Down Among the Dead Men

49

Vargas wasn’t ten minutes into his visit to the Velvet Glove when he learned what a woman can do with a simple ice cube. The dancer onstage was showing far more than what Garcia had promised, something no mother or boyfriend should ever see.

Vargas had arrived shortly past eleven, after spending another day in a motel room, trying to recover from his wounds. In his imaginary movie he would have bounced back by now, but this, unfortunately, was real life and sleep was his only cure.

When he wasn’t sleeping, he watched Mexican TV, at one point finding himself caught up in an old black-and-white lucha libre movie.

One of the masked wrestlers reminded him of Rojas.

After grabbing a bite to eat at a restaurant next to his motel, Vargas checked the address on the matchbook Garcia had given him, asked the waiter for directions, and drove across town to a street lined with bars and nightclubs.

The Velvet Glove sat smack in the middle of the block, its darkened windows ringed in bright pink and purple neon.

Vargas paid a cover fee, found a stool at the bar, and ordered a beer. And as the dancer onstage finished demonstrating her amazing muscle control-the ice cube now a puddle of water beneath her-he felt a presence on the stool next to him.

“I’m supposed to be following you,” Garcia said.

“Oh?”

“Rojas wants to know what you’re up to.”

Vargas nodded. “Further proof that Ainsworth wasn’t lying. He had a theory that the police were covering up about the American woman for fear of an international scandal.”

“Had?”

“He’s dead. Along with his son, a guy named Sergio, and a Border Patrol agent who was working with them. They were all part of some anonymous drug ring.”

Garcia looked at him. “Is this the information you were keeping from Rojas? Your so-called bluff?”

“More or less.”

“You’ve been busy this week.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Garcia signaled to the bartender, holding up a finger. The Velvet Glove was an upscale establishment, and the bartender reflected this with her perfectly coiffed hair and her crisp white shirt, showing ample cleavage. She took a bottle of Patron from the shelf behind her, filled a shot glass, and set it on the counter in front of Garcia.

When she was gone, he said, “Rojas doesn’t give a damn about international scandals.”

“Then why the whitewash?”

“To cover his backside. He’s a powerful man and he uses that power to fatten his wallet. He doesn’t want anyone from the outside poking around in his business, and a dead American girl means federales and maybe even the FBI.”

“Does that business have anything to do with drug smugglers?”

Garcia snorted. “Smugglers, thieves, politicians, extortionists. Rojas gets a taste of it all and offers allegiance to no one. But there have been a lot of kidnappings here in Juarez and all across Mexico in the past few years. Young women disappearing. Mostly factory workers and prostitutes, but quite a few turistas as well. Rojas has been under pressure to solve these cases, but he’s as incompetent as he is corrupt. And his job is on the line. One more victimized turista is more than he can afford.”

“The Ainsworths said she was alive when they found her.”

Garcia nodded. “I’m surprised they said anything at all. Rojas paid them off to keep them quiet. Let them keep the treasures they’d looted and even gave them a few more.”

Vargas thought of things he’d found in Junior’s treasure box. Had any more of those treasures come from the crime scene?

“The Ainsworths didn’t strike me as particularly trustworthy people.”

Garcia hadn’t touched his drink, but he looked as if he had just swallowed something hot and bitter. “That virus you spoke of? It’s about as virulent a strain as you’re ever likely to see.”

“So what happened to her?”

“I was only at the crime scene at the very beginning. So I only know the rumors.”

“Which are?”

“When they first went in, they thought she was like the others. But then she moaned and they realized she was alive but badly hurt. Two bullets in the chest. Rojas didn’t wait for an ambulance. He put her in the back of his car and drove her to the hospital. Except he never got there.”

“Where did he take her?”

“Across the border into New Mexico. Dumped her in a parking lot, in a pool of her own blood-another victim of those degenerate Americans. And someone else’s headache.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure, but he was gone all night.”

“Is she alive?”

Garcia snorted again. “Rojas may be incompetent, but he’s thorough. The story goes that before he left her he finished the job her attackers failed to complete.”

“He shot her.”

Garcia picked up the shot glass full of tequila now and drained it, his eyes flooded with contempt.

“He didn’t just shoot her,” he said, then tapped a finger against his temple. “He put a bullet in her brain.”