LEFT ON RANCHO

Chapter 1 - Excerpt

Andrew crossed the Cajon Pass, shifted into fourth, and watched the parched San Bernardino mountains fade in the rearview mirror. The Mojave Desert lay before him, a barren, rock-strewn landscape dotted with nothing but forlorn Joshua trees and stunted creosote bushes.  

He’d packed all his belongings, minus what he had put in storage, into his midnight-blue 993. Golf clubs, with the driver and three wood out of the bag, lay across the back seat because being a proper Porsche, there was no trunk. A Tumi roller and a backpack were on the passenger’s seat, his hand pushing them out of the way every time he shifted into sixth gear.

He passed signs for Hesperia and Victorville, and at the next exit, merged onto the 395. Occasional signs of life dotted an infinite dust bowl: strip malls with the essentials of the desert economy; the Mojave Desert Truckstop providing gas, food, showers and more; a minor league stadium with the bleachers in disrepair. He drove by the towering welcome sign that loomed over a solitary Joshua tree: ADELANTO: THE CITY WITH UNLIMITED POSSIBILITIES.

At the next intersection, he took a left on Rancho Road.

What Andrew construed from his research was that Adelanto, located in the Inland Empire, was an isolated California backwater, an afterthought built by a desperate populace trying to sustain itself on the edges of an infertile desert. The extreme summer heat had worsened as the years passed, volatile easterly winds whipped up debris in the fall months, and frigid winter temperatures limited outdoor activities.

Adelanto had two primary economic contributors: incarceration, anchored in a US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) detention center managed by the Federal Detention Network Group (FDN), three state and federal prisons, and a local jail; and cannabis, with multiple grow, manufacture, and distribution facilities spread across the desert. This was not the Southern California one read about or saw on TV or in the movies. This was not the California Dream.

He continued on Rancho, slaloming around potholes and slowing as he eased over crevices in the asphalt, protecting the low-riding car. A solitary bus stop kiosk stood at an otherwise deserted intersection, the empty, flat, oiled road extending north and south into infinity. He drove by incongruous signs advertising warehouse facilities and immigration services. Some were nailed to telegraph poles, others sprouted out of the desert floor, like native flora.

He passed a sprawling, single-story structure with spartan wings that radiated like octopus tentacles. The entire complex was protected by two concentric chain-link fences topped with razor wire. A couple of uniformed men stood at attention by its entrance, where a placard impaled in the desert read: DESERT SANDS, A CORRECTIONAL FACILITY, aka an immigration detention center. Besides cannabis, FDN was the only other reason to take a left on Rancho.

He swerved to avoid another crater and coasted up to the factory. Isolated, it rose alone out of the desert, a twenty-foot-tall structure enclosed in Mondrianesque siding painted an assortment of grays. A chain-link fence topped with both barbed and razor wire enclosed the property: Kannawerks, his new employer.

Andrew drove through the open gate and pulled in past two Ford Explorers marked San Bernardino County Sheriff taking up both visitor parking spaces. He hesitated. What did he know? Maybe this was the norm? He parked next to a solitary black Prius and sat for a few moments listening to the engine idle.

When Charlie had called him, Andrew had been about to hop on a plane back to Thailand, which he would have considered home if “home” were his thing. He’d hit bottom after he was forced to shut down his last company. Silicon Valley had given him sustenance for the last twenty years, but he couldn’t deal with it anymore. Or “it” couldn’t deal with him.

“And bring your clubs,” Charlie had added. “You can stay at the corporate rental; it’s on a golf course. It’s not the Royal Hua Hin, but it’s got its own desert charm.”

Charm.

Andrew considered the blighted wilderness of the Mojave and thought of another desert, the Sonoran, where his father had recently retired. Tucson, in the Catalina foothills, teemed with hundred-year-old saguaros mingling with forests of jumping chollas and ocotillos that bloomed overnight after the first monsoon rain. Mesquites reached for the sun along dry riverbeds, innumerable cactus species stood stalwart—barrel, organ pipe, buckhorn. That’s fucking charm. But here? Not one saguaro—just Martian dust.

Andrew lifted his backpack over the gear shift and stepped out of the car. A pungent, skunk-like musk hung in the air with intermittent wind gusts intensifying the scent. He walked over to the main entrance, which had two large green letters—KW—floating above it, and pressed the buzzer.

A short, bald man opened the door. He wore a light-blue gown, and his half smile revealed a missing eyetooth. He glanced behind Andrew, his eyes widening at the sight of the Porsche.

“¿De qué año es?”

“Ninety-six,” Andrew said.

The man’s smile broadened. He introduced himself as Álvaro and motioned for Andrew to come in.

“Tenemos un problema,” he said, his smile fading.

“I see that.”

“Espera aquí.”

Álvaro rapped his knuckles on another door. A man stepped out into the brightly lit foyer, quickly closing the door behind him. He had a slight limp.

“Everything is fine,” the man said, as if attempting to forestall questions. “A couple of officers from Victor Valley Station just got here. They need to check up on a few things . . . it has nothing to do with us.” His accent was cleaner, more polished than Álvaro’s. So was his handshake. “I am Miguel. Call me Mike.”

Mike was thin, one of those men who would never carry an extra pound of flesh, with a full head of black hair neatly parted to the left, gray-streaked temples, and a trimmed moustache. Andrew pegged him to be in his early forties, a couple of years younger than himself.

“I guess you should come in.” Mike gave Andrew a once over. “They’ll be more comfortable talking to you.”

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Welcome to the High Desert,” Mike said. He opened the door and introduced Andrew as the new boss to the waiting officers.