He watches us through the dark glasses as we climb out of the car and walk toward his perch on the porch. There’s not much breeze, but what little there is carries the musky tang of m*******a. I’m pretty sure by the time we introduce ourselves and show him a picture of Maria that her relative—assuming he actually is one—is fairly stoned. He just stares at the photo for a few long moments and then asks us if we are la migra.
It takes Lynn some time speaking rapid-fire Spanish to convince Rafael that we don’t have anything to do with U.S. Immigration. While she persuades, I stand around baking in the sun and trying to look non-threatening. Carla is smart enough to find some shade on the porch, but she doesn’t get far before Rafael extends a hand and stops her cold. The guy has got a real at
