Chapter 12

It was an overcast, cool, somewhat foggy late April evening. Mark gave Bonz a lift to the restaurant. Within a few minutes, Bonz had commandeered the car stereo, changing the radio station and turning the volume up as far as it would go. He lowered the window, with a damp, chilly blast of air filling the interior of the vehicle. Then, as Mark's forceful "Close the damn window!" was overpowered by the screaming guitar riffs pouring out of the speakers, Bonz graced a couple of passersby with a few bars of "Rock and Roll All Nite" by Kiss, sung loudly and hideously off-key.

Little by little, although he wasn't comfortable admitting it to himself, Mark was starting to develop a soft spot for Bonz. His over-the-top personality virtually guaranteed that he would have few friends. But underneath all that, Mark could see signs of an almost child-like desire to please. He just tried way too hard.

And besides, Bonz seemed to view Mark as a larger-than-life hero, which did wonders for Mark's ego.

Even with the window up, Mark soon grew tired of the blaring music, and reached over to kill it. Persistent as ever, Bonz began to inquire incessantly about Lauren. Mark relented and shared a few of the spicy details, realizing that if nothing else, it would help kill time while they drove.

The restaurant was down along the waterfront, near Penns Landing. It was a seafood place that, to be quite honest, was more suitable for a romantic dinner than a guys' night out. Especially given the subject matter that would surely be discussed. But Mark had reservations about spending too much time with Bonz in a public area; he'd never been around him away from work, and had no idea what to expect. And he considered this restaurant to be familiar ground; he'd been there a few times with Lauren.

The parking lot outside the restaurant was unusually crowded; the place was obviously hopping tonight. Mark didn't know if that was good or bad; but in any case, he was grateful to have made reservations ahead of time. The fog appeared to be getting thicker, perhaps due to the proximity of the river.

Their comrade for the evening was already waiting inside. He'd had the foresight to sign in with the hostess at the desk, and their table was ready. Bonz stepped forward and made the introductions. "Mark Baxter ... this is my Navy buddy from San Diego, Gary Malcolm."

Mark gave Gary a firm handshake. The first thought that popped into Mark's mind was, This guy is nothing like I had visualized.

He was a few inches shorter than Mark, and appeared to be about the same age. He was slim, wiry, good-looking and athletic. Given that he was Bonz's friend, and that Bonz had described him as a pathological patronizer of prostitutes, Mark was expecting something along the lines of a three-hundred pound, drooling slob. But Gary was anything but, and this revelation instantly made Mark feel more at ease.

The waitress directed them to their table. It was in the back of the restaurant, set up against a large window looking out over the Delaware River. Despite the fog, the view was impressive.

It wasn't until they were seated and had placed their orders that the conversation began to develop. "So," Gary said to Mark, "Art tells me you'll be in San Diego in a few weeks." Gary referred to Bonz by his given name; Mark deduced that the moniker "Bonz" must have been of fairly recent origin.

"I'll be in town for business during the third week of May," Mark replied casually. "We should try to hook up."

"Oh, for Chrissakes," Bonz blurted out with his usual disregard for decorum. "Why don't you two skip the small talk, and start talking about what you really came here to discuss ... loose women!"

Mark laughed apprehensively; it seemed apparent that his fear about Bonz making a scene was likely to come to fruition. But Gary just shook it off; he was obviously well accustomed to Bonz's antics.

"Okay, then," Gary said to Mark probingly. "According to Art, you're one helluva ladies' man."

Mark was in the process of formulating his response when Bonz broke in once again on his behalf. "He's a first-class hose monster. He pokes the beautiful front desk receptionist in our building every single day, and we spent the entire trip over here talking about some blonde he's been making time with on the side. And on top of that," he paused slightly, for flourish, "he's got a wife to take care of."

And Angela, and Mandy, and Katie, Mark thought to himself. But neither Gary nor Bonz needed to know that.

"I'm impressed," said Gary with a shifty, approving smile. "And I'm sure that Art has told you that any man visiting San Diego who has an eye for beautiful ladies, needs to make a side trip south of the border to Tijuana." Gary was an intelligent, articulate conversationalist, and he was in his element, talking about his favorite pastime.

"Yes, he told me a little about the place." Mark said no more; he wanted Gary to continue talking before he tipped his own hand. He cast a sideways glance at Bonz, who had mercifully decided he'd rather listen than talk at this point.

"Have you ever been to TJ?" Gary countered, using the two-letter abbreviation with the casual air of a man who'd adopted the place as his second home.

"No, I haven't. I just know that it's a grubby border town with a sleazy reputation."

"That's only partly true," Gary said, beginning his field-guide summary. "The side of Tijuana that most people see is nothing like that. Your typical tourist sticks to a small downtown area that's sterilized to conform to the standards of the visiting American. They take a bus into town, get photographed riding a striped donkey and eat tacos and enchiladas in American-style restaurants. They go shopping for sombreros, Mexican jumping beans, dirt-cheap vanilla extract and fake silver, and then hop the bus back north of the border. And that's the TJ that most people know."

"But there's more to the city than that, I'm sure," Mark said, continuing to be noncommittal. "No city is as it appears at first glance, whether it's Tijuana, San Diego or even Philly. That's no surprise."

He looked around, ensuring that no other diners were eavesdropping, and then continued, "So ... tell me about the women."

"I was just getting to that," Gary said with a salacious grin. "In the downtown tourist zone, there's a few strip clubs, and bars with women for hire, but I don't hang out in those. Most of those places are scary rip-off joints that I wouldn't think of bringing a newcomer into. The real action," he said, with brief hesitation, "is just a short walk or taxi ride away from the tourist zone."

Mark shot another glance at Bonz, who was looking on, speechless and enthralled, even though he'd surely heard all of this before.

Gary continued on, "This part of town is an area of several square blocks. It's called the Zona Norte, which is Spanish for "northern zone." It's loaded with bars that are packed with hookers. There's also a segment where the pavement is lined with streetwalkers. The street girls are a fun diversion, and I'll pick one up on occasion, but mostly I stick to the bars. The girls charge a third or less of what you'd pay in the USA. And believe me when I say this ... it's been my experience that these Mexican ladies put American women to shame when it comes to pleasing a man."

Mark wasn't sure that he shared in Gary's damnation of the American female, but he was nonetheless mesmerized by his tale. He leaned forward slightly, listening intently, as Gary went on.

"Most of these places appear at first glance to be normal bars, with scantily clad women parading their goods from wall to wall. There might be a strip show taking place on a center stage. The girls range in age from barely eighteen to over forty, and in looks from stunning to hideous. Sometimes, they'll even approach you, fondle you right there in the bar and make you an offer. When you find one you like, you go to a short-time hotel, many of which are directly attached to the bar. You pay a nominal fee to the hotel for thirty minutes in the room, then go there and do your thing. When you're done with her, you pay the girl and go your own way. Afterward, you can walk around town, grab a bite to eat, or sit in the bar and recharge your battery, and repeat the process when you're ready."

"Damn!" Bonz blared out with ample volume. "They grab your dick while you're just standing in the bar?"

"Sometimes, although many of them aren't that brazen. Usually, I like the shy, quiet ones. But sometimes I don't. That's the nice thing about the Zona Norte. You can have whatever you want at any given point in time."

Bonz was still shaking his head in stupefied amazement; he looked as if he was about to foam at the mouth. Mark, however, remained expressionless. "Are these girls from the local area? Where do they come from?" he queried.

"Good question. They actually come from all over Mexico. Many have kids and in some cases, husbands or boyfriends who they send money to. And if they work hard, and don't blow the money on drugs or whatever, they can earn much more than they'd ever make in a low-paying job in the interior of Mexico. Sometimes, groups of them travel by bus and arrive in TJ at the same time. And if you happen to be in a particular bar soon after they arrive, you have your pick of young rancheras who haven't yet become jaded from dabbling in prostitution."

"Oh man!" Bonz shrieked forcefully. "A goddamn pussy farm!"

Mark looked over his shoulder following Bonz's outburst; he was truly embarrassed. He noted that a few heads had momentarily turned in their direction. He grabbed a glass of water, and sipped slowly, motioning to Gary that he was about to speak. This brief interlude of quiet induced the transient peanut gallery to go back to whatever it was they were doing.

Up to this point, Mark had been quiet, nonjudgmental, almost passive. But this was typical of him; in social situations, he'd lay back and let others take the lead, while he gathered information and mulled over his game plan, like a snake waiting to strike. In particular, he made good use of this ruse with the women in his life; he'd allow them to dictate terms initially, before suddenly changing course and seizing control at a critical moment. He'd done this to perfection in New York with Angela. And Mark knew that in this setting, now was the time to take the helm and express his concerns in no uncertain terms.

"See ... here's the problem I have with the scene you are describing," he began, speaking quietly but with conviction. "Just how much control do these girls have over their everyday life? Is being pushed into prostitution better than a poor but honorable life in their hometown? You mentioned drugs ... it's a well-known fact that drugs and prostitution often go hand in hand. How many of them blow every cent they earn on cocaine or crystal? These girls probably have sex with the dirtiest, filthiest lowlifes imaginable. What effect will that have on their ability to maintain any sort of legitimate relationship with a man? And how will they view sex when they've given it away for money? And by patronizing these women, you're exacerbating the problem. I won't deny that it sounds like an intriguing scene to explore, from strictly a horny male standpoint ... I'm far from perfect myself, but I do have a conscience."

Gary sat there for a moment in thoughtful silence; he'd been blind-sided by Mark's eloquent diatribe. With the conversation having taken a serious turn, Bonz had lost interest in the proceedings; he was now absent-mindedly using his stubby fingers to crush the saltine crackers, wrapped in a cellophane package, which came with the clam chowder he'd ordered.

"You raise several interesting points, and all of what you said is at least partially true," Gary finally spoke. "And it's good that you have a conscience. You're a better man than me, because I'll freely admit that scruples are not my strong point." He emitted a fiendish yet somewhat apologetic laugh. "But here's my reasoning. It comes down to this. These whores made a choice. They chose to enter into the hooker trade. In doing so, they have to live with the consequences. Beyond that, it's really not my problem."

"But how much of a choice did they really have?"

Gary let that question pass unanswered. Mark felt that he'd made his point, so he turned to the next item on his list of questions. "Gary, there's another thing I don't understand. You're a good-looking, intelligent, professional guy. Why do you need to pay for sex?"

"That's another good question. Let me fire it right back at you. Why do you need to pay for sex?"

"I don't–" Mark stopped himself in mid-reply; he knew exactly what Gary was driving at.

Gary seized his advantage. "Say you take your wife, or mistress, or whatever, out for an expensive dinner. How much did you spend? Say it's her birthday, and you buy her a nice present. How much did that cost you? Or flowers for Valentine's Day. Or a nice piece of jewelry, or a nice new dress. All of those put quite a drain on your wallet. And with multiple women, which apparently you have, it increases by a factor of two, three ... whatever. I'll bet if we sat here and crunched the numbers, you couldn't make a good case that I pay more for sex than you do."

It was Mark's turn to express a moment of pensive silence; the point had been driven home. Bonz, meanwhile, was engaged in a personal crusade to reduce his crackers into a fine a powder as possible. He had placed the package on the table, and was smashing it with his elbow.

Before Mark could reply, Gary offered another morsel for him to chew on. "Really, I look at it like this. Romance and relationships aren't my thing. I'm happily single for life. When I pay a puta, I'm not actually paying her for the sex ... I'm paying her to go away afterwards."