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.”
70
When they were done making the exchange, Vargas tucked the Tomcat into his waistband, then covered it with his shirt and said, “Tito tells me you’re pretty well connected down here.”
“I know a few people.”
“I’m doing a favor for a friend. Looking for someone who disappeared here a little less than a year ago.”
“A year?” Ortiz said. “Might as well be a century.”
“Yeah. I’m sure this is a long shot, but maybe you know something about her.”
He took the photo of Beth’s sister from his back pocket and handed it to Ortiz. He’d bought some Scotch tape at the supermarket in LA and taped the two pieces together.
“She was a cruise ship passenger. The sister says she disappeared after going into a leather-goods shop downtown.”
Ortiz studied the photo. “Nice piece of ass, but she doesn’t look familiar. You’ve seen one turista, you’ve seen them all.”
“How many of them disappear without a trace?”
“Do I look like a statistician? This place is just like any other. Shit happens.”
Oh well, Vargas thought. It was worth a try.
Ortiz started to hand back the photo, but Vargas didn’t take it.
“Do me a favor and keep that for now. Pass it around, see what you can find out. I’ll make it worth your while.”
Ortiz shook his head. “I ain’t your errand boy, pocho. ”
“As a favor to Tito.”
Ortiz snorted. “You speaking for Tito now? That’s a pretty bold move, amigo. He may be your cousin and all, but I’m not sure he’d appreciate you using his name like that. I know Yolanda wouldn’t. Man racks up a debt, he should at least know about it, don’t you think?”
“You’re right,” Vargas said, then nodded to the photograph. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to her.”
“You sure she wants you to? Maybe she’d rather not be found.”
“That’s a possibility, but I doubt it. She and her sister were pretty tight.”
Ortiz looked at the photo again. “Like I said, a year is ancient history. But maybe Little Fina knows something about her.”
“Little Fina?”
“She runs the local skin trade. And if this one got involved in anything kinky-voluntary or not-she’d have to go through Fina.”
“So where do I find her?”
Ortiz laughed. “You don’t. But I can make some calls, see if I can set up an introduction. You got a way for me to reach you?”
Vargas gave him his cell phone number. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me too soon,” Ortiz said. “Little Fina makes Yolanda look like a blushing schoolgirl. And that ain’t easy to do.”
71
He stopped at a nearby taqueria before heading back to the hotel. All they’d had to eat and drink on the drive down were chips and sodas and coffee, and he hoped that some real food might help put a little color back in Beth’s face.
She had looked pretty pale when he left, and he wondered if bringing her down here had been not just a bad idea but also a colossally stupid one.
Detective Pasternak had told him that she’d had trouble staying in the here and now, and while she’d seemed fine at the rehabilitation clinic and during the drive, that headache she’d complained about worried Vargas.
Was he being irresponsible?
Should he have ignored her request and gone straight to Ciudad de Almas as he’d originally intended?
Had he let his desire for a story or-worse-his attraction to her cloud his judgment?
It was too late, he supposed, to be asking such questions. He had always been a man who relied on his instincts, and sometimes he got it wrong.
Best to just leave it at that.
But if she did become a problem, what would he do? What should he do? Take her back?
Pulling into the hotel parking lot, he grabbed the sack of taquitos and burros from the passenger seat and headed up the steps to their rooms on the second floor. Letting himself into his own room, he went to the adjoining door and gently rapped on it, not wanting to startle her.
There was no answer.
He tried again. Waited.
Still nothing.
He knew he should let her sleep, but he was concerned about her. He’d been gone almost two hours.
“Beth?”
Again, no answer.
Slipping his key into the slot, he opened the door a crack and peeked inside.
The bed was empty. His netbook lying atop it.
“Beth?”
He pushed the door wide, saw no sign of her. The bathroom was open, but he checked in there anyway and found it empty.
Moving to the nightstand, he picked up the phone and dialed the front desk.
When the clerk answered, Vargas said, “Have you gotten any calls from this room?”
“Senor?”
“This is my friend’s room. She’s not here and I’m worried about her and I’m wondering if she may have called you, had some kind of problem.”
