want to kick the crap out of him while you're at it—hey, all the better. I didn't think much of it. We weren't touching anybody I knew. It was strangers, outsiders.

     I was good at it. Not just the rough shit. All of it. Luis trusted me. He had something tricky, he'd call me. I'd get it done. Me, I'm living high. My father is busting his ass for fifteen pesos a day, I'm making one fifty, two hundred. Big money for a kid from the countryside.

     One night, I'm visiting my family, Remy Ortiz walks in. My best friend from the barrio. By now he's with the Nice People, I haven't seen him in over a year. And he's got a gun. He says, I was sent here to tell you, what you're doing is wrong, and if it doesn't stop, I have to make you stop. He meant the rough shit. He says I shouldn't be doing dirty work for a criminal boss. Luis.

     I had no idea it mattered to them, what happened on the farm. I wasn't seeing the big picture yet.

     But a word to the wise. I got the hell out of Dodge. I had a little bit of money, I went to Manila and bought a share in a taxi. All the time, Luis stayed in touch. He's always got this or that he needs doing in Manila. Not rough, necessarily, but where you have to trust the guy who's doing it for you. It was money for me. I didn't mind. Even if I'd wanted to say no, I never would have. He was still my amo.

     I met my wife in the taxi. An airport fare to the Hilton. We got married in city hall, Manila, we went back to the States together, I got my green card, I got divorced. I stayed. I didn't hang around with homesick Filipinos, either. No way. I dived in with both feet. I learned to walk the walk and talk the talk. I was an American!

     Inside of a year I was speaking English like I'd been weaned on it. I loved the food, I loved the life. America is so easy. But even in America, Luis kept in touch. Through my family, you see. He wants this and that. Ship him a color TV and a microwave. Parts for his Jeep. One