Blue Diablo

Page 27

I clicked a link on a news Web site and read on:
The Republic of Korea (R.O.K.) is primarily a source country for the trafficking of women and girls internally and to the United States (often through Canada and Mexico), Japan, Hong Kong, Guam, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and Western Europe for the purpose of commercial sexual exploitation.
By the time I finished, I felt sick. What did this have to do with Min? I fervently hoped she hadn’t suffered as I was beginning to fear. Perhaps she’d run from her past only to have to catch it up with her years later.
Her expression as she went with those men reflected no surprise, only resignation. She’d known it was coming; it had just been a question of when.
Now the question was whether we could reach her in time.
Boys Town
First, though, we had a kitchen to clean.
By the time we hauled out the last bag and emptied the bucket of dirty water into the laundry tub in the garage, I wanted to collapse. The garbage disposal had blown itself up and would need to be replaced. Chuch and Eva had gone to bed an hour before, and the fact that she didn’t protest told me just how freaked she must be. Chance looked even worse than I felt. His back must be killing him.
“You take the first shower.” I tried to be generous.
“We could take one together. . . .” His heart wasn’t in the lechery, though, and he trailed off as he ambled toward the bathroom.
I laughed softly. “Baby, I would hurt you.”
“Promises, promises,” he muttered as he shut the door.
Shortly thereafter I heard the water running. With a tired sigh, I sank down onto a kitchen chair. Head in my hands, I wondered how we could handle everything. We seemed singularly ill-equipped.
Chance made it quick, so I took my turn sooner rather than later. The stuff from the disposal was sticky, so I scrubbed hard with Eva’s loofah. My skin glowed pink by the time I stepped out onto the fuzzy bath mat. I wrapped up in a towel, wishing I had a robe. As I’d left my bag in the living room, I had no choice but to go out vulnerable and bare.
Hopefully he was already in bed.
To my dismay, I found him sitting on the couch. He hadn’t donned a shirt, just a pair of track pants that hung low on his hips, revealing the lovely slope of his abdomen. Oh, Lord, we didn’t have on nearly enough clothing to be in the same room.
He glanced up with his heart in his eyes, raw and desperate. A jagged piece shifted to the right inside me. Despite my better judgment, I went to him and perched on the arm of the sofa. Touched his hair lightly. I angled my head to check out his cuts—at least I told myself that, never mind that my pose showed far too much of my thighs.
“Does it hurt?” I touched his bare shoulder, shivered from the heat of his skin.
“More than I knew.” By his expression he wasn’t talking about his back, but I didn’t know if he meant my leaving or his mother’s vanishing act.
Since I didn’t know what to say, I pretended not to notice the nuances. “Would you like me to do the ointment and new dressings before bed?”
“Please,” he said. “But I’m not going to sleep.”
I glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Are you kidding?”
“Nope. Boys Town stays open all night, and I’ve wasted too much time, Corine.” He sounded so bleak. “You can go on to bed, but I can’t. They’re not going to keep her alive forever.”
I suspected he knew as well as I did that it might already be too late. Though exhaustion hung on me like barbells, I didn’t argue. Just went to find my bag and put on clean clothes. He knew perfectly well I wouldn’t let him go out alone. After I dressed, I did his back, tried to ignore the way he tipped his head back with the pleasure of my fingers on his skin. I remembered how to touch him. Wanted to.
But I shouldn’t. “There, you’re all set. Get dressed.”
“Bet you say that to all the guys.”
I smiled. “Only the cute ones. You have the keys to the Mustang?”
In answer he plucked a set from the pegboard by the front door.
Driving after dark always makes things look different. I’d have been lost from the second turn, but he drove as if he knew where he was going. I certainly hoped so.
We took the highway out to the International Bridge. They’re supposed to ask for passports even at road checkpoints these days, but a twenty here and there solved a lot of problems. The immigration officer took Chance’s ID and the bill, considered a moment, and told us to have a good time. They must get a lot of Americans heading over to party in Boys Town, though by his expression I imagine they don’t usually bring women along.
The compound lay five kilometers past the bridge. We passed through some bleak areas and he silently locked his door. I did the same. At his instruction I kept my eyes open for the intersection of Anáhuac and Monterrey, and when we first arrived, I was astonished to find a little city within the city. The zona even had its own jail, first building on the right.
Chance found a place to park, although I wasn’t sure it was safe to leave the Mustang here. He shrugged and took my hand, leading me into the throng. The streets were alive with guys going from club to club. Live music thrummed in the distance, adding a palpable pulse to the night in the form of Spanish guitars and bongo drums. I imagined sunlight would show a different side of the zona, but at night, it glowed with vitality.
The unpaved road crunched underfoot as we passed deeper within. Papagayos, a large club on the right, seemed to be the cornerstone of the district. Everything else looked hopelessly seedy or deserted by comparison.
“If luck will help us here, I suggest you make use of it,” I said.
Women in doorways eyed us, and some of them even grabbed Chance with whispered offers. He extricated himself, sometimes forcefully, and stepped to one side. Passersby jostled me as I waited, and I kept a tight hand on my bag.
I hadn’t seen him do this in a while, but it was akin to a meditative trance. He closed his eyes and I could feel a shift, hard to describe, but almost like a static charge gathering before a storm. Others seemed to notice it, at least subconsciously, and gave us a wide berth.
When he opened his eyes, he pointed. “That way.”
“You’re sure?” He’d indicated a small taverna a block down from Papagayos.
“As much as I can be. I may need your help with translation, Corine.”
I nodded absently, staying close as we wove through the crowd. My stomach felt funny as we entered the faded pink adobe building. It was dim and quiet inside, just a few tables and a man strumming a battered guitar. The ’tender smiled as we came in, showing two dull gold teeth.
The selection of ladies was limited, to say the least. One was so old I couldn’t imagine anyone buying her services, but I supposed having no teeth could be considered an advantage in some regards. Her seamed face seemed more suited to modest black dresses and rosary beads than the low cut blouse she wore. We ordered two-dollar beers and I looked to Chance for guidance.
His gaze skimmed the room before settling on a woman of indeterminate years sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. What did his gift feel like? Was it magnetic? Her night-dark hair likely owed something to artifice, but she wore it in a neat knot on top of her head, showing sun-browned shoulders. She was pretty in a shopworn sort of way. When he moved in her direction, I followed him, unsure what to expect.
To my surprise he drew out a relatively recent photo of his mother. I recognized the occasion—heck, I’d even taken the photo when we all went to Disney World. Mother and son stood to either side of Goofy. Seeing the picture made me smile. They both seemed so happy, and Min, as always, looked adorable in a big straw hat and baggy pink shorts. Not the sort of woman I associated with the zona.
“Pardon me,” Chance said.
He didn’t touch her, but she turned with a coolly inquiring look. When she saw us, her expression became calculating. She couldn’t be as desperate as the ones who had felt him up outside. “I do both for one hundred American.”
If I hadn’t been so nervous, I would’ve laughed at Chance’s expression. He’s rather straitlaced in some ways. “Ah, that’s very kind, but—”
“Ninety, or I return to drinking.” Her English came with the heavy accent unique to the border towns.
“¿Cuánto por hablar?” I asked, hoping she’d realize we weren’t trolling for excitement. We just want to talk for a few minutes, lady.
She cocked a brow at me. “You want dirty talk?”
Despite myself I blushed and shook my head. I imagined her being hired to “entertain” a couple while they had sex. “No, just a few questions.”
I could see in her eyes that she thought it was a bad idea to answer, but finally she said in English, “Twenty dollars for ten minutes.”
Chance paid her and we joined her at the bar. He handed her the photo. “Do you know this woman?”
For several moments, she stared at the picture with a blank expression. “Long time,” she said at last. “Treinta años, más o menos. But yes, I knew her.” Her dark eyes held a warning as she finished her drink. “Better not to question. You get hurt if you ask, but I tell you this: find the old doctor if you want to know. And . . . time is up.”
There was no way we’d been sitting with her for ten minutes, but she got up and hurried out, shoulders hunched. Chance radiated frustration as he slapped his palm on the counter. The old woman gazed at us from deep, hopeless eyes, and I wondered how many men she’d serviced in her life, whether she’d loved—or even liked—any of them.
With a sigh I put down my untouched beer. “I bet we’re going to see the doc now?”
“You’d win,” Chance said.
Secrets
As the clinic adjoined the jail, we backtracked to the guarded entrance. The local police coexisted in uneasy balance with the federales. For better or worse, as long as no overt drug deals went down and no important tourists turned up missing, the zona operated as a self-governing entity. The army only intervened in extreme situations, like the shoot-out at the corner of Reforma and Paseo Colón, outside Boys Town.
I expected we might have trouble rousing someone, but the médico worked nights, just like the ladies. He had a small waiting area with a few chairs, a desk, and an exam room, near the jail. I also didn’t think he was the man we sought because he couldn’t be more than forty.
“Good evening,” the doctor said. “You sick? Maybe you want medicine? For ten dollars, I write a script for Valium. Maybe you suffer from nervous exhaustion?”
His English was better than most, but then it would be, considering he dealt with Americans all the time. I’d noticed that only a small portion of the zona catered to locals—the places up near Club New York. Past that lay Tranny Alley, as Jesse had mentioned. I hoped we didn’t need to go there next.
After some basic negotiation, he deigned to answer questions for twenty, same price as the hooker. Chance flashed his mother’s picture, and the guy shook his head. “Sorry, no. Never saw her.”