LOCATIONS FROM RIVER RUNS RED

Illegals?
          Silently—Gilbert because he wanted to be careful, that dip in the cold canal having sobered him right up, Billy and Carlos presumably because they were in awe that they had finally reached El Norte, so far from Taxco in every way—they crossed the grassy field.  Gilbert led them between the various monuments, pausing to check the name on the gravestone.  Maj. Simeon Hart, it said, and the place had once been called Hart’s Mill, but no longer.  Before Maj. Simeon Hart, El Camino Real had cut across this land, connecting Mexico City with San Francisco, all Mexican territory in those days.  El Paso’s name had come from the Mexicans, as another plaque pointed out: Don Juan de Oñate had called the place El Paso Del Rio Del Norte back in 1598.
          These days the Americans wanted to keep the Mexicans off land that had formerly been theirs, and not that long ago.  A Mexican had to steal across the line in the night, like a criminal.  It was insanity.

Motel signs
The exit for Palo Duro appeared about an hour outside of El Paso.  The Palo Duro Motel stood beside the interstate, its three signposts stark against the cloudless sky.  The tallest of the signs had blown out altogether and its frame stood there empty, surrounding a patch of blue.  The next was weather-faded but still legible when you got close.  The shortest, still thirty feet tall, was an illuminated sign that in which had most of the plastic was intact, and Molly suspected that at night it was visible from a great distance.

BBQ
That place had always smelled like cooking fires and burning meat and spilled beer, and on warm autumn nights you could usually find much of the town sitting at the rough wooden picnic tables on the porch listening to Hank Jr. or Waylon or George Strait on the jukebox in the corner.  Colored Christmas lights hung on the inside walls all year long.  Bugs dashed themselves against the screens, moths fluttered unsteadily against the lights, and cool breezes wafted the aromas of ribs and chicken and corn and burgers out to the gravel parking lot.  The teenagers usually sat at a table of their own, laughing and swearing, sneaking out for smokes now and again, while their parents did more or less the same thing.

Elvis
He didn’t seem to have a specific destination, but cruised El Paso, Santa Fe, 6th, 7th--the Port of Entry area, where most of the shops would have been at home on either side of the line.  Piñatas dangled from window overhangs, as did net bags of soccer balls and bright paper flowers.  Garish statues of Elvis Presley and the Blues Brothers stood in front of Dave’s Pawn Shop, and Molly could hear “Hound Dog” blasting from the store’s speakers over her car stereo.

Rio Grande graffiti
Truly paid thirty-five cents for each of them, and they began the long walk up the high, arching bridge to Mexico.  Even at this hour, with a cold wind whipping across it, the bridge was crowded with cars and pedestrians.  Below, lights from the U.S. side washed over the concrete riverbanks, illuminating anti-American graffiti.  Young men stood below the bridge with paper funnels and drink cups, calling for the crossers to throw down coins for them to catch.  Closer to the Mexican side of the bridge, vendors worked the lined-up cars, washing windshields with filthy rags, selling DVDs, cheap necklaces, yellow bobble-head chicks, and other tawdry goods.