Cabo

by Davis MacDonald

  It was then the room phone rang. The Judge desperately snatched at it.

  “Señor Judge, we have something we think you might want. She is unharmed. But you need to come pick her up right away, before something untoward happens.”

  “Where? When?”

  He hastily scribbled down an address, and a name: Hernando. He dashed for the door, taking the stairs down two at a time, the elevators being too damn slow, threaded through a crowded lobby now bustling with late-night check-ins, and squeezed past a couple just alighting from a cab, throwing himself into its back seat, cutting off another couple waiting in line.

  He shoved his scribbled note under the driver’s nose, muttering, “Pronto.”

  “Si, señor. I know it well,” said the driver, thrusting the taxi into gear.

  As they sped down the main drag of Cabo, the driver called over his shoulder.

  “Señor, this is not the best place. It’s not so nice. It’s in the Zonas Rojas. There are better places for you right here, downtown. Across from Cabo Wabo is a fine place. Much younger, prettier girls, and very accommodating. Perhaps you should try there first.”

  “No. Just take me quickly. What’s the Zonas Rojas?”

  “It’s supposed to be where the government has issued permits for certain clubs in a designated area of town, called the Zonas Rojas, Red Zone. The girls are required to go to a doctor every day before going to work. If a girl is caught working on the street the cops give her a hard time and take all her money, but if she sells her favors at one of the clubs in the Zonas Rojas, it’s legal.”

  “Why do you say, ‘supposed to be’?”

  “Like anything, the law says one thing but in practice it’s another. This is Mexico, señor.” The driver smiled.

  “How so?”

  “In the Zonas Rojas only about one in ten of the girls are registered. And only a quarter of the clubs have licenses. I recommend you stay here in town. It will cost you about a hundred-fifty for the works. If you want a room, there’s a room charge too. You’ll get all the touching, blow job, hand job, fingering and positions you want, and a massage. Of course, all this must be negotiated beforehand. You know, señor, to avoid miscommunication.”

  “And what’s it like where we’re going now?”

  “Cheaper, señor. But it’s more for local men. I don’t think you’ll be as happy.”

  “Get me there quickly.”

  “Si, señor.”

  They wound through the back streets of outer Cabo, always northward, always higher on the mesa. There was no moon and the streets were dark, the street lights disappearing after a few blocks from the center.

  Finally, the cab driver slowed, then stopped at an unlighted intersection. A small market, closed, on one corner, a worn looking two-story building on the other, white washed, with blue paint running waist high along its walls. A small neon sign over its door proclaimed, El Ratón…. The Mouse. There seemed to be no one around.

  “I will pay you a very big bonus, señor,” said the Judge. “But I need you to stay here and wait for me. If I don’t come back within thirty minutes, I need you to call the number on this card. Tell the gentleman I’m in need of help.” The Judge handed the driver Inspector Garcia’s card.

  The driver took the card, nodding his understanding, looked at it, gave a low whistle. “You know some important people, señor.”

  The Judge got out of the taxi, crossed the dusty street, more dirt than pavement, and pushed at the front door of The Mouse. It swung inward, and he stepped in.

  “EEK!” Two girls screeched together, one pointing to the Judge as he stepped inside, “What a handsome vaquero.”

  The place was dim, flooded with fuchsia from overhead spots that left dark patches in the corners and indistinct shapes at the handful of tables. The smell of stale beer invaded his nostrils.

  Concrete walls and ceiling were painted a dusty red, as was a supported dance pole in one corner, surrounded on two sides by mirrors, and strobe lights not yet turned on. A portal in the left wall led out to a large open-air patio under the stars. Rickety looking wooden chairs and tables were spread here and there, some occupied. A narrow wooden staircase curved up beside the patio’s portal, leading to a second floor.

  In the middle of the opposite wall ran a small bar, punctuated at one end by a jukebox, its multi-colored lights flashing, chumming for coin. On the other end, a pool cue rack hung on the wall, and in front a small pool table. It was a long way from the posh clubs of downtown Cabo.

  Four women leaned against the bar in various stages of undress, young but large, whale-like, two beckoning the Judge over with fluttering hands, the other two eyeing him with commercial interest. Three men, assorted ages, lingered at separate tables in the middle, two with young señoritas plying drinks. Beer. At the third table, a healthy young female of sizable proportion was performing a lap-dance on a scrawny young man, buried beneath her in his chair, barely visible around her soft edges. He seemed to be enjoying himself, her swimsuit top off and wrapped around his neck, his nose buried in her boobs.

  The Judge was the only gringo.

  As his eyes adjusted to the light, the Judge could see other shapes in the darkened corners huddled at tables, some just watching, some in negotiation. The place was ramshackle and depressing.

  The Judge pulled a dusty chair out from an empty table in the shadows and took a seat, sweating profusely now from the heat and the tension. Katy wasn’t in the room.

  One girl from the bar ambled over, settled uninvited in the empty chair across from the Judge, sending out a cloud of cheap perfume that engulfed him, impeding his breathing. He wondered if he would be sick.

  “Hi, señor. Nice to meet you.” She stuck out a small meaty paw to formally shake hands.

  She looked to be early twenties, sparkling brown eyes in a broad brown face, full ruby lips, long sleek black hair cascading across her shoulder and over one of her prodigious breasts, encased in an ivory transparent top. She wore tight pants, bright purple, so tight they looked like a second skin.

  “I’m looking for someone,” said the Judge.

  “I know everyone here, señor. Buy me a drink and I’ll help.”

  He nodded his okay.

  She waved her arm in the air, and a tired old man toddled over, white wispy hair, ragged jeans, light blue shirt matching his crinkly blue eyes, wearing a white apron covered with stains. He held two glasses of beer in one hand, and a disreputable looking washcloth in the other, with which he gave the tabletop a perfunctory wipe. Then he shoved the beers down on the table.

  “The smaller one is mine, señor,” said the girl. “They don’t want me to get too drunk.” She giggled. “Would you like a lap-dance. I’m very expertise.”

  “No. No. I need to meet someone here.”

  “Well, now you’ve met me. Trust me, I’m all you can handle and more. You don’t need to meet anyone else.”

  “No, this is business.”

  She pouted for a moment, real disappointment showing in her eyes. “Who do you need to meet?”

  “Hernando.”

  She jumped back in her chair as though having touched something hot. Fear creeping in around the edges of her eyes. She looked around nervously, nodded mutely, stood, and tried to effectuate a nonchalant attitude as she crossed the room to the stairs and went up.

  Sixty-seconds later another female flounced down in the abandoned chair, wearing a string bikini under a sheer cover of pink mesh. Thinner than the other one he’d met, younger, more attractive, she had an engaging smile and a devil-may-care look in her eyes. She looked like she enjoyed her work.

  “I’m Alisa, señor. Will you buy me a drink too?”

  The Judge waved his hand in the air, summoning the relic of a bartender again, who produced two more beers even though the Judge hadn’t started his first.

  “I am waiting for someone,” said the Judge. “Your friend has gone off to get him.”

  “That’s okay, dear. When the
cat’s away, the mice will play, si? You look very tense, baby. Have your beer and then we can loosen you up a little. Just for fun. For free.”

  “I’m not here for that.”

  “Of course you’re not. But you’re an American male, si? An American bull. You have certain needs. I understand. I know how to help.”

  She reached over and put her small hand on top of his.

  “We can fix this together. It’s how we’re made. It works every time.” She gave him a big smile.

  “No. You don’t understand. I’m married. I’m…”

  “Don’t worry, baby. No charge. Let me just sit on your lap for a moment. All will feel better. No more tension.” Her hand moved under the table to rest on his thigh.

  “No.” His voice was too loud. Heads at the other tables turned. It got very quiet. There was suddenly tension in the room. Then someone marched over and plugged a coin into the jukebox. The sounds of the Beach Boys, singing ‘Barbara Ann’, pervaded the space. Everyone relaxed. Except for the Judge.

  “Why do you do this work?” asked the Judge.

  “Oh señor. You want to hear my sad little story?” Alisa rolled her eyes, smiling again.

  “Yes.”

  “This is my truth, amigo. I don’t tell everyone. I have two small niñas, two girls, two and four, and a bad husband. He beats me, drinks all the time, doesn’t work much, we live with his mother who has a little store and treats me like shit. I am as you Yankees say, ‘stuck’. So, I work here, I save my money. He doesn’t know what I make, I hide it. When I have enough, my niñas and I will leave, go to Mexico City. I’ll get a real job, and the niñas will go to school.”

  “It must be hard.”

  “It is. But it’s my chance. People look down on us, on what we do. Call us ugly names. But I like sex. It’s a natural thing. And without this opportunity I would be stuck with my abusive husband forever. I am fortunate for this job, the owners treat us sexoservidoras like family, and soon I’ll be off to my new life.”

  She sat back in her chair, her fantasy brightening her face. The Judge wondered if it would work out that way. Life had the habit of throwing you rabbit punches continuously.

  The other girl had returned, suddenly appearing behind Alisa’s chair, not happy her seat was filled. There was a harsh exchange in quick Spanish, then Alisa bolted from the chair and moved quickly back to the bar, the first girl taking her place.

  “Hernando is coming,” she said.

  “Good. I’ll just wait here. I don’t want company.”

  She looked disappointed, reluctantly raising her bulk and sliding from the table again. Stalking back to the bar. Not looking back. Pissed.

  Three minutes later a tall thin Mexican came down the stairs, slowly, cautiously, surveying the room carefully. He looked at the Judge last, nodded almost imperceptibility, headed for the Judge’s table. He had on green golf pants, faded from use, and a white shirt, freshly pressed. Mid-thirties, his gaunt face was elongated, matched by a long narrow nose, punctuated by a thin mustache and pock-marked from old acne. His small eyes shifted continually, evaluating his surroundings. Like a weasel, thought the Judge.

  He settled into the chair across from the Judge, the Judge barely controlling his anger, his desire to reach across the table and grab the man by the throat.

  The man sensed the Judge’s rage, putting his hands up, palms outward.

  “She’s okay,” he whispered. “Nothing has happened to her. I’m just a messenger. Don’t shoot the messenger, señor.”

  “What do you want?” hissed the Judge.

  “Nothing, señor. You can have her back now. This is just a warning.”

  “A warning?”

  “Si, señor. I’m asked to point out to you this is Mexico. You’re not in your California anymore. Things are different here. Culture is different. Laws are different. The way things are done is different. It does no good to meddle down here; to stir things up. You cannot change anything. You can only make trouble for yourselves.”

  “And?”

  “And you and your lady are to stop crusading about human trafficking in our country. It is our country. If there is trafficking, it is none of your concern. Besides, many people wish to be what you call ‘trafficked’. What you see as slavery they see as opportunity. These women here might be called trafficked. But they are here of their own free will. It is their ticket to a better life. You have no right to judge unless you stand in their shoes, see their lives as they see them. And that you can never do.”

  “Where’s Katy?”

  “Follow me, señor. But slowly, quietly. This is a fine old club. We don’t want to disturb the patrons, or make the staff feel uncomfortable.”

  Weasel got up from his chair, slowly, turned, and moved back to the stairs. The Judge followed. The second story had a long corridor lit by small faint bulbs, tattered carpeting, and small bedrooms at intervals on each side, some doors open, some closed. The smell of sweat and sex and condoms hung like a blanket in the hallway. As they passed the first room the Judge heard the universal sounds of sex behind its closed door, mattress springs creaking in a steamy rhythm, a high female voice moaning with excitement, then a final male grunt, more gasp than yell, followed by silence.

  Weasel led the Judge to the last door on the left, and gestured for the Judge to enter, which he did.

  In the half light of a shielded bulb he saw Katy sitting dejectedly in her aqua panties on a bed, arms folded defensively across bare breasts, an older duenna sitting quietly beside her. Katy looked up, caught the Judge’s blue eyes blazing at her, jumped for him, throwing her arms around him, clinging, beginning to softly whimper.

  The duenna handed him a dirty blanket, which he wrapped around her protectively as he whispered, “Did they hurt you? Did they do anything to you?”

  “No. No, Judge. For God’s sake get me out of this hole.”

  He turned with her, her salty tears wetting the front of his shirt, and walked her through the door, down the corridor, down the steps, across the club floor, and out across the half-paved road to the waiting cab, gently helping her in.

  “Get us out of here!” he snarled at the cab driver.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Judge drew a hot bath, helped Katy out of her panties, and eased her in, adding liberal amounts of bubble bath supplied by the hotel, trying to make her feel whimsical in the warm tub. It was uphill work.

  She was emotionally damaged. Her taken-for-granted secure world no longer secure. Suddenly she was just another leaf twirling around in the storm, subject to the happenstance of fate and luck, captive to events, currents and people around her, people who could snatch her up in an instant.

  And beneath that he sensed something else. What? Anger?... No. It was more. It was rage.

  He gave her a sleeping pill and curled up around her in the bed, protective, as she nodded off into a troubled sleep, tossing and turning, whimpering occasionally.

  He was so very glad to have her back.

  He popped out of bed at his usual six a.m., California time, did some legal work on this computer, and gazed over at Katy occasionally. She was now in a deep sleep.

  He ordered room service for ten a.m. Everything. Three juices, omelet, fried eggs with verde sauce (his personal favorite), bacon, sausage, ham, fried potatoes, refried beans, three kinds of pastry, corn tortillas, and double orders of steaming coffee and tea. He wasn’t sure what she’d want.

  She awoke with the clatter of the cart, set up out on the balcony facing the sea, the breeze wafting in the smell of fresh coffee as he uncapped the pot. She slipped into a hotel robe and wandered out to the balcony, settling in a chair beside him, silent, brooding, focused on the distant blue horizon above the churning surf.

  He poured her coffee with a little skim milk, the way she liked it, and passed the mug over. She took it in both hands, cradling the heat through the porcelain, smelling its aroma, then softly sipping.

  They sat like that for a while, drifting.
Finally, he spoke “How are you?”

  She looked at him then, anger rising again in her eyes. “I want to bury those sons-of-bitches.”

  “It might be better to let it go. Pack up and head for L.A. Let them keep their crazy country.”

  “No, Judge. No. That girl. Cristina. She deserves our help. Fuck these people. They’re destroying lives, multiplying human misery. Scavengers. They’re a scourge on our entire race. It makes all of us poorer, all of us worth something less. It must be stomped out wherever it appears, without exception and without restraint. It must be hounded out of existence. It must end.”

  The Judge sighed.

  “I have the feeling that means you don’t want to go home quite yet.”

  She turned to face him then, aqua eyes ablaze, raging again.

  The Judge nodded. It was her call.

  He passed her his scribbled note from the U.S. Consular office guy in Cabo San José: containing the name and telephone number of the Senior Staff Attorney for the Mexican Congressional Commission on Human Trafficking and Enforced Labor. She took the note, looked at it for sixty seconds, thoughtful, stood up, abandoning the well-laid breakfast, and headed for her cell phone.

  He wasn’t the only person who was pig-headed in this family, he mused. Then, realizing he was famished, he dug into her abandoned breakfast with relish.

  From the balcony, he heard Katy carrying on sequential conversations, a couple obviously conference calls. She seemed to get some traction in Mexico City. Touching buttons, triggering nerves, stirring up bureaucrats. And not just in Mexico. He heard her talking to someone from a group called The Coalition to Abolish Slavery and Trafficking. He also heard California Against Slavery, and another group called Anti-Slavery International in the U.K. He shuddered to think what his telephone bill would look like. She was stirring up a wildfire. He just hoped it didn’t back around and consume them.

  Two and a half hours later she reappeared on the balcony, exhausted, dark circles showing under her eyes, looking ruefully at the remains of their breakfast, well picked over by the Judge.