Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (17 page)

It was a small place, with wooden floors and walls crowded with framed plaques and photographs celebrating Playa Azul’s past. The bar ran the length of one side of the room, which was packed elbow to elbow with tourists and locals alike, clutching bottles of Tecate and laughing raucously.

The house band, wearing blue shirts and cowboy hats, played—of all things—a mariachi version of Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall.” It was an odd choice, Beth thought, but it seemed to go over well with the tourists, who were too drunk to notice just how awful it sounded.

The moment she stepped into the bar, she felt as if she’d been assaulted. The noise and the music exacerbated her growing headache.

She studied the crowd, looking for Jen, but saw no one who even resembled her. She checked for Rafael and Marta as well but came up empty.

Reaching into her purse, she pulled out Jen’s passport, which she’d taken from the dresser drawer. Crossing to the bar, she flagged the bartender—a busty woman in an Armando’s T-shirt—hoping she spoke English.

“Excuse me.”

The bartender came over, wiping her hands with a small towel.
“Sí, senorita
. Drink?
¿Cerveza?”
 

“No,” Beth said. “I’m looking for someone.”

She opened the passport, showing the bartender Jen’s photo. It was a couple years old, but Jen hadn’t changed much.

“My sister,” Beth said. “She may have been here with two other people. A man and a woman, both Mexican. Very good-looking.”

The bartender studied the photo, then shook her head. “No, I don’t see her. But I’m very busy today. I don’t see everyone who comes.” She nodded toward a waitress, who stood near a table, taking an order. “Try Isabella. She don’t work as hard as me.”

Beth thanked her and crossed the room, waiting for the waitress to finish taking her order. When she turned, Beth stopped her.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry, but I’m looking for my sister, and I think she may have come in here this afternoon.” Beth showed her the passport photo. “Have you seen her?”

The waitress looked at it. “You are from the cruise ship,
sí
?”

“Yes.”

“I see many people from the ship. But not this one.”

Disappointed, Beth thanked her and was about to turn away when someone nearby said:

“Maybe I can help.”

Beth focused on the source of the voice.

He was an American of about thirty, unshaven, sitting alone at a table close by. He was nursing a beer, and looked unhurried and unconcerned, just biding his time. Not a tourist, but not exactly a local, either. He was wearing a T-shirt with a fish on front surrounded by the words
MEAT WITHOUT FEET
.

A fisherman, apparently. Who looked like half the guys she’d prosecuted.

She went to him, wary but optimistic.

“I’m something of a people watcher,” he said. “And I’ve been here pretty much all day. Why don’t you let me see that picture?”

Beth hesitated, then handed him the passport.

He squinted at Jen’s photo, took a sip of beer. “Now there’s a face you don’t forget.”

“So have you seen her?”

“Matter of fact, I have. She was in here about an hour ago. With some guy.”

Thank God, Beth thought. “A Mexican man? Good-looking? Wearing a ponytail?”

The fisherman nodded. “That’s the one. They hung out for a while, then they met up with a few other people. I heard one of them say they were headed up the street. To Emilio’s.”

“Where’s that?”

The fisherman took a long last sip of his beer, then set the bottle on the table and stood up.

“My name’s Eric,” he said. “Why don’t you let me show you.”

Beth shook her head. “That’s okay. I’ll find it.”

“I’ve gotta head back to my boat pretty soon anyway. And I need to walk off some of this
cerveza.
”

Turning, he headed for the door, weaving his way through the crowd, which seemed to have grown denser in just the few minutes Beth had been there. The mariachi band was now playing Santana. Badly.

When he got to the door, he gestured for Beth to follow him outside, showing her that he still had Jen’s passport in his hand.

Shit, Beth thought, then went after him as he disappeared out the door.

When she got outside, he was already several steps up the street.

“Hey!” she shouted. “Give that back.”

He stopped in his tracks, held out the passport. He was smiling slightly. Amused.

Beth caught up to him, snatched it away. “I told you I’d find the place myself.”

“How long has it been?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Since your sister disappeared.”

“A few hours,” Beth said.

He looked surprised. “And you’re already passing her picture around? Isn’t that a little premature?”

“It’s a long story. Just point me in the right direction, okay?”

He shrugged. “Two blocks up, take a right, then a left into the alley. You can’t miss it.”

Beth thanked him and headed up the street.

40

S
HE WAS HALFWAY
up the first block before she realized she was angry again.

Now that she knew that Jen had been at Armando’s—getting drunk and yukking it up with her new pervy friends—the worry that had plagued Beth for the last few hours had all but disappeared.

She’d had it with the girl.

All of the promises to behave, to devote this weekend to sisterly bonding, had been empty lies designed only to placate. To put out the fires before they burned her.

Jen was all impulse and no brain. She was incapable of thinking beyond the moment. That whole life-sucks-I’m-thinking-about-going-to-school-I-miss-Mommy-and-Daddy-my-friends-talk-to-dead-people routine was a complete crock, and Beth’s skepticism had now been officially validated.

This was the very last straw. Beth had devoted too much of her life and energy to Jen, and when she got back to Los Angeles—which she hoped would be soon—her sister’s phone calls would no longer be returned, her e-mails deleted, the text messages ignored, just as Beth was being ignored right now.

She wondered why, at this point, she was even bothering with this little trek. So
what
if Jen and her friends had moved on to another bar? She obviously didn’t care about Beth, so why should Beth care about her?

But before Beth headed back to the ship to grab her suitcase, she wanted to see Jen, just to let her know exactly what she thought of her. Right now Beth was savoring—was fueled by—the thought of telling Jen off once and for all.

This was, of course, based on the assumption that she’d be able to find her. Jen’s crowd seemed to be migrating, and just because Meat Without Feet had overheard them talking about going to this Emilio’s place didn’t mean they were still there.

But one could hope.

When Beth reached the top of the second block, she turned right as instructed and found herself on a street that didn’t quite jibe with the Playa Azul the tourists usually see. A simple turn and she seemed to have stepped into another world. A world that was a shade or two dingier, more run-down. Like some of the side streets in downtown Los Angeles.

One of the gangbanger cars, a souped-up Civic, was parked at the right side of the road, a cluster of cigarette-smoking locals around it. Among them was a petulant-looking Mexican girl with bleached-blond hair and jeans pulled down so low that you could see the whale tail of her thong.

Beth crossed the street to avoid them, but she couldn’t help thinking that the girl reminded her of Jen.

The alley leading to Emilio’s was about half a block up, a faded hand-painted sign pointing the way.

Beth hesitated as she approached.

Was this somewhere she really wanted to go?

Reaching the mouth of the narrow alleyway, she peered inside. The sun was blocked by the buildings, the lighting dim. She saw the entrance to the place at the far end, past a row of battered aluminum trash cans.

The door was closed, with an unlit neon sign above it that read:
EMILIO’S CANTINA
.

Were they even open?

A muscular Mexican man in a white T-shirt—who looked as if he’d feel right at home with the gangbangers across the street—was leaning on the wall near the trash cans, a cell phone glued to his ear.

He looked up when Beth appeared, assessing her about the same way Peter used to look at her whenever she stepped out of the shower in the morning.

Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.

Stopping just inside the alley entrance, she pulled out her own cell phone and dialed Jen one last time. But again it went straight to voice mail, and Beth immediately hung up.

The guy near the trash cans was still staring at her. Smiling now as he continued to talk on the phone.

Beth quickly texted a message to Jen:

FUCK YOU. I’M GONE.

Thinking that that pretty much summed it all up, she turned to leave but found Eric the fisherman standing directly behind her. He snapped his own cell phone shut and pocketed it.

“You find your sister?”

Startled, Beth stepped back. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Bad habit.”

She didn’t know what he meant by that but didn’t like the sound of it. “Were you following me?”

“Didn’t have to. I already knew where you were going.”

Beth studied him, suddenly realizing what this was about. “You never saw my sister at Armando’s. You made it all up.”

“A little bit of improv. I tend to go with what works.”

Frightened now, and feeling foolish for letting herself be duped—especially since she should know better—Beth tried to move around him, but he sidestepped and threw his hands out, blocking her way.

“What’s your hurry, sweet stuff? You don’t find me attractive?”

She glanced across the street at the gangbangers but knew they wouldn’t be any help. Without a word, she brought her knee up into the fisherman’s crotch.

He grunted and doubled over and Beth started around him again, but before she could clear the alleyway, hands grabbed her from behind and swung her around, slamming her against the wall.

The impact knocked the wind out of her, and standing in front of her now was the Mexican man with the cell phone.

Without a word, he brought a fist up and smashed it against the side of her head.

She felt as if she’d been hit with a club.

Pain blossomed in her skull and her legs buckled. She sank to the alley floor as a whirlwind of darkness swirled inside her.

And although she fought as hard as she could to keep it at bay…

…a moment later, the darkness won.

41

F
OR THE NEXT
several minutes (hours?), she drifted in and out of consciousness, voices hovering somewhere above her.

Jesus, you really smacked the hell out of the bitch

You still got your
pelotas
, white boy
?

Fuck you.

She felt hands on her body, patting her down, checking the pockets of her jeans, and she tried to resist, but the darkness was pulling at her again.

She was gone for a while, then:

How much
?

Hundred twenty bucks

Shit

Better than the last one. At least she’s got some credit cards, too

Then she was gone again, only to be awakened by hot breath in her face, a hand squeezing her right breast, finger flicking the nipple.

Looks like we’ll have to take a rain check, sweet stuff

She wanted to scream, but then the darkness came again and she floated there for a very long time.

T
HE SUN WAS
down when she awoke.

Her head was pounding.

She lay there a moment, trying to get her bearings, not sure where she was, then suddenly remembered the alleyway and Emilio’s Cantina and the two men who had attacked her.

Meat Without Feet.

Bringing her hand to her chest, she discovered that her blouse had been ripped open and her bra was askew.

Oh, Jesus.

She patted the rest of her body and found that her jeans were still fastened, which meant (at least she hoped it did) that she hadn’t been raped. She also didn’t seem to be leaking anywhere. No blood or other fluids.