Chapter 15

The airplane, half an hour from touchdown, began to perceptively decrease its altitude. The southwestern desert floor, punctuated by the occasional small town or lone mountain, had commanded Mark's gaze for the last forty-five minutes or so as he stared out the window.

Mark loved traveling by air. And he insisted on a window seat for every flight. The view out the window never failed to enthrall him; he had a knack for maps and geography, and he liked to pass the time during long flights by guessing his current location. The utter absence of landmarks below made that particular endeavor quite difficult at present, but Mark didn't mind. No matter how many times he flew, the novelty of the experience never wore off. He was six miles up in the air, and much farther from the concerns and complications in his life. He relished that feeling of temporary isolation.

He'd been assigned an aisle seat for this particular flight. The travel agent naturally assumed that Mark preferred to sit along the aisle, as most people did. But Mark wasn't most people; he'd gone up to the check-in counter and successfully traded in the aisle seat for his coveted perch next to the window.

The flight attendant gave the fasten-your-seat-belts order. As the plane descended further, a mountain range appeared below, which was soon partially blotted out by a thick bank of clouds that covered all but the higher peaks. Mark knew that low, thick clouds during the first half of the day were characteristic of coastal southern California. He also knew that the powerful California sun usually burned off the clouds around noontime or so. But today's fluffy blanket, which when viewed from above appeared to be adhering to the mountains like wet lamb's wool, had lasted longer than that, and seemed to be quite tenacious and unyielding.

The plane dove through the clouds, and the San Diego skyline came into view underneath. Shortly thereafter, the landing gear hit the runway. As the plane pulled into the gate, Mark said to himself, well, I'm here at last. Now just what the hell have I gotten myself into?

Gary was waiting for him at the baggage claim. "Look out, ladies, he's arrived," he grinned as Mark struggled to lift his one extra-large bag, stuffed to capacity, up off the carousel. "What do you have in that thing?" Gary went on. "You don't have one of your girlfriends stuffed in there, do you?"

Mark laughed. "Well, I'm here for six days. And since I'm leading a double life while I'm here, I pretty much brought double of everything. Two sets of clothes, two pairs of shoes, the whole works."

"Let's get out of here, and we'll resume this conversation in my car," Gary said, pointing out towards the parking lot. Mark, in complete agreement with the spirit of that comment, followed Gary outside, lugging his bag along with him.

Gary drove a black Lexus with leather seats and a sunroof. The second Mark laid eyes on the vehicle, he had to resist the urge to break out into a grin. He couldn't imagine a more perfect match between car and owner.

Before Mark knew it, they were sailing down the palm-tree-lined Harbor Drive, with the marina and the bay off to the right. The sun, increasingly in evidence, was showing signs of winning its battle with the thick clouds. Mark sighed contentedly; he'd heard countless times what a beautiful place San Diego was, and he'd already taken a liking to it.

"So," Gary interjected, breaking the momentary silence. "If you want, I can have you at the border in twenty minutes, and you can get started."

"Not so fast," Mark shot back. "Let me get checked in to the hotel first. And believe it or not, I have a meeting later this afternoon. Business before pleasure." This particular meeting was the one Ronald had asked him to attend, and he wanted to fulfill that obligation before turning his thoughts to carnal matters.

"Suit yourself. And you aren't the only one who has to work on Sunday. Wanna grab lunch before checking in, though? I still have some time."

"Good idea ... I'm starving." Mark hadn't eaten anything substantial since leaving home several hours ago. Gary, a decidedly lead-footed driver, raced through an array of side streets before pulling into a parking lot next to a small Mexican eatery.

"This place is small and inexpensive, but the food is more authentically Mexican than anything you'll find on the East Coast." Gary explained. "And besides, I wanna give you a little taste of what's in store."

Seated inside at a wooden table covered with a red-and-white checkered tablecloth, they were soon approached by a waitress. She was a cute young thing, seemingly in her early twenties, with a baby face, bronze skin and long black hair. Mark ordered first. Gary placed his order, and followed it by addressing the waitress with a few flirtatious words in Spanish, which Mark couldn't understand. The girl smiled with shy embarrassment, then headed off to relay their orders to the kitchen.

Mark raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't speak Spanish," he said suspiciously.

"I know just enough to tell the girls what they want to hear."

"How do you know what she wants to hear?"

"All women are alike. You, of all people, should know that. And that reminds me. Let's hear all about that mini-harem you've got back in Philly."

Mark paused for a second, evaluating the prudence of sharing the details of his secret existence with Gary. But he realized that Gary undoubtedly had him beat by a fair margin when it came to the topic of sexual dalliances. Seeing a rare opportunity to unload, he thus proceeded to give a summary description of the women in his life.

"One of them is the front-desk receptionist at work. She's black, mid-thirties, a total knockout. I hook up with her at work just about every weekday. There's a blonde, also mid-thirties, with a body you have to see to believe. There's also a young Chinese-American graduate student, in her twenties, who I've known for a long time. And lastly, there's an even younger hair stylist who I spent an overnight with in New York, just a few weeks ago. And of course ... there's my wife, who has to remain in the dark about all this." Mark didn't want to discuss Mandy; he was still trying to deal with the events of last Thursday and Friday.

Gary paused for a moment, digesting this information, and then spoke. "A nice assortment. Black, white, oriental. But let me tell you this. There's nothing like the fiery passion of the Latina. And after this week, I'll wager that you'll agree with me."

"We'll see about that," Mark grinned, trying his best to bring a little levity into the conversation after spilling his guts. He'd just told Gary more than he'd told anyone else, including Bonz; this made him uneasy. He realized that his need to unburden himself of his secret, the extent of which was known only to him up to that point, had outweighed the fact that he still didn't completely trust Gary.

The waitress showed up with their food in tow. "Griselda," Gary said with a devious grin, reading the girl's name tag. "Griselda es muy guapa."

A broad smile crossed Griselda's face, but she offered no comment as she scurried away to wait on another table. Mark rolled his eyes; he remembered enough Spanish to know that Gary had just told her she was cute. "Gary, that was one helluva lame come-on," he remarked with a smirk.

"Yeah. But it works every time in a hooker bar."

Raindrops began to splatter against the windshield as Julie flicked on the wipers. Spending a week alone was something she hadn't done in awhile, and she wasn't sure what to make of it. She'd called Beth, as usual, and Beth had invited her to spend Sunday afternoon and evening at her place.

Julie, trying her best to be civil, had offered to drive Mark to the airport, but he'd already made arrangements to take the airport shuttle. "There's no reason for you to drive all the way down to the airport," he said over his shoulder as he stuffed innumerable odds and ends into his suitcase, "since the people I work for will gladly foot the bill for the transportation." Then, the shuttle appeared in the driveway, and Mark flew out the door with nary a look back. No goodbye kiss, not even the slightest trace of warmth.

Julie had perceived a look on his face that she couldn't place, but she'd seen it a few times lately. And now, with the escalating rainfall pounding out a drum beat on the windshield, she identified that look. Guilt, she said to herself. He thinks he's being smooth, but I can see right through him.

There was the matter of his strange behavior in bed the previous night. And she'd also noticed that his oversized suitcase was far too full for a five-day trip. But what did that mean? Was it nothing more than excessive paranoia on her part? She realized that at present, she couldn't know for sure. But she also knew that as soon as she got the chance, she fully intended to search the house from top to bottom to see if she could find the key to unlock the door to her husband's den of mystery.

And, of course, she would run all this past Beth. Good ol' Beth, Julie thought, smiling in spite of herself. Once again, she's gonna get an earful.

Mark closed the door as he exited his eighth-floor downtown hotel room, turning the handle to ensure it was locked. Eschewing the elevator, he made his way into the stairwell and ambled down the stairs to street level. He stepped out into the cool evening air; dusk was falling. He took a deep breath, and set out for the trolley station a block away.

He was eager, tense and nervous, all at the same time. Ever since Gary had dropped him off in front of the hotel, he'd been restless. He'd gone to the meeting, and procured the requested information for Ronald, but it had been a struggle to keep focused. He was of two minds. The rush associated with his upcoming adventure was substantial. But at the same time, now that he was in close geographical proximity to his ultimate destination, the very magnitude of his undertaking became starkly apparent. It had been easy to romanticize when he was back on the East Coast, and to view matters in hypothetical terms. Now, however, the inherent risks appeared in bold relief on the surface of his psyche, and he grew apprehensive and frightened.

He stopped in his tracks as he neared the trolley station, and stood still for a moment. A gentle breeze was blowing, which seemed to fan the soft flames of uncertainty as he remained motionless there in the deepening twilight. He watched a few pedestrians stroll right on past him. I don't have to do this, he said to himself. I can stop right here, and spend the rest of the week concentrating on work and relaxation, just as I had originally planned. And I'll tell Gary I got sick, or something like that.

He reversed his tracks and began to head back to the hotel. The approaching trolley caused him to look back over his shoulder. He saw the words "Tijuana/San Ysidro" flashing across the marquee. And he wavered once again; he felt spineless and wishy-washy. A Latin siren song was playing in his mind. At present, he knew neither the melody nor the words, but he knew that when he reached the endpoint of his journey, he would most certainly discover them. And having vanquished his own skepticism once and for all, Mark boarded the trolley.

The first leg in his quick international jaunt was a forty-minute light rail excursion to San Ysidro, a small community pressed up against the Mexican frontier, whose outer reaches were still within walking distance of the border crossing. Even though it was Sunday evening, the trolley was filled to more than half its capacity. Several conversations among the passengers were taking place in Mark's earshot, all in Spanish. Mark closed his eyes, trying to relax, and before he knew it, the train reached the end of the line. At that point, Mark noticed that he was just about the only gringo on board. The one visible exception was a single older man, traveling alone and toting a duffel bag. Hmm, Mark wondered. Maybe his purpose for visiting Tijuana is the same as mine.

The train ground to a halt, and Mark disembarked. The full darkness of nighttime was now well established. He took a moment to inspect his surroundings. San Ysidro, though technically north of the border, was truly a hybrid locality. Well-lit American fast-food joints, banks and other businesses intermingled with small Mexican groceries and money-changing booths, although most were, of course, closed on Sunday. This was the crossroads for border pedestrian traffic, and Mark's mode of traversing the border would be the same as most everyone else's. He planned to use the two feet God gave him.

He followed a noisy group of revelers up a series of ramps, which led to a bridge over the highway leading into Mexico. At the midway point, the southward view suddenly opened up, and Mark saw the cars passing underneath him as they approached the Mexican customs checkpoint. A yellow line painted at a slight angle across the highway defined the actual border; Mark was startled to discover how close it was.

He proceeded onward, descending a second assembly of ramps. A couple of revolving turnstiles beckoned at the bottom, and Mark knew that this was the final obstacle in the US portion of his journey. Once through the turnstiles, he crossed that yellow line. He'd now gone past the point of no return. He was in a foreign country, brazenly in search of pleasures of the flesh, and he'd entered that country in a manner that was no more eventful or strenuous than a casual walk down the street of his upper-class neighborhood back in Pennsylvania. Mark found that quite remarkable, and strangely thrilling.

He negotiated a long outdoor corridor, enclosed on both sides with concrete walls that were garishly decorated with what an art critic might describe as elaborate, Aztec-inspired graffiti. As he strolled onward, he recognized the American man he'd seen on the trolley, several steps ahead of him, holding that duffel bag and talking into a cell phone. I'll bet I was right about him, Mark thought. At the other end of the corridor was yet another set of turnstiles, and Mark could already see several cabs and a throng of drivers just beyond the gate. He hesitated for just a moment, collecting his thoughts, for Gary had given him some explicit advice on how to handle the swarm of cabbies that lay in wait, like vultures hovering over a carcass, hoping to bamboozle some unwary tourists. "Don't pay more than five bucks for a cab ride to the Zona Norte," Gary had warned. "Make that very clear, and stand your ground."

Mark emerged from the turnstiles, and in a flash, several drivers approached him, yelling, "Taxi, amigo!" Mark held up five fingers, voicing out loud, "Five dollars," and walked off with the first driver who nodded in agreement.

The driver spoke excellent English. "Where do you want to go?" he asked.

Mark had been dreading this particular point in the proceedings, but he knew there was no way around it. "Adelita," he replied, while thinking to himself, He probably thinks I'm a sick pervert who can't get laid.

But the cabbie displayed no perceptible reaction as he merely nodded, held the rear door open, and motioned for Mark to get in. Mark pointed at the front passenger-side door and requested to sit in the front seat. This, again, was a suggestion of Gary's. "Make sure you sit up front. That's what the locals do, and if you ride in the back seat like most Americans, he'll size you up as a dumb tourist."

Once they both were seated inside, the driver loudly revved up the engine; it was apparent that the vehicle's muffler was not in optimal condition. He rolled down the window, and motioned for Mark to do the same. As the cabbie hit the gas, Mark relished the feel of the cool night air rushing past his face. His heart was beating faster, and yet, a strange sense of inner peace had enveloped him. It was as if he was meant to be here ... this location, this time, this intent.

The cabbie, a surprisingly skilled conversationalist, asked all the usual questions ... where do you live, what do you do, what kind of family do you have. At no point did the discourse turn toward the purpose of Mark's visit. Mark was immensely thankful for that, and upon further consideration, he realized that a fair portion of the driver's business probably came from men like himself, heading south of the border for hired Mexican female companionship.

Soon, the driver swerved onto a barely-lit side street that contained nothing but seemingly unoccupied one-story buildings, and appeared to be devoid of any human presence. I sure hope this isn't the Zona Norte, Mark thought. But looking straight ahead, he saw bright lights and large colorful illuminated signs looming a few blocks in front of them. "That's it," Mark said out loud.

"The Zona Norte," the cabbie grinned, clued in to his train of thought. "A playground for men." Within seconds they were in the midst of the brightly-lit district. The driver made a sudden U-turn. "Here you are. The University of Adelita," he chortled.

Mark laughed at the ridiculous made-up designation as he handed him a five-dollar bill; but upon further consideration, decided that maybe it wasn't so ridiculous after all. What sort of education awaits me inside that place, he wondered as his gaze fell momentarily upon the highly illuminated entrance. Then he realized the cabbie was looking at him and holding out his hand. "My tip?" he asked shamelessly.

Mark handed him a dollar, thanked him and got out. He stood still for a minute, just drinking in the surroundings, directing his gaze in turn in each direction. In all his forty-three years, he'd never seen a place quite like this.

Up and down the street, people of all sorts were milling about. Even on a Sunday night, the atmosphere was festive and party-like. Bars lined both sides of the street in each direction, with restaurants and a few small businesses interspersed in between. Mark had wondered if Gary's tales were somewhat exaggerated; but at that point, he realized that Gary had not been stretching the truth, not one bit.

Then he turned, finally taking a good look at the place he'd come to visit. Above the entrance, exactly as advertised, was a large white illuminated sign, with matching pictures of rifle-toting women at each end. The words "Adelita Bar" emblazoned in big red letters were superimposed over several small green cacti on the white background. Below the big sign, the wall near the entrance was lined with bright red tiles, extending some distance down the pavement in both directions. The tiled exterior tapered inward into a narrow entrance blocked by a mysterious black curtain. Mexican banda music of ample volume pounded away behind the curtain. Nearby, another brightly-lit egress provided access to a very visible stairway, with bright white walls. A neon sign with the word "Hotel" spelled out in luminous letters was mounted on the wall next to the stairwell. It was apparent to Mark that the second entrance provided access to the hotel, actually located directly above the bar, where carnal transactions were consummated. Nearby, a group of Caucasian male onlookers stood along the sidewalk, between the bar and the hotel, just taking everything in. Mark was relieved to find that these men appeared to be middle-aged professional types, not unlike himself.

Suddenly, the curtain split right down the middle, and out walked a goddess. She was tall and slender; her fetchingly gorgeous straight blonde hair reached down to her waist, and formed a striking contrast with her copper-colored skin, the vast majority of which was visible and on display. A minuscule, bright red two-piece outfit covered just enough flesh to meet the rather liberal modesty standards of this particular venue. Her breasts looked as if they were about to burst through the red fabric. Two stunning bare legs tapered down into feet that were elevated upon six-inch red platform heels, which enhanced her vertical stature even more. Though it was hard to say for sure, Mark pegged her age at about twenty-one or twenty-two. She was immediately followed by a man of about sixty, several inches shorter and many inches wider than the girl. She took him by the hand, and led him toward the hotel entrance. Several members of the herd of bystanders whistled loudly, expressing their approval. Unfazed by the commotion, the girl walked right on past, leading her customer up the stairway and out of sight. Merging in with the peanut gallery, Mark watched the whole scene unfold in rapt amazement. For the next thirty minutes, the horny old goat would have paid, exclusive access to the affections of that magnificent feminine creature.