by Sean Black
Lock stared hard into the glare of the sun. ‘We do what everyone else does. We pay ’em off.’
Ty grimaced. ‘And if they won’t be bought?’
‘What colour do you think we should get our crosses?’ Lock asked.
‘Well, not pink, that’s for damn sure.’
Lock glanced back at the roadside and forced a smile. ‘I dunno… pink might bring out your eyes.’
Ty waited for a gap in the traffic and pulled back on to the highway as a truck roared past them in the fast lane. As he drove, his eyes flicked back and forth from the road ahead to the rear-view and side mirrors. They were relatively safe on the freeway, but in a moment they would be on surface streets until they reached their first port of call.
Ty nudged his way through the thundering lines of trucks, returning home to pick up fresh loads, towards the off-ramp. He kept the turn signal off. He waited until he was almost at the final stretch of the median, where the ramp ended, then spun the wheel hard right. He gave the rear-view mirror a final check to see if anyone had followed but the ramp behind was clear.
Lock checked the sat-nav app on his cell phone. ‘Okay, right at the bottom,’ he said to Ty.
Ty didn’t signal this time either, and again waited until the last possible moment before making the turn, swinging out wide and almost clipping a green and white taxi cab travelling in the opposite direction. The road opened up into a wide boulevard, with a concrete median running down the middle.
‘Over here,’ said Lock, and they pulled into a second-hand-car dealership with an auto-repair body shop on one side, presumably operated by the same owner, and a dentist on the other. The body repair and the dealership were two halves of the same business. The place was a yonque, or chop shop. They were known as bone-yards, or huesarios, in the interior of the country.
Ty pulled the car through a set of gates into a small yard shielded by panels of corrugated iron. A dog sat scratching itself next to a dark blue Dodge Durango with the deep tint on the windows that seemed standard here, rather than a factory option. The dog rose slowly, took a piss against one of the tyres and ambled away as Lock went to greet the owner, a portly man wearing a flowery shirt that was two sizes too small, and a fedora.
Lock pointed to the Durango. ‘ Cuanto cuesta? ’ he said to the dealer. How much?
The man took off his fedora and stared at Lock with a bemused smile. The Durango had probably been an insurance write-off, bought at an auction in Texas, repaired in the chop shop, the plates changed to Mexican ones and put up for sale. The car Lock was driving was a white Ford Ranger, worth perhaps ten times what the Durango would fetch. That was the exact reason they couldn’t ride around in it. At best they would stand out a mile. At worst they were risking a car jacking, which would be messy. Lock knew that in order to move around they had to do their best to blend in, which, given their colouring, was hardly going to be easy.
The dealer shrugged and walked over to the Durango, no doubt extolling its virtues and leaving behind Lock’s scant grasp of Spanish as he did so. Finally, eager to keep the exchange as short as possible, Lock dug into his pocket and pulled out a thousand dollars in cash. ‘You give me the keys now, I give you the cash, and we leave,’ he said in English, gesturing to the gate.
The man disappeared inside his little wooden shack of an office and reappeared a moment later with a set of car keys. Lock took them and tossed them to Ty. ‘Take it for a spin round the block. I’ll wait here.’
Less than five minutes later, Ty was back. He climbed out of the driver’s seat. ‘It’s a bucket, but it’ll do.’
Lock handed the money to the man, who stuck it quickly inside the lining of his hat, still not quite believing his good luck. Ty took the Durango, and Lock the Ford Ranger, and they drove in convoy out through the gates and on to the road. A half-mile further on, Ty pulled into the multi-storey parking lot of a small shopping mall. They both took a ticket at the barrier, drove past the armed private security guard at the entrance and up on to the roof.
While the lower levels had been crowded, the roof was quiet. Lock scoped the area for cameras but there were none. In a city where violence was explicit and wanton, and where your identity decided whether you would be arrested or face the courts, closed-circuit security systems were hardly a deterrent.
With the Ranger and the Durango next to each other, they moved their gear into the Durango. They pulled two more black canvas bags from the back of the Ranger and placed them in the rear compartment of the Durango. They drove back down a few levels. Lock parked the Ranger, got into the Durango next to Ty and they left the parking lot.
Driving through the middle of Santa Maria, the Durango’s down-at-heel exterior, with the blacked-out windows, allowed them to blend in with the rest of the traffic. The stares that the Ranger had drawn from passers-by and fellow motorists fell away. They could watch their surroundings as others did, no longer outsiders, as long as they stayed in the car.
Ahead, on a street corner, a small crowd had gathered. Ty slowed the Durango a little. Outside a convenience store a middle-aged woman was hunched over the body of a young man, blood still fresh on his shirt.
What struck Lock was the expressions of the people who had come to watch. There was no shock or panic, only a dull, tired acceptance. It was the same reaction a minor fender-bender would elicit in LA — just something that happened. Only the woman was crying. It was a scene sadly familiar to him. The only difference between here and the other cities he had seen it played out in was that those had been officially declared war-zones.
He cracked the window just enough to hear her wails as she cried for her dead son. The scene slid past them and the sound of the woman’s pain faded.
Twenty-nine
It was the cold that woke her. That, and a sensation of sticky dampness running down her legs. She listened but could hear nothing. Slowly, she became aware of her body and realized she wasn’t lying in a bed. Air was moving over her. Her mouth was so dry that her tongue seemed to be glued to the roof. She literally had to will her eyes open and when she did open them it was so dark that she wasn’t entirely sure if her eyelids had moved at all.
After a moment, her eyes began to adjust to the gloom. She couldn’t see behind her. The floor was bare concrete. The walls were a blank grey. She was lying on the floor. The ceiling was bare, apart from a single light-bulb, which hung from six inches of electrical cord at the far end of the room.
She started to get up but couldn’t. She twisted her head to one side. Her neck had a crick in it. She could see her hand. It had a rope around it, which was fastened to a metal ring buried in the concrete floor. She moved her neck to the other side. Her other hand was also tied down. She tried to lift her legs and felt rope around them too.
Panic flooded her. She struggled and thrashed but the ropes held firm. By sheer force of will she forced herself to stop. She had to think.
Her mind felt heavy, as if her brain had been wrapped in cotton wool.
Think.
Think about how you got here.
What do you last remember?
She remembered walking out of the resort hotel and finding the bar.
Charlie.
She had been speaking to him. He was cute. He had bought her a drink. A margarita. She had kissed him.
There had been stairs. She had stumbled. His hands had been all over her as he had helped her up the flight.
Other things were coming back to her now. Things she didn’t want to remember, didn’t want to think about. Maybe it was better not to think about how she had got here and focus on how she could get out.
What if she had been left here? What if someone had dumped her in this room and something had happened to them? She didn’t have water. She would die. The panic rose again and this time she couldn’t force it down.
She tried to shout but the noise that came out of her mouth was little more than a croak. She tried again. It was louder. She kept crying out, she didn’t kno
w for how long.
After a while a key rattled in a lock. She tried to raise her head. She hadn’t seen a door but she heard one open. It must have been behind her.
A hand settled on the side of her face. She shuddered. It rubbed her cheek. A finger traced a line across her lips.
‘Please,’ she heard herself say. ‘Please don’t hurt me.’
She could feel the person crouching behind her. She could hear them breathing. They didn’t answer. They withdrew their hand and lifted her head, settling it on their knees.
The hand came back into view, this time holding a water bottle. It tilted the bottle so that she could drink. Some of the water trickled from the side of her mouth on to the floor. She was so thirsty that she chased it with her tongue. When she had finished it, the person lowered her back on to the floor.
‘Please, let me go,’ she said. ‘My parents have money. They’ll pay you.’
The person didn’t respond. She heard the door close and she was alone again.
Thirty
Arriving in Diablo, they found a hotel in the centre of town. It was part of a large American chain. There were lots of vacant rooms — no surprise, given the wave of violence engulfing some of the border towns and cities.
Ty checked them in using a fake ID, paid in cash, and then they drove straight to the bar to meet his contact. Lock was hoping he would be back for a second evening. He had already decided that if he saw Mendez in public he would take him there and then.
When they arrived, the parking lot behind the bar was already crowded. Ty found them a spot as close to the back door as he could manage and they got out of the Durango. Lock plucked the picture of Mendez from the sun visor as he got out.
They walked around to the front of the bar. Ty glanced up at the sign. ‘This is it.’
Lock squared his shoulders and, with Ty a pace behind him, pushed his way through the front door. The first thing he noticed was the smell of cigarette smoke. Presence of the abnormal if you had just come from California: smoking in public was worse than farting. He had tucked the picture of Mendez into his back pocket.
At the bar, he ordered two beers and checked out the crowd. It looked to be mostly locals but there were a few Americans.
Lock clinked glasses with Ty.
‘What should we drink to?’ Ty asked.
Over Ty’s shoulder, Lock noticed a white guy sitting alone, nursing a Boilermaker. He seemed to be tuning in to their conversation.
‘Let’s drink to a great vacation,’ Lock said, tipping the neck of his bottle against Ty’s. He half turned, so he was square to the bar. The barfly caught his eye. ‘You guys American?’ the man said.
‘How’d you guess?’ said Lock.
The guy gave a modest shrug. ‘Suppose I’m just good at reading people.’
‘You want a drink?’ Lock asked.
The guy smiled. ‘Sure.’
Ty nodded towards a table of tourists, mostly young and female. ‘I’m gonna go circulate, brother.’
Lock slid his beer down towards the guy and grabbed a stool. He’d already spotted something he could use: a battlefield cross tattoo on the guy’s right biceps. ‘My buddy over there was in the Corps.’
‘Good times, man,’ the American said, raising his glass. ‘Your health.’
‘And yours,’ Lock said, taking a gulp of beer. ‘Where did you serve?’
‘Here and there. Did my final tour in Iraq. First time round. Desert Storm.’
That was the phrase Lock had been waiting for, the phrase that told him they had found Ty’s contact. He lowered his voice but kept the tone conversational. Just two dumb-ass Americans shooting the bull on vacation. ‘So what you got?’
The American dug out a pack of cigarettes. He offered one to Lock, who declined. ‘He was in here last night.’
‘You’re sure it was him?’ Lock asked.
The American lit his smoke. ‘Yeah. Soon as I saw him I knew who he was. Kind of surprised to see him here, though.’
‘How’s that?’
‘You get tourists in here.’
‘He was with a girl?’
The American blew a smoke ring, which settled over the bar. ‘There’s a resort not too far from here, still gets some trade. She came in on her own. They were talking, he bought her a drink. She must have been pretty blitzed because he had to help her walk out.’
Lock’s heart almost stopped. ‘She couldn’t walk?’
The American shrugged. ‘Kids come down here, they can’t hold their liquor.’
The bartender was back, asking if they wanted more drinks. Lock waved him away. ‘He left with the girl?’
‘They went upstairs. I didn’t see either of them again for a while until this Mexican dude came to get him.’
‘A bodyguard?’ said Lock.
‘Looked like it. Here,’ he said, digging into his pocket and pulling out his cell phone. ‘I didn’t get a chance to snap your boy but I did get a picture of the muscle.’
The American pulled up a grainy picture on the tiny screen. The bartender was still hovering. ‘Great boat, ain’t she?’
Lock played along as he took the cell phone and studied the picture. It showed a man in profile as he walked out of the bar. He was dressed in shorts and a wife-beater shirt. Mexican. Heavyset, with hooded eyes and a boxer’s squashed nose.
‘So why you selling her?’ Lock asked.
The American shrugged. ‘Low on cash, you know how it is.’
Lock handed the cell phone back. ‘Hey, send me that picture so I can show my wife, okay, and we’ll work something out.’
‘Okay, will do. Listen, good meeting you.’
They shook hands, the American slid off the stool and walked out of the bar. A few seconds later the picture flashed up on Lock’s cell. The contact would be paid by wire transfer the next day as per their agreement.
Ty was still talking to the crowd of girls. Lock joined him. ‘Hate to break up the party, but we gotta go, brother.’
Ty slid his chair back from the table. ‘Catch you later, ladies.’ He shot them a backward glance. ‘I asked them about an American girl maybe going missing.’
‘And?’ Lock asked.
‘Hadn’t heard about anything like that.’
‘Well, if it was him and he drugged her, maybe she hasn’t remembered it yet.’
They headed back out to the Durango, scanning the parking lot as they made sure no one had followed them. At the rear of the vehicle, Lock shared what the American had told him.
‘You believe him?’ Ty asked.
Lock nodded. ‘Yeah. But I don’t think Mendez’ll be back anytime soon. Not if he took a girl out of here.’
‘So where does that leave us?’
Lock tilted his cell phone so that Ty could see the picture of the bodyguard. ‘Leaves us with one more face to pick out of the crowd.’
They sat outside the bar for a while in the Durango, watching as patrons came and went. None was Charlie Mendez or his bodyguard. Exhausted from the long drive, they took it in turns to grab some sleep. After years of practice they were both accomplished at napping when they could. In relative terms, the back seat of a Dodge Durango was luxury compared to some of the places they’d had to sleep in the past.
At around three in the morning, the lot had begun to empty. Their vehicle parked alone with both of them inside it might attract attention. Ty woke Lock.
‘He ain’t coming.’
Lock sat up, rubbing his face. ‘Let’s hang on for a while yet.’
Another half-hour passed and the last few drinkers staggered outside, climbed into taxis and headed off into the night. The staff began to leave. The last one out was the bartender who had served Lock. He walked towards his car.
Lock opened the door of the Durango and got out. The man froze as he approached, no doubt figuring he was about to be mugged or forced to let Lock back into the bar to have that evening’s takings.
Lock showed him empty palms. ‘I just want t
o ask you a question.’ The bartender stepped back, fumbling for his keys, but Lock placed himself between him and his car. ‘You speak English?’
The man flicked his head up and down. ‘I don’t want trouble.’
Lock pulled out the picture of Charlie Mendez as Ty flicked on the headlights of their vehicle. He angled it into the beam so that the man could see. ‘This guy was here last night?’
The bartender looked from the picture to Lock and back again. Everything about the way he was holding himself told Lock that he didn’t want to say anything. His reluctance was understandable. ‘You know him?’
The bartender screwed up his face.
Lock reached out and tapped the man’s cheek. ‘Look at me. This is important. Was he here?’
The bartender looked at him with pleading eyes. ‘ Si.’
‘He was with another man. This man here,’ Lock pressed, showing him the picture on his cell phone of the bodyguard. He studied the bartender’s face. There was a flicker of recognition, and he swallowed so hard that Lock saw his Adam’s apple bob. He didn’t answer. He pushed past Lock, trying to get to his car. Lock reached out to grab his arm but he broke away. He started to run. Lock took off after him, his hand falling on the man’s shoulder as he fumbled with his car keys, his hands shaking.
‘Who is he?’ Lock asked. ‘What’s his name?’
The bartender just stared at him. ‘Please, I have a family, children.’
Lock let him get into his car and drive away. He had the answers he needed.
They headed back to their hotel. The elevator was broken. They climbed the three flights of stairs, rigged the door so that anyone coming in unannounced would cause a hellish racket, and fell, exhausted, into a dreamless sleep.
Thirty-one
Lock woke at seven on the button. He got out of bed as Ty slept on, went into the bathroom, took a leak, showered, shaved and worked through some stretches. By the time he came out, Ty was emerging from under the covers, his feet and ankles sticking out at the bottom of the bed. He got up, walked to the window, opened the curtains and looked out over the smoke stacks of a nearby factory.
