The lobby of the Excelsior was tiled with big squares of terra-cotta. Plush armchairs and glass-topped tables offered rest to the travel-weary, and I plopped down to pretend I was rich while Tommy called Max's room.

"He says c'mon up."

"Shouldn't I stay with the van?" I said.

"Nah, it's fine. This is the Excelsior. They'll keep an eye on it."

"Ask them."

"What?"

"Make sure they will. Tip them."

"Why don't you do it yourself, if you have such great ideas?"

"You're the man. They respect these things coming from the man."

"Oh alright, you are so paranoid sometimes."

"Better safe than sorry, don't you think?" I snuck a kiss onto his cheek before he could turn away.

*

Max had flown to Veracruz on a separate flight; we were not to communicate until the pickup had been made. He would drive across the country with us, making sure we didn't take off with the shit. As if we would. As if we could unload it even if we did. But we understood; after all, we hadn't known Max for that long. He looked relieved to see us. I worked up a smile.

"So how'd it go?" he said. "Sit down, let's smoke a joint." Silver flashed from his wrists and fingers.

"Jesus Max, you got pot already down here?" said Tommy.

"Nah, I flew in with this."

"Are you crazy?" I said. "Taking a chance like that? What if you'd gotten nailed?"

"Billy would've bought me out, and besides, they don't check on the way in. They don't give a shit, they just want our dollars."

"But what would we have done?" I persisted. "How would we have known?"

"Billy would've flown in or gotten you a message."

What a jerk, I thought. When the joint came my way, I passed. Max was a stupid asshole. So was Tommy, right now, for that matter. What if somebody smelled the pot in the hallway, called the cops? We'd gotten though all this crap just to land in a Mexican hole for a stupid joint?

Ignoring me, the boys sat on the bed, chatting and smoking. I poured a glass of water from Max's bottle, sipped it. I pulled the cushioned chair over next to the bed and took off my sandals, put my feet on Tommy's lap. He absentmindedly massaged them.

"I mean Annie was incredible," he was saying. "She really got us through it."

"Oh Tommy, we both did it."

Max concentrated on his toke. "Well, great going, you guys. We need to celebrate. Annie, you don't want a hit?"

"I'd like a cold beer."

"Well you're in the right place for that. If anyplace in town will have a frosty cerveza, it's right here. Let's go down to the bar."

"And then hit the road, right?" I said.

"Sure. Although I'd really love to spend some time right here in Veracruz," said Max. "You know, we could take a whole month to do this trip, if we wanted to." He rested his hand on my upper back as I walked in front of him out the door.

*

Three weeks later, we sat in a restaurant on the Pacific Coast.

"Well, only a few more days to go," Max announced over steamed fish. "I called California today and the plane's landing on Friday at daybreak." It was now Monday.

"Wow."

"Great."

"What plane? I thought someone was going to drive down and meet you," I said. "I mean I know we're not supposed to know any of this ahead of time.…"

"Oh it doesn't matter. I'm not worried about you guys. They changed the plan; they found a guy with a plane. There's an old runway right on the beach in front of this hotel up the coast, used to be a fancy resort. It's all run down now. Van and I found it last year."

"Where is it?"

"Over on the Baja, which basically gives us two days to get there and one to unpack the shit. We'll stay there for two nights before the plane comes, so they get used to seeing our faces. After the first night we'll go find someplace to unpack the shit from the van."

"Wow. So it's happening."

"Yeah. We've really got to keep it together now. We could fuck up the whole thing by getting too nervous and blowing it. Gotta stay cool, Annie."

"I know, I know, don't worry. I'm calm as long as something's happening. Don't worry about me."

"Good. You were great in Veracruz. You both were. So we'll need to figure out where to unload. Someplace deserted."

"Up in the cliffs?"

"That's what I was thinking. Tomorrow let's get a real early start, O.K.? So let's not get too drunk tonight, but let's enjoy what hopefully isn't our last excellent dinner for a while!"

"Here's to success, and to the gods of drug smugglers," said Tommy.

*

Tommy and I walked on the beach that night, letting the quiet waves kiss our feet.

"Now remember," he said, "if we get busted you knew nothing. I invited you to Mexico and you came. That's all."

"I know, I know, no sense in us both going to jail, we've gone over this a million times. Fine."

"And don't call my parents unless I'm dead," he said.

"Fine. But don't die."

"O.K.. You neither."

"Well," he said after a small silence of hand holding and star-gazing, "in less than a week it'll be over, one way or the other."

*

Wednesday evening we checked in to a hotel just north of San Felipe. There it was, right on the beach, halfway between the water and the hotel. A runway. Short, narrow, torn up in spots, but definitely a runway. Just big enough to handle small planes. Cottages lined the dunes on both sides of the hotel, facing the water and the runway. Children splashed in the peaceful waves and parents sat in canvas chairs on the runway. "Good thing this is supposed to happen early in the morning," Tommy muttered.

Next morning we drove for about an hour, into the high red cliffs along the shore at Punta San Fermí n. Surfers and scuba divers had claimed every spot, but we kept driving, higher, higher. Finally we found a deserted place. In front of us gleamed the Golfo de California, shifting blues and greens stretching out to meet the sky. Surfers clambered down through red rocks, searching for that perfect tunnel wave.

"O.K.," said Max. "Annie, you sit in the front seat with the radio on low; look like you're embroidering. If anyone pulls in or comes up from the beach, turn up the music and we'll stop working. Tommy, we gotta get this plate off somehow."

"We'll have to cut it."

"First let's get rid of the box. We'll have to put it outside."

An hour later, Max bellowed like a karate black belt closing in for the lethal kick. The van shook furiously as he tore the steel plate back and forth, back and forth in frenzied determination. It was mostly off; just one last weld held it in place, too close to the gas tank, they thought, to risk cutting.

It worked. Immediately we sprang into fast-forward. Tommy ripped out the slabs and tossed them to Max, who dropped them on the van floor between the front seats. I grabbed them and loaded them into small suitcases; I filled six.

It was done in minutes. Five? Fifteen? Twenty? The boys screwed the box back in place and we drove slowly back down the cliffs. We dumped the ruined steel plate on top of a public-beach garbage can.

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