Alone in Boca Raton

By Jan Smolders

Mario Osorio, a young Mexican textile engineer, is in the United States on a temporary work permit. When an attractive, middle-aged Floridian business owner named Erin Brown takes a strong personal interest in him and proposes to sponsor him for a green card as a manager in her textile business, they strike a deal that allows Mario to stay in the States legally.

Only days later, however, matters get complicated for Mario; his mother, Gloria, unexpectedly flees from Mexico illegally, going to New Mexico with her two young children, Anita and Roberto, to escape her husband, Marios stepfather, Jos. Mario eventually brings his undocumented family to Florida and hides them in a place close to his. But its only a matter of time until things go wrong. Soon Mario finds himself dealing with a drug connection, a shady deal with a Mexican contractor, a crooked lawyer, and the possible deportation of his familyall while a romance begins to blossom between him and Jenny, Erins daughter.

In this novel, only time will tell if Mario will be able to reunite his family and shore up the life he had begun to build for himself in Florida.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491748268

Jan Smolders

Jan Smolders has lived in Belgium, Japan, Singapore and, since 1987, the United States. He has run industrial corporations worldwide and led Clinton Foundation activities in Latin America. Birds Sing before Sunrise is his ninth book.

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Copyright © 2014 Jan Smolders.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-4827-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-4826-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014917203

iUniverse rev. date: 10/27/2014

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Epilogue

For their contributions to this novel,

I owe a big thank you to my spouse, Lut;

to my daughter, Helena, and her husband, Peter Fellows;

to my son, Tom; and to Jeff Stewart.

PROLOGUE

7:10 p.m.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

The city of Boca Raton, Florida

"Y OUR MAMA AND her children arrived at our home. She needs your help. Now. I explain when you call me. You do not answer phone. Please call. Abrazo ."

Damn! Mario Osorio yelled out loud and banged his steering wheel as he reread the SMS he had received from his Aunt Carla. The words had turned his life upside-down.

Carla lived in Deming, New Mexico.

Plopped down in the driver’s seat of his beaten-up Jetta, Mario kept cursing. The parking lot of the Algarve building on Route A1A in Boca Raton looked too peaceful, too bright and tidy, as if it were mocking him.

He dialed Carla’s fixed-line number. He sighed and nervously tapped his armrest. The phone rang and rang. He waited. Some of the rings were delayed a split second. They teased him.

Staring at the phone, he relived in a flash the months he had spent with Carla in 2005. He pictured the annex she, her husband, and two children rented from another Mexican immigrant. He inhaled the smell emanating from its dirt floor. He scanned the three small, drab rooms, two of them windowless and all connecting without inside doors. He recognized its rusty butane stove; its beaten-up furniture; and its minuscule, always grayish TV screen. He wondered whether the narrow-but-threatening cracks in the stucco walls had been filled or had become gaping crevices.

The tiny place now would have to mercifully absorb three more people, the SMS had said: his mother, Gloria, and his two siblings, Roberto and Anita. They had illegally crossed the Mexican border.

He tried to figure out how seven people could fit into Carla’s tight quarters. He feared that his mother would have trouble getting along with her brother-in-law, Armando. He pictured his half brother, Roberto, fourteen, and his little half sister, Anita, exploring the surrounding area, which was barren, flat, desolate. They had to be disappointed. That Hatch Highway in Deming is a dreadful stretch. He sighed. Even for a Mexican.

Mario had had no idea, no hint or heads-up about any plan his mother might have had. That’s why he was super nervous. And furious. But he wasn’t angry with her; he was sure that she had had a good reason for her daring voyage. Something awful had to have happened. My damned fate, he swore inside as his right foot fought the cheap, wrinkled rubber mat on the floor. He knew that his mother never could have fathomed that her rash, unexpected move would make him look like an opportunistic liar in the eyes of a generous woman in Boca Raton. But Mama had put him in that very difficult spot.

He heard a woman shout over a cacophony of voices and cracking sounds, "Dime, dime. Yes?"

Tia Carla? The picture of the diminutive woman emerged in front of him. She always had been a copy of his own mother, but when he last met her, he had noticed that Carla had put on quite a few prosperity pounds.

Both women, fiftyish, had dark-brown, weatherworn faces. Their voices and smiles were still light and fresh.

"Mario! Sí. Tu tía. Your aunt! Can you speak louder? You received my message!" she shouted, her tone happy.

Yes! Why did Mama … What’s going on? What happened? Everybody okay?

Yes. All tired! she screamed over the banter of children. They walked through the night. We picked them up in Columbus around 4:00 a.m. Four, she pointed out, sounding proud of her effort.

Mario had been in Columbus, less than two miles north of the Mexican border.

Armando spotted them at the gas station, she added.

He was her husband.

And Papa?

Papa was his stepfather, José.

Not here … in Mexico. Your mother wants to explain. I’ll give her the phone. Gloria? Wait, Mario … here she is. Take care now.

He heard a shuffle and then his mother’s whisper to her sister, But I can’t talk about José with the kids around. Can you send them out?

Carla’s kids were about the same age as Mario’s siblings.

Mario! Mario! I’m here! We made it! His mother sounded exuberant.

Mama! That’s good, Mama! Very good. You don’t have to cry. It’s good!

Yes. Finally safe. She started sobbing.

What happened?

I’ll tell you. Wait a second … Carla!

Yes. The kids. I’ll wait. Thank God the coyote did a good job. Honest too? Fernando?

Yes, $2,000. I have $300 left.

But you’re okay. That’s what counts, he said perfunctorily. His brain was doing the math. How soon he would have to go to Western Union.

She lowered her voice. Yes. Safe from your father. Hold on.

She always used the term father when she spoke to Mario about his stepfather.

Huh? From Papa?

He heard her whisper, Carla … Carla … wait, Mario.

Okay.

She went on, speaking louder. They’re outside now. Your father beat me several times and told me to leave. ‘Go to your bloody sister, and sleep with her husband!’ he screamed.

No!

I fought back. Roberto protected me.

Why did Papa do that?

She lowered her voice again. He says I slept with Armando three years ago.

Uncle Armando?

You know your uncle is a good man.

Of course he is.

After that fight, Papa left. A week. Then he came back. Screaming again. Threatening. I had warned the neighbors. They helped me. He retreated, still threatening. The next day, he stopped me as I walked to the store. He came close and hissed he’d run away with the kids—that they shouldn’t have to live with a slut. He just wanted to hurt me, of course. Scare me. Make me run away with Roberto and Anita without any payment from him. I said I’d call you. Then he got really mad. He pointed his finger at me, a centimeter from my nose, and said he’d kill me if he found out I’d informed you. He pulled his knife and wagged it in front of my face.

Mario had listened in horror, incredulous. How could he— He heard her sob. He waited, swallowed, and then, a lump in his throat, tried to console her. You’re going to be okay, Mama. Count on me.

I immediately returned home. Rosita from down the street agreed to buy the furniture and our TV. I went to Fernando with the money. I knew his price. He said we’d go in eight days, that two of his friends in the border patrol would be on duty that night, that I certainly understood why it was expensive. But three days later, he came to the house at 6:00 p.m. and said, ‘We must go tonight. Border patrol schedules changed. We must go at 9:00 p.m. Sorry.’ We left at nine. In a very big hurry, no time for anything—first in his car with two more women, also customers of his. We had three small bags. Anita sat in my lap. Then, as we came close to Las Chepas, near Palomas, we had to step out and walk, in the pitch dark. No road. No talking. No flashlights. A few stars. Anita never complained. Roberto didn’t either. Of course not.

For him, it was an adventure. Mario caught himself smiling. He knew the terrain, rough but relatively flat.

Yes. He carried our three bags most of the time. We walked four hours. Then Fernando pointed his finger and said, ‘Keep going straight. Soon you’ll see lights. Columbus. Good luck.’ He turned around and started running back. Sprinting. He’s only twenty-seven and fast. So we stood there, scared to death of dogs and guns, concertina wire, razor wire. Who knows what else? We walked again. Didn’t see or hear any dogs. No razor wire. But so scared. Have you heard what border agents do to people?

Well, yeah. Friends told me stories, Mama. She should thank her lucky stars that she made it, he thought, but he listened further. Let her tell more of her story.

And the darker your skin is, the worse they treat you, the coyote told me, she half whispered.

Mario sat up and kicked his shoes off. Maybe. Of course, that’s coyote language to jack up their fees for people like us, he said scornfully. Then he reprimanded himself inwardly for saying something that didn’t need telling.

"I know that. But it’s not just that, hijo, son, Gloria said, her tone signaling that she demanded to be taken seriously. Monica, a friend of mine in Ciudad Juárez, was picked up with her little son two months ago. They put her kid in a separate room and then…they didn’t beat her. But they … I can’t tell you what they did to her at their office. They called somebody in, a huge woman, a nurse, because they were sure Monica was carrying drugs inside her. She has lighter skin than me."

Hmm. Okay. I read about such a case in the paper. More than one. It’s cruel. He knew all about the exam from stories on WRMA, his favorite radio station in South Florida.

And when the nurse didn’t find anything, they made Monica have an—

I know the word. Hard to believe.

Yes. Anyway, nobody stopped us. We made it. I was so worried for Roberto and Anita. Them with such a mastodon of a nurse?

I doubt they would’ve mistreated them, he said soothingly.

Uh-uh. You’re wrong. I heard of such a case with children. One teenage boy was shot when he tried to run away.

But you made it, Mama. So you were telling me Fernando played smart and dirty, normal, he chuckled, and dropped you when it got really risky. And then?

Carla knew we’d go to the gas station on Route 11 in Columbus. We got there before sunrise. Long time before. We hid behind the shed. Waited for Carla. Half an hour later, we heard a car. Armando and Carla; they were early too.

Mario sighed. Mama had no choice. He felt guilty for having been upset by her timing and lack of communication. She was saving her family. And Roberto and Anita? They’ve lost their friends.

They have me, and they’ll find new ones. They were excited about leaving. José beat them. Them too. But now, I don’t know where we’ll go. I have those $300. We have no clothes or underwear to speak of. One extra pair of shoes each. We weren’t allowed to take more. No phone, of course. Carla’s very sweet and friendly, but we can’t stay here for long. I’ll need money and help.

He didn’t keep her waiting for an answer. I’ll help. Of course, he said forcefully.

Yes. Can you come over? I won’t find work right away. It’s dangerous, you understand, and you know about my arthritis. Who’ll want me with such deformed, tired hands, anyway? You have money for a ticket, don’t you? Maybe you can take a bus?

Her suggestions were so reasonable and spoken so tenderly that he teared up as he pictured his dear mother in such need but knew he couldn’t comply. Not now. It would take him a few weeks before he could leave Boca Raton, and just for a round-trip.

I can wire you $400, Mama. Right away, he said, hoping that she hadn’t heard his heavy exhaling.

Oh, well, that’s very kind of you, but can’t you come here right away? Help me look for a safe place? Not get cheated? I have nothing. Nobody.

He had detected pure surprise in her voice, but it had morphed into helplessness. He fought his awful sadness; her request was so natural, and he had to have sounded so indifferent. But he thought of the opportunity for a green card that had opened up for him, just an hour ago, when a very kind person here in Boca Raton had offered him a job and sponsorship for permanent residency. Her name was Erin Brown. He had told Mrs. Brown that he was alone in the USA. That was the truth as he knew it then. And now it wasn’t the truth any longer.

That card, my card, is the best thing that can happen to Mama, he argued inside as tears streamed down his cheeks. Even if I have to make her suffer now, my dear mother. He said, his voice soft and soothing, "I really want to, Mama, really, but I must stay here for a few weeks. I’m going to have a good, steady job with a green card soon. But I must start work at my sponsor’s plant immediately."

But you could come for a few days, anyway, to help me? Is that asking too much from a son? Gloria had started sobbing again.

It isn’t. Of course not. I love you, Mama. But I must stay here for a while to start this new job. If I don’t, I’ll lose it. You understand that, don’t you?

Can’t you explain to your employer that—

I can’t. He swallowed.

Why not?

This is cruel. I can’t explain that to you either, Mama. Later, I can, he said. Just believe me now. Uncle Armando and Aunt Carla can help you, can’t they? They know the region well. They can choose an area not far from them and find you a landlord you can trust, who will not betray you with the police. If you need more money, I’ll have more soon to send you.

But why don’t you just come and stay with us? Forget that new job. You’ll find one here. You already know Deming. You lived here for a while in—

In 2005.

Yes. And you have a work permit.

Mario had another eleven months on his visa.

For a while, I have a permit. Yes. For a while. But I’ll get a green card here, Mama. In Boca Raton. You know about green cards, don’t you? Once I have mine, I can do anything for you. A lot.

When?

In a few months.

A few months … so we don’t know how long. Well …

He heard that she was giving up. He felt rotten, harsh. Ask Aunt Carla to get you a phone, and we can be in touch anytime. Anything you want to ask me, just call, he said kindly.

Okay. But Roberto and Anita were looking forward to playing with you. I’ll have to tell them.

The resignation in her tender voice pierced his heart. He said haltingly, Tell Aunt Carla I’ll send money, anything I can spare.

Okay, okay. Be careful now, all alone there. You’re a good, strong boy. I don’t understand everything, but we’ll manage. Her tone told him that she wanted to conclude the conversation.

She already started a new chapter. So tough, he marveled, and he tried to console her. I love you, Mama, he said. I’ll call back tomorrow to talk to Roberto and Anita too.

He took a deep breath and shook his head, sad. He felt like a traitor, a selfish opportunist. He tried to convince himself that his mother would understand after a good discussion with his aunt and uncle.

He lay back in his car, noticed greasy spots in the roof cloth, and wondered, trembling, how long he could hide the news of his family’s arrival from Erin. He thought of explaining it all to her, today. No! He knew the coincidence was too huge. That she’d think he lied an hour ago. Yes! he argued with himself. If I don’t tell her, I am a liar.

Something felt wrong in his gut.

His mother, immigration brutes, Erin. Their faces swirled through his brain. A wild slide show.

CHAPTER

1

10:15 p.m.

Thursday, April 10, 2008, six days before Mario’s phone call to his aunt and mother in Deming.

The city of Boca Raton, Florida

M ARIO WAS A new parking valet at the Bridge Hotel in Boca Raton. This was just his fourth day on the job, but he had already mustered the confidence to join the banter between valets. Appearances, gaits, and tipping habits of customers, they were all fair game for their witty shouts, whispers, and winks.

A young hotel guest stepping into his car whistled softly and, eyeing Mario, pointed his head toward the hotel exit. Mario turned and noticed an attractive lady leaving the building. Blonde and svelte. She limped to a chair near the door and hurried to sit down, a grimace covering her face.

Mario walked up to her and asked politely, Excuse me, miss. Can I help you?

She sat bent down, gingerly rubbing her bare right ankle. As she looked up, she seemed pleasantly surprised. Oh. Very kind of you, young man, she cooed. I twisted my ankle stepping off the dance floor, and it’s swelling up. My heel caught the seam of my dress. If you could get my car and help me get in, I’ll be okay. I live close by. She handed him her ticket. A white Mercedes 350.

Right away, miss. Mario took the key off the rack and sprinted away. A minute later, he parked her car in front of her chair, ten feet away. The Mercedes gleamed under the lights, engine running, driver’s door open. He proceeded toward the woman. Stunning, he mused as he looked at her again. Early fifties?

Oh. You’re fast. Thank you. Could you take this? She handed him her purse and a small, blue cotton bag. My dancing shoes. And my right shoe. I had to take it off. She smiled as she accepted Mario’s hand.

He felt her shoulder against his upper arm and looked down at her with an encouraging nod and guided her to her car. He gently supported her by the left elbow as she sat down.

She cautiously put her foot on the gas pedal but pulled back right away, visibly in pain.

She said, looking up and sounding embarrassed, I’m sorry to have bothered you, young man. I’ll have to ask for a cab. Can I leave my car here overnight, you think? Mario? My name is Erin.

He had seen her read his name tag.

I can put an overnight sticker on it, miss. No problem. But you said you live close by? Taxis don’t care for short runs.

Don’t tell me about it. And most of them are dirty. Her voice signaled helplessness as she looked at him.

I can drive you home if you want—if you don’t mind sitting in an old Jetta that needs cleaning. My kind of Ferrari, he laughed.

Oh. Her eyes lit up as they ran over Mario’s frame.

He was in great shape at thirty-two, quarterback type.

You look like a man I can trust, she said, clearly impressed.

He threw his sleek hair back with a head movement.

She asked him, her tone courteous and kind, Would you mind driving me home in my car, Mario? You could return in it, and I’ll come back with a friend tomorrow to pick it up. Could you?

Oh. Of course, miss. Let me help you. He helped her step out of the car and guided her to the passenger seat, ignoring the eye rolls of his friends. He closed the door, ran back to the driver’s side, and took the wheel.

As they got onto Route A1A, she put her hand on his right arm and said, Thank you so much. You were the one who tried to help me. The first one. Right away.

He felt the warmth of her hand. He kept his eyes on the road. I noticed you immediately, he stated matter-of-factly.

Because I limped. She sulked with a quick smile.

He glanced sideways, amused, eyebrows raised slightly. The best he could come up with was, Oh, no, no! and a loud laugh.

Let’s go to Thalassa right here on Route A1A, if you don’t mind.

Okay. Nice place, miss.

Mario had visited the Thalassa Club of Boca once. It was a beautiful high-rise condominium complex comprising three buildings painted a soft, yellowish light orange. Residents enjoyed an open Atlantic Ocean view right across Route A1A from their spacious eastern balconies. From the back of their apartments, they looked down, west, on the Intracoastal Waterway that bordered the Thalassa site and on the opulent residences beyond. The Thalassa stood less than two miles north on A1A of the Bridge Hotel, which also