It takes me a minute to get off my bike, because my body is so stiff and sore, and after that I have to dig through my bag to find the one source of protection I was able to take across the border: a small, palm-held Taser. I bought it for Suri years ago, when we were all starting college, but she refused to carry it, and somehow it ended up at my house. I slide it into my pocket, check for my wallet, and lock my bag onto the bike.
The whole time, this girl is dancing for me. As I cross the dusty parking lot, where the air smells of sour liquor and fried foods, she rubs her palms over her tits. I try not to ogle her, but her br**sts are huge and she won’t let me break eye contact. When I get to the door, she holds out her hand for me, like she wants me to take it and pull her inside. I don’t take it, and she makes a pouting face. A second later, a short, broad-shouldered bouncer comes out the door, trailing a cloud of bar smoke. Mexican party music booms behind him.
He gives me a murderous look, but the girl laughs and says, “This one is okay, Pedro.”
The guy flicks his fingers at the door, and I step into the thickest cloud of smoke I’ve ever seen. I can hear the clink of pool balls before my eyes clear enough that I can see. In every direction, there’s a pool table, and on my left is a long bar where girls in short shorts and skirts are talking to guys in grungy, baggy clothes and sometimes baseball caps. Like inside most bars, the patrons are mainly in their 20s and 30s, but I think I see a few teens.
I choose a booth near the back of the room and pull my phone out of my pocket, pretending to text someone while I get a better look at things. I rest my hands on the table top and cringe at the sticky filth that coats it. I lift my hands, and that’s when I notice the filmy curtain on the wall a few feet to my right. Beyond it, I can see women’s bodies in various states of undress, gleaming in stage light. If I strain my ears, I can hear the cat calls.
After few minutes of pretend texting, a waitress comes over, wearing nothing but a lacy hot pink apron and a g-string. She turns her body to the side, giving me a good view of her ass. Then she bats her fake eyelashes and smiles at me. Her teeth are crooked. “Can I get you something to drink, sir?” she asks in Spanish.
While I order a bottle of Corona, she looks me over—slowly. I must be really off my game, because it makes me feel uncomfortable. Like she can see all the scars under my clothes. Like she knows my hair is short because I had my skull sawed open less than six months ago.
When my beer arrives, the uncomfortable feeling magnifies. I look around the club and realize I have no idea what to do next. I take a few swigs, discreetly searching the room for someone I could ask about Carlos. I see a few bouncers—one with prominent acne scars, one with a permanent scowl, and one surrounded by flirting women—but none of them is nearby, and none looks in charge.
I finish my drink and order a second. It’s been a long while since I drank regularly, so I feel a little lightheaded, but it works for me. Makes me looser. When the waitress brings my second Corona, I lean in and ask her if she knows Carlos.
She hesitates for half a breath, then nods toward the sheer curtain on the other side of the room. “He’s there. In the club.”
I guess the curtain separates the strip club from the bar. I slide the waitress a twenty. “Thanks.”
I want to get to Carlos before she can tell him that I’m coming, so I get up almost right after she saunters off. Unfortunately, she senses me behind her and turns around grinning, probably thinking I’m coming after her.
She waves at herself, as if displaying the merchandise. This is when I know I’ve definitely lost my game. I can’t even come up with something smooth. Instead I hold my hand up and lamely shake my head, and the girl huffs off, shaking her ass like she’s got a hula hoop around her waist.
I pass a cluster of American frat bros, heehawing and guzzling beer from a funnel. The old Cross would have stuck out just like them, so I feel grateful for my dusty clothes and sweat-rumpled appearance. Nobody seems to notice me as I cross the room.
When I go to duck through the curtain, the womanizing bouncer grabs my left arm from behind. I whirl around, snatching my arm away from him on instinct.
He holds his hands out like he meant no harm. “Two hundred,” he says smoothly.
I frown.
“Two hundred dollars.”
Is he serious? He doesn’t blink, so I pull the money out of my wallet and press it into his palm, and he waves me in.
“Carlos,” I say before he slips back onto his bar stool.
“Right there.”
He nods at one of the dozen round tables set in the room, this one nestled in a shadowy corner, and I glance quickly around the room before I start that way. It’s smaller than the bar and not quite as disgusting. It doesn’t smell like stale urine inside a beer bottle, and the lights are more than just bare bulbs. The girls swaying around poles on stage are nothing to scream about, but maybe I’m just not feeling the whole working woman thing these days.
I pick Carlos out before I get to the table. He’s sitting with three other men, and he’s the smallest one, but he’s wearing an expensive looking red silk dress shirt with a diamond-studded pin on the lapel, and the other men at the table are all listening intently as he speaks with broad hand gestures. His longish black hair is slicked back with gel, and even so, he has the shine of wealth that no one else in this place has. Like he has his own personal strippers scrubbing him down in his Jacuzzi every morning.
I dread approaching the table, but I don’t let it affect my mannerisms. When I’m within spitball-tossing range, I catch his eye. I step closer, placing one fist on their table: casual but firm. “Can we talk for a minute?”
I realize this might sound threatening, but I’m not sure how else to put it. To my surprise, he looks almost glad to see me. His eyes roll over my body and I shake off the self-conscious feeling that’s new to me since the wreck.
He sends the men around him to another table near the stage, and as they leave he motions for me to in the chair one leaves out, across from him. I slide in, taking my time so he doesn’t notice my left hand.
Carlos lights up a cigarette and exhales to his right, so it doesn’t go into my face. “What can I do for you?” he asks me in English.
“I’m told you’re a man who can find people.”
Carlos smirks. “It depends on the people.”
“I’m looking for someone.” I heave a deep breath. “An American who’s been in Mexico for a year or two.” Based on the e-mails, I think Missy was sold around September 2011, making it almost a year and a half ago—but I don’t know that for sure.