A Girl Apart

by Russell Blake

  Moore burped and looked up and down the street as his companions swigged beer from plastic cups.

  “Well, dog? What’s next? You’re the expert,” the man on Moore’s right said.

  Moore grinned. “Depends on what you’re in the mood for, Gary. Anything goes here. It’s way more ‘what happens in Juárez, stays in Juárez’ than Vegas will ever be.”

  Gary eyed the row of drinking establishments. “These all seem pretty tame to me after Thailand and Panama.”

  “Yeah, well, this is Gringoland. You want more extreme fun, I know where to find it, but it’s not on this strip,” Moore responded. “What about you, Paul? You up for something a little more…interesting?”

  The other man finished his beer. “That one girl was pretty hot. What was she, barely eighteen?”

  Moore grinned. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. Everyone’s eighteen in Meheeco.”

  “Then I’m up for whatever. Bring it.”

  This was the first time in Juárez for Moore’s two friends, and he’d promised them a night they’d remember. Moore had suggested blowing out of El Paso after their third tequila shot at his expansive home and had offered to play host in a town he knew like the back of his hand. His guests had been reluctant to cross into Mexico at first, but after enough booze had flowed, they’d agreed and had piled into a taxi and crossed into Juárez on foot.

  Moore had called his favorite limo company, and a stretch Humvee had picked them up on the Mexican side and driven them into the zone. After two hours in strip clubs, though, they’d grown restless after burning through a substantial amount of cash, and Moore had suggested a change of venue.

  He dialed a number from memory on his cell, and a minute later the limo pulled to the curb with all the subtlety of a private jet. Moore and his entourage fell into the car as the driver held the door for them and, once they were inside, closed it and resumed his position behind the wheel. The passenger seat was occupied by a heavily muscled bald man with prison tattoos ringing his skull and the bulge of a Desert Eagle .45 beneath his jacket.

  The driver dropped the partition halfway and twisted to see his passengers.

  “Where to, gentlemen?” he asked in passable English.

  “Ramón, my boys here want the full experience. I’m thinking we’re about ready for Lord Slim’s,” Moore called.

  The driver smiled, revealing several gold-capped teeth. “You have excellent taste, as usual, boss.”

  “You think it’s safe?”

  “I can make a call and let them know you’re coming. Set up a private room so you don’t have to mingle with the riffraff,” Ramón replied.

  “A private room?” Paul shouted. “Now we’re talking!”

  “Sounds like that’s the way to go,” Moore agreed. “Make the call.”

  Ramón nodded, and the opaque soundproof glass snicked back into position, leaving the men to their privacy. Gary opened one of the compartments by his side, withdrew three cans of Modelo Especial, and passed them around. The men toasted and swigged beer, and then the Humvee lurched into motion as the strains of Def Leppard pulsed from hidden speakers.

  “So what is this place we’re going to?” Gary asked.

  Moore gave him an inscrutable look. “It’s the stuff from which dreams are made, my man. Welcome to the pleasure dome time. If you can imagine it, you can have it.”

  “Straight up? Anything?” Gary leaned into Moore and whispered a question.

  Moore grinned. “That can be arranged. Cost extra, but there’s nothing that isn’t on the menu.”

  “Even…?”

  Moore nodded. “Nothing. Just a matter of price.”

  “How do you know about this place?” Paul asked as they turned off the main drag onto a rutted street lined with cinder-block homes.

  “A friend of mine introduced me years ago. I know the owners. They’re…very accommodating.”

  “You come down here often?”

  Moore glanced through the darkened glass at the street outside. “Here and other places that might be too wild for you lads.”

  “Try me,” Gary said with a laugh.

  Moore took another pull on his beer. “I’ve seen some pretty twisted stuff in Juárez. Seriously. I mean, shit you wouldn’t believe. Lord Slim’s is more middle of the road. It’s safe, and they won’t rob us or roll us. Lot of other places you buy a drink, and the next thing you know you come to in a ditch somewhere with your watch and wallet gone.”

  “Crap. Don’t want that.”

  “I figured we could leave that off the agenda tonight.” Moore hesitated. “That said, if you have any special requests, they can arrange for it. Twins, schoolgirls, bondage, whatever. You just have to speak up.”

  “Where do they get the hotties?” Paul asked.

  “If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Moore intoned with the seriousness of a priest saying mass.

  The men exploded in laughter as the stereo keened “Pour Some Sugar On Me.” The limo made another turn, and the pavement gave way to a dirt road whose surface was a barely navigable washboard. The lights of the dwellings receded behind them, and Paul threw Moore a sidelong glance.

  “You sure this isn’t dangerous?” he asked.

  “Only one way to know for sure, right?” Moore fired back, and held his beer aloft.

  The men toasted again as the big vehicle bounced and rocked along, and Moore fumbled a pack of cigarettes from his armrest compartment and popped one in his mouth before offering them to the others. Gary took one, but Paul shook his head, his eyes glued on the gloom outside and his expression tense.

  “Dude, lighten up,” Moore said, and struck a match to light his smoke. He tossed the box to Gary and reached over to pat Paul’s leg. “The place is totally off the radar, a few miles outside the city limits. Ramón knows the way. Nobody’s going to mess with us. Trust me on that.”

  “I just don’t want to be kidnapped or anything. I’ve read about it happening down here.”

  “Not with me in the car,” Moore said. “Besides, Ramón’s boy there is packing serious heat. The local predators won’t take him on. Whole Humvee’s bulletproof, too. Goes with the territory.”

  “I thought guns were illegal down here.”

  Moore laughed. “Depends on who you know. I know all the wrong people.”

  They rode along in silence, and eventually a walled compound materialized from the darkness. The buildings inside glowed orange from refracted light. A guard opened a hatch on a steel barrier blocking the drive and stared out at them, and then the metal slab slid to the side.

  “We’re here!” Moore said, his voice excited.

  The limo rolled to a stop, and they waited for the driver to open the door. Through the tinted glass they could make out the forms of five young women wearing lingerie and nothing else, bottles of tequila in hand. Moore glanced at his companions and gave them a wink.

  “Remember – nothing’s off-limits. And I mean nothing. Don’t worry about price – it’s on me. If you can think it, we’ll make it happen,” he said, and then the door swung wide and they stepped into the balmy night. The sound of mariachi music and laughter drifted from the main hacienda. The cars parked along the inside wall were expensive and the girls awaiting them flawless beauties barely old enough to drive. Paul eyed them with a leer, and Gary with a half-open mouth, and then the girls were greeting them with giggles and the aroma of jasmine and vanilla, all flashes of pearl white teeth and mocha skin and raven hair so flawless it hurt the eyes to look directly at them.

  Chapter 21

  Ciudad Juárez, Mexico

  Leah stepped from the immigration building and spotted Uriel on the sidewalk. She waved, and Uriel approached her, a troubled expression clouding his features. He leaned into her when he was close.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this. You should let me go alone,” he said.

  “I can’t let you do that. I need to interview this bartender myself.”

  “You can just give
me your questions.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same. I have to be able to read his body language, his eyes, the whole package.”

  “What if he doesn’t speak English? Then it’s me translating, which is the same as me just asking the questions.”

  “You said that most everyone dealing with the public here speaks English. So far that’s held true.”

  He shrugged. “I give up. You’re hell-bent on doing this, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Enough to come to Juárez at night.”

  “Fine. Let’s catch a taxi and get it over with.”

  They moved to the line of waiting cars and, after a brief negotiation, climbed into the rear while the driver started the engine. He glanced over his shoulder at Leah and raised an eyebrow.

  “You sure you want El Matador?” he asked in broken English.

  “Why?” Leah countered.

  “It is usually only men who go there.”

  Uriel nodded to the man. “Yes, she’s sure.”

  She sat back against the stained fabric seat and frowned. “I’m guessing this isn’t a sports bar.”

  “Most of the tourist establishments in Juárez cater to either the sex trade or young people looking to get drunk. It doesn’t sound like El Matador is for drinking.” He regarded her. “We can still cancel.”

  She shook her head. “We’re on our way. Let’s see it through.”

  The district degraded as they rode along a wide boulevard, the lights of the larger factories blazing in the near distance. The car turned off the main road and onto a smaller tributary, and the buildings worsened, as did the vehicles. The gutters were clogged with trash, and shell-shocked vagrants wandered aimlessly along the broken sidewalks. They passed a street vendor who’d set up a cart and was grilling tacos, and Leah blinked at the line of people waiting for food.

  “That’s one guy who’s doing pretty well,” she said.

  The taxi driver heard her and chuckled. “Many of the food stands sell special tacos. They are popular all hours of the day.”

  “Special tacos?”

  “Yes. A normal taco costs twenty pesos. A special taco costs over a hundred.”

  Leah appeared confused, and Uriel tilted his head to whisper to her, “They’re selling drugs. Acting as street dealers. You ask for a certain type of taco that isn’t on the menu, and they give you a small package wrapped in a tortilla to go. Meth, cocaine, marijuana, whatever you want.”

  She looked shocked. “The police have to know.”

  Uriel nodded. “They’re paid well to look the other way.”

  “But the people…they’re so poor.”

  “Yes. Drugs have become a tax on the most desperate. They have no hope, no promise of a better life, so they turn to chemicals to numb themselves and get through another day. It is sad to see a mother choose drugs instead of diapers or formula for her baby, but it is a regular occurrence. It never used to be, but everything has changed in the last fifteen years.” Uriel’s dark eyes flashed in the dim light. “In all of our cities it is the same story now. Our police are corrupt and contribute to the problem. Our politicians are paid off by the cartels, so they talk about reform and enforcing the law, but nothing changes. It was only when Juárez became an open warfare zone that the army was sent in to patrol the streets and restore order, and even then, you know the story from your research.” He stopped for a moment. “You have the same problems, no? It is your poor who suffer the most from drugs, is it not?”

  She nodded. “To a large extent, although heroin is becoming a middle-class problem. The difference is our poor are rich by comparison to yours.” Leah had seen more than enough of Juárez during the day and couldn’t miss the desperation of whole neighborhoods of shanties without water or electricity, the residents clearly malnourished, many suffering from obvious afflictions, their clothes little more than rags.

  “It’s a problem of economics, then, not of moral degeneration,” Uriel said. “It’s the same in Guadalajara. I’ve traveled to Argentina as well for a conference, and they have a big problem in their poorest sections. Same for Brazil. No matter where you go, it’s the same disease. One of poverty and lack of opportunity.”

  The taxi coasted to a stop in front of a two-story building that Leah recognized from the picture of Moore. Uriel paid the driver and they stepped from the car, which roared off as he was closing the door, leaving them standing on a filthy sidewalk that stank of sour beer and urine. Leah glanced to her right, where a pair of men with mahogany skin and grubby clothes were lounging by a closed market, passing a bottle back and forth. Uriel drew closer to her and took her arm protectively.

  “Let’s get this over with,” he said, and steered her toward the club entry – a distressed wooden door through which they could hear music.

  As they entered, a heavy man with the face of a boxer grunted a cover charge amount at Uriel, who paid without protest for both of them. As their eyes adjusted to the light, he asked about the bar. The man indicated the rear of the room, where another doorway led deeper into the building. Women whose outfits announced their profession sat in twos and threes at tables with working-class locals. Uriel led Leah past them and through the doorway into a larger room. Norteno music blared from distorting stereo speakers mounted on either side of a long slab of local wood. Several dozen girls sat on stools along the bar, smoking and chatting, waiting for customers, the night barely started. The nearest looked Uriel up and down with interest, but frowned when her eyes landed on Leah.

  A short man with a neatly trimmed beard and ferret eyes watched them from behind the bar. Leah and Uriel moved toward him and one of the women shifted aside to make room. Uriel smiled a thank you and addressed the bartender.

  “We’re looking for Sergio,” he said in Spanish.

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “My friend here has a couple of questions for him.”

  The bartender studied Leah. “What kind of questions?”

  “Do you speak English?” Uriel asked. “I’ll let her explain. I assume you’re Sergio.”

  “I speak it,” Sergio said with a nod, and switched to English. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  Leah considered him for a long moment and then removed the picture of Moore from her purse and set it on the bar. Sergio’s expression gave nothing away as his eyes darted to the photo and back to her. “It says to talk to Sergio,” she said.

  The bartender looked around the room. “What are you drinking?”

  Leah glanced at the bottles behind Sergio. “Bohemia.”

  Uriel made a peace sign. “Two.”

  Sergio slid the cover of an old cooler open and retrieved a pair of beer bottles, placed them on the counter, and opened them. He edged closer as he did so and spoke softly. “What do you want to know?”

  “Who took the picture, and why is it of significance?” Leah asked.

  “He’s…he’s known to me, but I don’t know his name. He comes here now and then.”

  “What about the man in the picture?”

  Sergio’s expression grew dark. “He too is known to me.” He paused. “He is trouble. Bad. Dangerous.”

  “Dangerous in what way?” Leah asked.

  Sergio shook his head. “I don’t discuss such things. But…one of the girls has had dealings with him. Maybe she can tell you – if she thinks it is safe.”

  “Why would it be unsafe to tell us why this man is bad?”

  Sergio fixed her with a stare that betrayed concern and something else: fear. “You do not know what you are dealing with, do you? Perhaps you should leave now. You may not like the answers you get.”

  “Which girl should I talk to?” Leah pushed.

  Sergio glanced around again. “Over in the corner. In red. Her name is Patricia.”

  “That’s all you can tell us?” she demanded. “Just give us a name – that’s it?”

  “That will be two hundred pesos for the beer,” Sergio said. “And three hundred for the name.”

>   Leah looked to Uriel, who slid a five-hundred-peso note to Sergio. The bill vanished into his palm and he turned away. Leah retrieved her photo and replaced it in her purse, and then they carried their beers to where a woman in a red halter top and black short shorts was nursing a soda, a cigarette smoldering in the ashtray beside it.

  “Patricia?” Uriel asked.

  She looked him over. “That’s right.”

  “My friend and I have a couple of questions.”

  “Questions?”

  “Yes, about a man in a photograph.”

  Her eyes darted to Leah and back to Uriel. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Leah slid the photo to her, and Patricia’s eyes went wide. She pushed it back to Leah like it was poison and addressed Uriel. “My time is money. You want to talk, it’ll cost you.”

  “How much?” Uriel asked.

  “A thousand pesos.”

  Uriel nodded. Less than fifty dollars. “Fine.”

  “Plus two hundred for the room.”

  “Room?” Uriel repeated.

  “I’m not going to sit out here with you and discuss that man. Take it or leave it. They rent rooms upstairs by the hour.”

  Uriel nodded and explained the transaction to Leah. Leah agreed, and Patricia extinguished her cigarette, stood on impossibly high heels, and wobbled to yet another doorway, where an older woman who bore a striking resemblance to an iguana was sitting on a stool.

  Money changed hands, and they followed Patricia upstairs to the second room on the right. Inside was a bed, a towel, a dresser with a bowl of condoms on it, and nothing else. Patricia plopped down on the bed and patted the mattress beside her, offering Uriel a hint of a smile. “Come sit.”

  Uriel perched on the edge of the bed, and Leah remained standing. “Does she speak English?” Leah asked.

  Uriel shook his head. “No.”

  “Ask her whether she knows who this man is.”

  Uriel did so. Patricia answered with hesitation, and Leah realized that the woman wasn’t nearly as old as she’d first guessed. Leah had thought she might be approaching thirty, but now, in better light, saw that she was closer to twenty – albeit twenty very hard years.