Chapter 20

The full force of the relentless mid-afternoon California sun beat down upon Mark as he stood in front of the hotel, looking down the street, expecting Jack to pull up in his BMW at any minute. Though it was certainly the same celestial object he knew from back east, the west coast sun just seemed to be more powerful, more ruthless. The a.m. fog's persistence had been broken very easily on this morning. It had dissipated by nine o' clock, affording the sun a head start in firing up the heat of the day. It was now well up into the eighties, and even dressed in casual summer clothes, Mark felt a need to duck into the shade of a tree.

Mark had spoken with Jack by phone a short while ago, and was pleased to discover that Jack was a fellow BMW owner. "Gary told me you had good taste," Jack had remarked cheerfully. He was out on the road somewhere, talking into a cell phone, the reception less than optimal.

"What else did Gary say about me?" Mark had fired back, not sure if he wanted to hear Jack's reply.

"I'll tell you later. It's tough for an old fogey like me to talk and drive at the same time. Plus, this connection sucks." It sounded like a cop-out to Mark.

Mark's day had been a whirlwind since he'd opened his eyes that morning. After a scant three and a half hours of fitful snoozing, he'd nearly overslept, rolling out of bed just in time to shower quickly, and make it over to the Convention Center as the seminar was starting. And the seminar had run over its allotted time by nearly thirty minutes. He'd encountered a group of professional acquaintances, and went out to lunch with them. One of them was a former research colleague of Katie's, who badgered him with questions about how she was doing. All this meant that he had to slip back into his respectable professional persona for a while; his mind, however, kept heading south at every opportunity, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.

Once back at the hotel, he called Julie on her cell phone, catching her on her way home from school. She was another individual who didn't care to spend a lot of time speaking on the phone while driving, which suited Mark just fine on this occasion. He told her to expect him back home at about eleven o'clock the following evening, allowing for the shuttle transportation from the airport. He laid down on the bed for a short nap, in anticipation of a long and eventful afternoon and evening. Before he knew it, it was two-thirty, and he pulled himself together and called Jack.

Soon enough, Jack arrived in his BMW, a dark blue convertible with the top down. He looked like an overage beach bum; he had on a light blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt, white shorts, a pair of sunglasses, and a surfer's leering grin. Mark greeted him as he got in. He was envious of Jack's car, which had all the bells and whistles.

"I'll tell ya, Mark, the key is to think young," Jack exclaimed as he put his foot to the pedal and sped off, the tires squealing in protest against the cruel treatment. Mark hadn't ridden in a convertible in many years; he enjoyed the feel of the wind sweeping across his sweaty face, refreshing as a popsicle or a dunk in the pool. Its high-decibel whistling roar made conversation difficult, so he just sat still and enjoyed the ride.

The start of the afternoon rush hour was still over an hour away; Jack made good time on southbound Interstate 5 as the buildings of downtown San Diego vanished behind them. He had a radar detector on board, and pushed the speedometer up to eighty-five. Near the E Street exit in Chula Vista, the elevated, rolling terrain which contained and surrounded Tijuana came into plain view ahead of them, several miles away, an apparition emerging from the humid, hazy air. The barrio-coated hillsides with shanty homes perched at strange angles on the slopes grew clearer and closer as Jack seemingly raced for the finish, an international line in the sand, beyond which nothing was the same.

Jack came to a stop at the border crossing complex, was quickly waved through, and resumed his trek on the short stretch of freeway on the Mexican side, albeit at a more leisurely pace. "You have to be careful down here," shouted Jack, above the slightly reduced howl of the air rushing past. "The cops aren't your friends, especially if you're a gringo driving an expensive car with California tags."

"Ever had a problem with the police in Mexico?" Mark queried, watching curiously as Jack exited from the freeway and turned onto a side street lined with small shops and auto-repair places, adorned with hand-painted inscriptions in Spanish.

"Once," Jack allowed, "I pulled up to one of those eight-sided, red 'alto' signs, and did what a gringo who couldn't read Spanish might do. A cop was right behind me, and turned on the blue and white lights. I knew I was guilty, so I paid the cop thirty bucks to forget about it." He winked in Mark's direction.

"You can do that here, I guess." Mark laughed.

Jack steered the BMW into a dusty lot, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. "We'll park here," he said. "I know the guy who owns the property. But I don't leave this car here after dark."

They got out, and a small, lean, dark-skinned young man wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and beat-up old sneakers approached them. Jack greeted him with a firm handshake, addressing him enthusiastically in Spanish. In addition, he slipped him a ten-dollar bill. Unlike Gary, Jack appeared to enjoy mingling with the locals, and spoke Spanish at a conversational level. He chatted with the man, their words mostly unintelligible to Mark, but punctuated with bouts of hearty laughter. Jack finally broke off the conversation to make introductions.

"Mark, this is my amigo, Ramon. He baby-sits my car while I baby-sit the chicas."

Mark shook Ramon's hand, and then he and Jack were on their way. "I give him a ten-spot," Jack explained, "and he keeps an eye on the car for me during the daytime. Mejor para ambos. Better for both. A win-win situation. One of the secrets to getting along in Mexico."

"Good deal. So tell me. Where are we, and where are we going?"

"We're about a block away from Revolucion. Have you been there yet? It's the main tourist drag in TJ."

"No. So far, I've stuck to the less reputable parts of town."

"Well, we'll keep your streak intact for now. In fact, there's a good chance the place we're headed is even less reputable than the places you've visited so far," Jack said with a laugh that, although decidedly fiendish in spirit, remained consistent with his unvaryingly pleasant disposition. "And if it's not, it's because it's not well-known enough to have a reputation."

"Hey, I'm always up for places that are off the beaten track." Mark wasn't so sure his heart was in that statement, but he'd already come to trust Jack implicitly, and didn't want to come across as ungrateful.

Ahead of them lay a busy intersection. A mass of cars of all shapes and sizes plowed heedlessly across their line of sight every time the light cycle permitted it. A marked increase in the number of pedestrians and loud music originating from around the corner informed Mark that they were approaching the tourist district. "I get it. We're going shopping for souvenirs," he said with bemused facetiousness.

"Not even close. Follow me." Jack moved toward an open doorway in a plain white stucco building, with a spartan exterior, still perhaps a half block away from the main drag. There was a neon sign, almost invisible in broad daylight, which read simply, "Bar and Floor Show".

Once inside, Mark's visual acuity left him. The abrupt switch from bright light to smoky dimness brought about a state of temporary blindness that slowly receded as his pupils dilated. He stumbled down a short flight of stairs, assuming Jack was still leading the way.

When the fog in front of his eyes lifted, it was replaced with a visual curtain that was part real and part imaginary. Real because of the cigarette smoke and paucity of light, even in the middle of the day. Imaginary because the dingy and at-present sparsely populated club just had a vibe to it that made Mark feel uneasy. And yet, that uneasiness heightened his senses in a spellbinding manner.

Jack spoke briefly to the bartender, then motioned Mark over to a single booth near a rear corner. They sat down and within seconds, beers were placed in front of them. Mark made a quick survey of the bar's other occupants. There were about four or five other men, and about eight to ten women. Most of the ladies were of the older or overweight variety.

Mark opened his mouth to speak, but Jack sensed his thoughts. "This place is a change of pace. Hang out here for a while, and you won't believe some of the shit that goes on."

"Isn't this place outside of the sex-for-pay zone of tolerance? Gary told me that the authorities view prostitution differently outside the Zona Norte."

"Technically, yes. But don't worry. It's quiet in here today, and the cops won't bother us."

"Speaking of Gary ... what did he say about me?" Mark wanted to hear what he'd told Jack; he was intensely curious.

"Oh ... nothing much." Jack laughed energetically. "Seriously, he had nothing but good things to say about you. He said you're a nice guy, maybe a little uptight and sheltered in some ways, but a magnet for attractive women."

"Sometimes, that's not all it's cracked up to be."

"Bullshit. I wouldn't complain if I had chicks coming after me all the time. But those days are long gone, and now I have to pay for what I get." Jack hesitated, implying that a change in his tone was forthcoming. "And while we're at it, Mark ... just some friendly advice, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't mind."

"Gary is basically a good guy. He's a straight shooter. Yeah, I know he can be a slimy prick at times. But he makes a lot of sense, even if what he says sometimes isn't fun to hear. He considers the women here to be ruthless mercenaries out to pick the pockets of stupid, lonely men. That's not always true. I know that for a fact. But, a few years of soaking up this scene have taught me one thing ... that Gary's view of things, skewed as it may be on occasion, is nonetheless the wisest perspective to take. It's best to assume that the girls are always about money, as heartless as it may seem."

"I hear you. But why not give them the benefit of the doubt, until proven otherwise? Believe me, I'm keeping my guard up."

"Look, Mark, I'm not saying you have to consider the chicas to be interchangeable sperm receptacles, like Gary does. Have fun with the girls. Hang out with them, get to know them. Some of them are damn fine people who are just doing the best they can in life. Treat them like ladies. But draw the line there. Set limits for yourself. That's all I'm saying."