Down Among the Dead Men

69

He found the house without difficulty, using Google maps on his cell phone to guide him to a neighborhood crowded with parked cars, some of which looked as if they hadn’t moved in a couple decades.

The Corolla fit right in.

The roads in this part of the city were graded but unpaved, and the houses all had rings of dirt around them, looking worn and well lived-in.

Back in LA, as Vargas had waited for Beth to pick out clothes at the thrift store, he’d made a call to his cousin Tito in Tijuana, who had hooked him up with a contact here in Playa Azul.

The contact, a guy named Ortiz, was said to be well connected in the area. But if Ortiz was making any money through those connections, it sure as hell didn’t show in his choice of houses.

Vargas parked his car out front and emerged to find a couple of teenagers squatting in the front yard, smoking cigarettes. One of them eyed him suspiciously, then jumped to his feet and ran around the side of the house.

As Vargas worked his way up the drive, the kid returned, accompanied by a hulk in a wifebeater T-shirt.

“You Ortiz?” Vargas said in Spanish.

The hulk replied by stopping him in his tracks, then spun him around and patted him down.

Satisfied that Vargas was unarmed, the hulk gestured for him to follow and they walked around the side of the house to the backyard, where a cluster of men were seated at a beat-up picnic table passing a joint and drinking bottled beer.

The hulk made eye contact with one of them-a small, muscular guy-who looked up at Vargas and smiled.

“Hey, pocho, you finally made it.”

Pocho was not a term of endearment. It was a slur against Mexican-Americans-which was ironic, considering Ortiz was a transplant, born and raised in San Diego. But Vargas let it pass.

As if he had a choice.

“Traffic,” he said. “I assume you’re Ortiz?”

“That’s me,” the guy told him, then got to his feet and shouted toward the back of the house, “Hey, Yolanda, open the shed!”

A moment later an attractive girl with a neck tattoo and a permanent scowl on her face emerged carrying a key dangling from a leather strap. They followed her across the yard to a walk-in shed, and Vargas couldn’t help but notice that her jeans had been airbrushed on.

“Don’t be staring at my cousin’s ass, pocho. She’s likely to take a razor to your albondigas. ”

He smiled as he said it (Ortiz seemed to be one of those guys who were always smiling), but the threat was clearly sincere and Yolanda looked like just the girl to carry it out.

Averting his gaze, Vargas waited as she unlocked the shed, threw the door open, then turned on her heels and headed back to the house without a backward glance.

Ortiz stepped inside and flicked a light switch, revealing what looked like a typical toolshed with a variety of gardening and mechanic’s tools lining its walls.

There were a couple of large, flattened cardboard boxes on the floor, and Ortiz shoved one of them aside, then reached down, flipped up a small metal handle, and pulled, grunting as he opened a hatch.

A short set of steps led downward, and Vargas realized that this was a bunker, not a shed, a nice, convenient hidey-hole for Ortiz’s wares.

They went down the steps, moving into a room that wasn’t much larger than a walk-in closet. There were tools on the walls in here, too, but you wouldn’t be repairing a car or raking the yard with any of them.

There were enough knives and guns here to start a revolution. And win.

“Make your choice, pocho. We have a discount today on small-caliber weapons.”

Gun laws in Mexico were strict. Licenses to carry were not only mandatory but also difficult to get, and weapons could only be purchased at a specific government-run store in Mexico City. Not that this kept the locals from buying and trading at will.

For tourists, however, carrying a gun was next to impossible. The fines and prison sentences were hefty for anyone caught bringing a firearm or even ammunition into the country without prior consent, and Vargas hadn’t been willing to cross the border with one in his possession.

But last night Mr. Blister’s men had tried to kill him, and now that he was potentially traveling in La Santa Muerte’s playground, he wasn’t about to continue this journey without some kind of protection.

He needed something small and easily concealed, and found it hanging from a hook directly in front of him.

A Beretta Tomcat.

“How much?” he asked, indicating his preference.

“Is that how you start a negotiation, pocho? ‘How much?’ Why don’t you make me an offer, instead.”

Vargas did and Ortiz laughed. “Now I understand why you asked how much.”

He made a counteroffer and Vargas thought it was a bit steep but didn’t feeling like quibbling over it.

“Sold,” he said, and Ortiz laughed again.

“You’re too easy. And you don’t even try before you buy.”

“All I care is that it puts a hole in somebody when I need it to,” Vargas said.

Another laugh.

“It’ll do that, amigo. That much I guarantee.”