Damn, he was good. I was glad I’d decided not to kill him earlier.
We spent the day driving around Ensenada, getting a feel for the neighborhoods. Gringo Hills was set into the steep mountains to the north of town. Large homes dotted the cliff line, with panoramic views of the bay and the city below. On the flat top of the mountain was a gated community, complete with razor wire-lined eight-foot walls and armed guards to keep out the riffraff. It was the perfect getaway for gringos who wanted a Mexican experience without all those damn Mexicans ruining it. A paunch-bellied uniform watched me roll past the main gate, behind his mirrored glasses, I’m sure he was thinking a truck like mine shouldn’t even think of entering unless it was by the service gate. The whole deal reminded me of our compound in the Root. Up until that truck crashed our gate and blew up the barracks, we thought barbed wire and a few guys with M16s could keep us safe. We learned a hard lesson that day: no wall is big enough to protect you from the man who doesn’t give a fuck about the outcome.
“Hitler, si, verdad. My mother named me Hitler.”
“Your mother didn’t name you Hitler.” I was leaning against the wall in front of Anthony’s, talking to the door man. He was about my age, not as big, but still I doubted many men didn’t listen when he talked. He was built solid, his worn suit coat bulged tightly against his muscular forearms. A small pot belly hung over his silver cowboy belt, but that just meant he liked his burritos or maybe cerveza.
“She did. Adolpho,” he said.
“That’s a good name.”
“Si, but to you, Ingles, it is?”
“Adolph, I guess.”
“Si, Hitler, no? Adolpho, Jose. Asesino on this shoulder, santo on the other. All night they fight for my soul.”
It was mid-afternoon, Peter had gone back to his room to catch a few winks before our nocturnal hunting. I decided to blow off my meeting with the tip boy. Ensenada was small enough, or at least the tourist area was, if I needed him again it wouldn’t be hard to find the little scammer. Anthony’s opened at four and stayed that way until four AM or the last of the gringo dollars stopped flowing.
I passed Adolpho a pint of brandy from my jacket pocket. After checking to be sure his boss wasn’t in sight, he took a long pull and passed it back. Using my tongue to close off the flow, I mimicked drinking. It would have been so easy to let the warm liquor pour in, who would know? Who, except me and maybe the girl I was looking for, if I got back in the jug and fucked this gig up.
Playing it casual, I chatted Adolpho up, told him I was a bouncer in the States. We shared stories of our lives babysitting beautiful women. He told me he drove a cab when he wasn’t at Anthony’s. Like most honest working men, it took two and three jobs to keep a roof over his family. He didn’t share with his wife the nature of the club’s real business. “Wives, they don’t understand a man getting paid to watch pretty women all night,” he told me.
“I wouldn’t know, I was only married for a short time. And she never understood anything about me.”
“They are not in la vida to understand us. They are here to give reason for working and a safe place to retirada when the war gets too malo.”
“I wish someone had told her or me that, would have saved a lot of cash.” Truth was, my home with Jen was a battlefield, not a sanctuary. She had married me to piss off her blue blood father, but when the reality of living with a drunk hood got too real, she checked out and ran back to the Westside. Last I heard she was engaged to an agent at ICM, and more power to her. I wished the gold plated bitch all the happiness she deserved.
I stood back while Adolpho hurried to the curb to help a stunning woman in a scoop-necked evening gown out of a car. He bent his head, watching her fine ass wiggle into the club, “Calabazo, mango de manila.”
“Forget about it,” I let out a long sigh. “You ever get to sample the produce?”
“Once, when it was muy lento, storm kept the gringos away, they had a fiesta. Puta on the house. Oye, but only that once.”
We watched a silver haired American go in and ten minutes later walk out with a lovely Lola on his arm. They went around the corner and into Motel 49. “Bit long in the tooth to be getting his diver dunked, isn’t he?”
“No, senor, see?” He pointed across the street to a farmacia, in its window was a large bright sign happily advertising Viagra and US made condoms.
“Viagra has been good for business?”
“Chingalo! Best invention since pussy, no? One old hombre, he fuck five girls one night, verdad, by the end he no could walk so good, but his miembrillo is muy fuerte.” He pumped his fist in the universal sign for a woody.
Tipping the pint up, he drained the last of my hooch. “You ever see any Russians around here?”
“Si, Russians, Germans, a few French, come from the cruise ships. Mostly Americanos. Why you want to know?”
“Truth?”
“Si, truth.”
“I’m looking for a girl.” I knew he might sell me to the Russians. I had no reason to trust he wouldn’t, but I did. “A Russian girl, thirteen.”
Adolpho shook his head sadly, “Is no good, nina, she is in Ensenada?”
“I think so,” I said. He struck a match and flamed a cigarette. Looking past me to the traffic rolling by, he mulled over this news.
“Ok,” he turned his tired eyes on me, “these Russian cabrones, you don’t want to fuck with them, but you must, si?”
“Looks like it.”
“You know they probably cut out your guts, feed them to the pigs?”
“I think they’ll try.”
“They don’t try. They do. This girl, she is tu familia?”
“No.”
“And still?”
“She’s in trouble.”
“Si, big trouble,” he wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. He didn’t know exactly where they lived but he had seen them driving around town in big black cars. Once or twice they had come to the club to drink and fuck. Whenever they came, they brought young strapped men who stood by the door and watched them. One of the girls told Adolpho that the older man had his bodyguard in the room while he was getting laid. When he was spent, he gave the girl to the guard. She said they were both rough riders and paid her an extra fifty not to wear condoms. They had laughed saying that they were stronger than any disease.
“I will ask, quietly, see if anyone knows how to find them,” he said, “but you be careful. They have eyes on the street.” He shook my hand strongly as we parted.
The wings of the pelican burned orange and golden in the dying rays of the sun as it descended into the Pacific. Fishing boats and pleasure crafts bobbed at their moorings in the calm bay. Hard to believe two hundred feet away, some geezer was getting his dick sucked by a chica who was just trying to knock out the rent with the only swag she had to barter.
I walked through the lengthening shadows toward Motel 49. Pushing the dresser against the door, I dropped onto the bed. Closing my eyes, I tried to figure my next move. Somewhere, not far from where I lay, a baby girl was in desperate straits and I didn’t feel any closer to finding her. Maybe I had been looking at the problem from the wrong side. I was acting like a John, looking for tail, but these cats had their own supply of gash. If I was them, what would I need?
CHAPTER 11
In the gentle dusk light, a dust crusted Toyota Land Cruiser sat hidden amongst a bramble of manzanitas and scrub oak. Xlmen powered down the windows so that he could better hear the world around. Reclining the truck’s seat all the way back, he stretched out. He was a small man even by Mexican standards, but had none of the twitchiness that accompanied so many wiry men. He was at peace in his sinewy body. Tilting his sweat stained fedora down over his eyes, he let his lids drift shut. Waiting was never difficult for the killer. Either in a four by six foot cell or hunting in the mountains of Sonora, waiting was not different. When there was no action to take, he took no action. It was that simple.