Down Among the Dead Men

39

A flickering red and green neon sign out front read: ARMANDO’S CANTINA.

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. “Si, 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, si?”

“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.