's a bitch, I know it is,” he observed in a sort of yodel. “And don't you worry, we'll have your car for you any minute now, good as new. Feel free to use the phone.”
    Delaney just nodded. He'd dialed Kyra at work and was listening to the number ring through.
    “Hello?” Her voice was bright, amplified, right there with him.
    “It's me, honey.”
    “What's wrong? Is it Jordan? Something's happened to Jordan?”
    Delaney took a deep breath. Suddenly he felt hurt, put-upon, ready to let it all spill out of him. “I had an accident.”
    Now it was her turn--the sharp insuck of breath, the voice gone dead in her throat. “Jordan's hurt, isn't he? Tell me, tell me the worst. Quick! I can't stand it!”
    “Nobody's hurt, honey, everybody's okay. I haven't even gone to pick Jordan up yet.”
    A numb silence, counters clicking, synapses flashing. “Are you all right? Where are you?”
    “The Acura dealer. I'm getting the headlight fixed.” He glanced up, lowered his voice, Kenny Grissom nowhere in sight: “I hit a man.”
    _“Hit__ a _man?”__ There was a flare of anger in her voice. “What are you talking about?”
    “A Mexican. At least I think he was a Mexican. Out on the canyon road. I was on my way to the recycler.”
    “My god. Did you call Jack?”
    Jack was Jack Jardine, their friend, neighbor, adviser and lawyer, who also happened to be the president of the Arroyo Blanco Estates Property Owners' Association. “No”--Delaney sighed--“I just got here and I wanted to tell you, to let you know--”
    “What are you thinking? Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea what one of these shyster personal-injury lawyers would do to get hold of something like this? You _hit__ a man? Was he hurt? Did you take him to the hospital? Did you call the insurance?”
    Delaney tried to gather it all in. She was excitable, Kyra, explosive, her circuits so high-wired she was always on the verge of overload, even when she was asleep. There were no minor issues in her life. “No, listen, Kyra: the guy's okay. I mean, he was just... bruised, that was all. He's gone, he went away. I gave him twenty bucks.”
    “Twenty--?”
    And then, before the words could turn to ash in his mouth, it was out: “I told you--he was _Mexican.”__

The Tortilla Curtain

2
    HE'D HAD HEADACHES BEFORE--HIS WHOLE LIFE was a headache, his whole stinking worthless _pinche vida__--but never like this. It felt as if a bomb had gone off inside his head, one of those big atomic ones like they dropped on the Japanese, the black roiling clouds pushing and pressing at his skull, no place to go, no release, on and on and on. But that wasn't all--the throb was in his stomach too, and he had to go down on his hands and