The Faithful Spy

The locals called Chamblee “Chambodia,” but that term hardly captured its variety. The Buford Highway was post-American America, the United States at its ugly, tacky best, accepting — if not quite welcoming — immigrants of every color, Wells thought. More practically, it was a good place to hide. Anybody who wanted to work could make a living here, and the landlords didn’t fuss over renting to people whose papers weren’t quite in order. They welcomed anyone who paid on time and kept quiet, like Wells. So for four months he had lived in a furnished one-bedroom apartment just off the highway. Every morning he took his place among the Guatemalans and Nicaraguans waiting for work at the parking lot. At first they had suspected him of being an immigration agent or a cop and refused to talk to him, but lately they had loosened up a bit. They still didn’t really like him; he got picked for more than his share of jobs because he was white and spoke English. But Wells figured he knew how to be an outsider. Another fake name, another new identity, another endless wait for orders. He sometimes wondered what guys like Dale the landscaper would do if he told them who he really was. Laugh, probably—“That’s funny”—and tell him to get back to work.

they headed west on I-285, the ring road that surrounds Atlanta, leaving the grit of Doraville behind as they passed the giant Perimeter Mall, a shopping center the size of a small city. Even now Wells couldn’t get used to the casual wealth of America, the gleaming opulence of cars and office buildings. At exit 24, Sandy Springs, they turned off 285, and a few minutes later Dale swung onto a culde-sac with four newly built homes that grandly proclaimed itself hidden hilltop lane: a private drive. A truck full of saplings awaited them, along with a teenager wearing a Jeff Gordon cap.

“Kyle,” Dale said to the kid.

“Wassup, Dale.” They exchanged a complex, fluid handshake.

“Got you some Mexicans,” Dale said. “This here’s John. He speaks Spanish — he’ll tell ’em what to do.”

Wells’s heart thumped. How could Dale possibly know his real name?

“Jesse,” Wells said.

“Whatever,” Dale said. “Long as you can dig a hole.”

Wells could only shake his head. This cracker had just given him his biggest scare in months.

Dale pointed at the trees in the truck. “Kyle’ll show you where to put them,” he said. “Make sure you get the roots in deep.”

they stopped for lunch around noon, hiding from the sun by the side of the house. The Guatemalans unwrapped homemade tamales and bottles of warm beer; Wells pulled out a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken, his secret vice. He munched on a greasy, salty drumstick and rolled his tired shoulders, trying to stay loose. He had sweated through his shirt, but he didn’t mind the work. Months of digging and hammering had given him back the muscles that had disappeared in the North-West Frontier.

Wells tilted the bucket of chicken toward the Guatemalans. “You want?”

One of the men reached toward the bucket, then stopped.

“It’s okay,” Wells said. “Really.”

The guy took a drumstick. “Gracias.”

“Quien es tu nombre?”

“Eduardo. Tú?”

“Jesse.”

“You work every day.”

“Sí,” Wells said.

“But you white.”

“Looks that way,” Wells said. The beginnings of a smile formed on Eduardo’s face, then disappeared.

“And you no inmigración. ”

“No.”

Eduardo looked puzzled as he tried to understand why a norteamericano would be stuck working with them. Wells had had this conversation, or something similar, a dozen times. It always stopped here. These men respected privacy and, anyway, most of them didn’t know enough English to push further. Sure enough, Eduardo finished off the last of his chicken in silence.

“Gracias,” he said again, and turned back to the other Guatemalans. Wells leaned against the wall and looked at the houses around him, broad and tall, with three-and four-car garages attached. Each one probably had fifteen rooms. For one family. Amazing, he thought. Someone would be glad to live here, or ought to be. they finished up around five o’clock, with the clouds thickening, promising a heavy summer downpour. “Anybody want a cigarette?” Kyle asked. He walked over to his truck — and suddenly hopped in and pulled away. “Later, bitches,” he said. Just like that he was gone. The Guatemalans chased the truck but gave up as it disappeared down Mount Vernon.

“Maricón,” Eduardo yelled uselessly down the road. “Fucking puta. ”