

THE LIES THAT KILL YOU

By

Don Safran

#

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE LIES THAT KILL YOU

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2011 by Don Safran

Cover art by Getty Images

Cover Design by Joe Porter

ISBN – 978-1-936539-17-8

Smashwords Edition

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

# ONE

A couple of fishermen were dropping lines at the end of the pier, their bait probably healthier than any fish they might catch; otherwise the pier sat almost deserted in the thick ocean mist that sat draped over the Santa Monica beach. Thick as it was, the mist couldn't hide the huge apparition at the entrance to the pier, Marvin Rowan, who pierced the fog at 6'8" in his cowboy boots, with a face framed by a black bushy beard and black curly hair flowing around his head like a Hasidic beaver hat. Not exactly the look that Stan Willis remembered, when weeks earlier they had both worked at the same high tech company, where employment for both had since gone on hold.

Approaching the pier, Stan came in at a good eight inches shorter, and considerably more conventional in a dark sport coat, khakis and a button down blue shirt. He wasn't looking forward to a day with Marvin, since he never knew how much to believe of whatever Marvin said, but they shared a mutual problem that Marvin swore this drive would resolve. There were no familiarities or even greetings exchanged as Stan approached him on this February morning.

Speaking first, he asked, "What do you think, Marvin, this trip - somebody doing it to us again?" Which might seem like a rude way of saying hello, but to Stan it seemed a lot of faith was being expected of him with very little justification.

"Don't think so," Marvin answered. "He's a pretty straight guy. He was a good neighbor, and I was there for him when his wife left him and he was having a bad time. With the LAPD then, before he quit and moved to Mexico."

Marvin looked around, peering through the dissolving mist. "We can take my car," Stan told him. "You walk here?"

"Yeah, but wait a couple of minutes. Sandy's going with me."

Whoa, this hadn't been discussed. "Marvin, I thought this was serious business. Who the hell is Sandy?"

Marvin resorted to the goofiness occasionally lurking within huge men, grinning and shrugging. "I met her a couple of weeks ago. Look with all this crap going on I need some affection. She heard we were going to Tijuana and wanted to know if she could go along."

"I don't know, you read the papers. Like a war zone down there, with those drug guys."

"She'll be okay – she just wants to do some shopping."

There was always the possibility that Sandy would blow off Marvin and not show, which would make sense, just looking at him, but as the thought crossed Stan's mind, a BMW pulled up on a side street, and Sandy Blakemore came flying out, carrying an overnight bag, rushing toward them waving and smiling, her style deceptively young: short blond hair, high cheek bones, a breezy self-confidence, approaching as if Stan was also an old friend. The years mounted up as she neared them — what seemed mid-20s from a distance was turning more mid-30s. She embraced Marvin and turned to Stan, shaking his hand.

"Hi, I'm Sandy Blakemore." It could be worse, Stan thought, responding, "I'm Stan, glad you could make it." And as he tossed her bag into the back seat, he said, "Okay, we all have our passports?" Marvin and Sandy nodded yes and climbed into the car.

The new border regulations, passed by Homeland Security in mid-1909, had changed the tone of Tijuana travel, requiring everyone show some proof of U. S. citizenship when entering the U.S., either a passport or one of the new enhanced drivers licenses, which no one seemed to have. In years past only the driver of the car had to show his or her drivers license and passengers merely acknowledged verbally they were U.S. citizens.

. Stan loved his new car – its recent purchase was a way of denying his new problems, and the feel of the Jaguar's leather wheel was reassuring as they whipped down the 405 heading south toward San Diego. Nothing like sitting at the wheel of a fine car and taking off on a long ride, and despite the company he was enjoying the trip: true, he had only been on the road for about fifteen minutes.

Stan looked from wild man Marvin to Sandy in the rear view mirror, thinking, maybe, she knew an earlier Marvin. He caught her eye and asked, "Sandy, what do you do?"

Marvin, still looking out the window, jumped right in. "Real estate."

Sandy sighing, waited a few seconds, and said, "I'm in real estate."Marvin, the big sheep dog, goofed again. He looked around with his hang dog look.

Obviously, Sandy had been through this before. "It's okay, Marvin. It's hard for you not to be the center of attention."

"You think I have a problem because of my size?"

"Let's not talk about you for a while."

"Hey, I'm easy."

Marvin sat up in his seat, growling as the freeway skirted Long Beach. What now?

"Ever been on the Queen Mary?" He asked, referring to the proud old liner permanently docked at Long Beach.

"No," Stan said.

"The Night of the Living Dead. They brought her back to life and turned her into Sacramento Old Town - hawking T-shirts, spoons, Queen burgers, baseball caps, ice cream. Very big argument against cryogenics."

Marvin sighed, gave the finger to all of Long Beach and settled back into his seat.

This was all happening on short notice – Marvin had called Stan the day before – but it wasn't as if Stan was leaving behind some unfinished activity. Certainly, not his social life. He felt, maybe, it was this city, transforming sweet women from loving Midwestern homes into the Daughters of Wolfman. Even those not in the movie business.

Stan's concentration on the road was snapped by Marvin tapping him on the shoulder, asking, "What were you thinking when Morgan asked us into the meeting room that day? Bonuses is what I thought."

What had he been thinking? As if he could remember. But he could hardly forget the meeting itself; it was the day they passed Through the Looking Glass, entering the slick, contemporary conference room of Warmweather, its logo etched into a pebbled glass wall. Warmly greeted by Morgan Conway, looking more sleek and customer friendly than ever, his 45 years sitting well on him. But there were two men sitting at the conference table, much too serious looking to be in the software world, both almost prissy, and apparently annoyed at Morgan's jovial greeting of Stan and Marvin. They stood up for the introductions, both in dark suits, one in black framed glasses. Fortunately, for their sakes it was a much neater, more civilized Marvin then, hair more conventionally cut and groomed, and beard closely trimmed.

Morgan was doing the introductions. "Boys, I'd like you to meet Carl Finley and Elliot Glass." There was a moment's hesitation before he identified them, "with the U.S. Attorney's Office."

Morgan had still maintained his smile; Stan and Marvin's vanished quickly. Morgan waved everyone to sit down, and said, "Fellas, we've got some unpleasant stuff to discuss here." He looked at the shorter of the two men, the one introduced as Carl, and nodded for him to take over the conversation.

A voice from the back seat interrupted Stan's reflections - Sandy trying to get along, saying "Stan, Marvin says you work together."

He replied over his shoulder, "Well, for the same company. Different areas. He's in development, doing what he does, working on new software programs, I'm in marketing. Not many of the tech guys look like Marvin, like they escaped from 'The X-Men' — Marvin's a new breed, half-geek, half caveman."

Marvin turned slowly to stare at Stan.

"You and Marvin get down to Tijuana often?" she asked.

"Together, never. Until recently we didn't know each other very well."

"Thanks for letting me come along." Her cell rang, she picked up, listened briefly, said, "A little holiday. Tijuana. Yes, really. We just passed Long Beach. Talk to you when I get back," and hung up.

Stan turned to Marvin, saying, "You know, I hope this isn't a wild goose chase."

Marvin, who had been looking at the cars alongside, turned toward him, saying, "How could we not check this out — my pal heard about the investigation and says he has this information — on a DVD that could help us. Like I should say, forget it." Before Stan could say anything, Marvin continued, "Okay, I know it sounds melodramatic, but since he's an ex-cop he can be excused. It could be worse — he could've asked us to meet him in Ensenada where he lives." This was supposed to make Stan feel better, since Ensenada was even further away, an hour south of Tijuana.

"Why not make a copy and mail it to us?"

"Because, as I told you, the DVD is encoded, and he's got a player that's set up for it. And he's got a second DVD he wants to discuss with us."

"Marvin, where is this going?"

"His idea is, he helps us, and we help him with the other. He just needs some advice on where to go with it. He knows you're an ex-newspaperman and thinks you could give him some direction. Hell, it's not a big deal. I'd think you'd want to talk to anybody who could help us. Find out fast as possible what he might have."

"If there is such a DVD," Stan said quietly. "And what could possibly be on it?"

With Marvin quiet for the moment, Stan was able to think, which wasn't a good thing, since if he wasn't brooding about his problems with Warmweather he could only drift onto why his marriage had fallen apart. Karen very cleverly had kept it non-confrontational, listing instead her complaints about Los Angeles, and since he found it beyond his civic pride to defend self-obsession, hostility, crime, rudeness, inner-city tribalism, road rage, log-jammed freeways, not to mention the promise of riots, earthquakes, fires and mud slides, he had to concede that she may have had a point. She flew back to Washington, D.C., where in her mind life was easy. But, after some consideration Stan told her she was being geographically delusional.

They had met in Virginia soon after he had quit newspaper work and had joined the marketing department of a software development company. Five years of pounding out stories for newspapers was over. Iraq had taken care of that. A year reporting out of Baghdad, surrounded by native lunacy and American bureaucratic stupidity, for a syndicate servicing some regional newspaper chains, had not been a good year. Stan thought he could put it behind him by jumping into the high-paying world of public relations and marketing. Not an exciting move, but he felt he must have showed some spark for it, since Warmweather heard of his work and brought him out to Los Angeles with an offer too tempting to turn down. Higher salary, bonuses, stock options.

They had been divorced slightly over a year now, and Stan was left alone in the house in the Hollywood Hills which looked pretty much as it did when Karen had left. .

His thoughts were interrupted as they hit the border, where the Mexican border guards were waving in visitors without stopping them. What was machine precision on California highways turned into chaos as the cars passed through the gates. American cars scurried like little bugs across lanes, weaving in and around vendors, pulling off the road to inspect rows of pottery that stretched to infinity.

The clock on the dash said 1 p.m. The brief clear sky of mid-day seemed to be fading fast, replaced by a return of the slight mist. The weather in Tijuana didn't differ greatly from Los Angeles. February meant short days and the possibility of rain.

So, what now? Stan wondered. "Where the hell are we going?" he asked Marvin, slowing the car. Not a pleasant moment, with cars on their tail, cutting around them, drivers glaring at them. Marvin looked around nervously. "Don't rush me. The street is Rio something. I have to look." He jammed his hands into his pockets, searching.

# TWO

Mariano Novello, without his usual jaunty manner, was approaching Tijuana's principal tourist street Avenida Revolucion with some concern about this morning's activities. A hefty 45-year-old, who over the years had never lost his passion to eat - street food or serious dining, Mariano handled his weight well, moving in a rhythmic way. His suit could be Armani, but, probably not, since no label is necessarily what it represents in Tijuana. Armani, or rip-off, still its cost could feed a small village for a couple of weeks.

On a map Tijuana seemed no further than a long home run from San Diego, but it was distant in so many aspects, legal, social, architectural, financial, that crossing the border was like entering the mouth of a carnival fun-house. Shops were open to the passing parade, some leading to arcades, filled with silver, leather goods, serapes, blankets, belts, hats, fetish masks, hand-made toys, carved snakes and lizards. Not as much as in recent years, not since the drug wars had given tourists second thoughts about crossing the border.

Squeezed among the shops were bars, discos and restaurants, some on street level, some on the second floor with terraces looking onto the street, vaguely reminiscent of Tijuana's Golden Age of sleaze of half a century earlier. Even though it was morning the taped music from the bars blared onto the street, blending mariachi, Tejano, the drug-world sagas of narcocorrido and basic Norte Americano rock 'n' roll.

Mariano held the fantasy that Tijuana's future – if one day the drug killings were over – would be a form of Hispanic Disneyland, rather than the traditional escape to lust. The hopes were there even if Tijuana, with its drug wars, political corruption and human smuggling, was as close to Disneyland slickness as it was to Mars. Mariano felt this was Tijuana's future, only because America had been cultivating lust of its own in the last four decades with such impetus that Tijuana had been left in the lust dust.

As Mariano crossed Avenida Revolucion he lagged behind a beggar with a bad leg who was having a difficult time, dragging one leg behind him trying to rush to the other side. Mariano gestured to oncoming traffic to slow down. It promised to be a tough day and Mariano thought he might as well log in some favors from above.

As he neared the opposite corner a Mustang convertible with U.S. license plates, stopped to allow Mariano to pass. He saw the four American Hispanics, and realized this was the group he was to meet with this morning.

He walked to a shop called La Ventana, one of the few shops on Revolucion with an actual storefront, admiring the restrained, well-designed window display, a mix of slick folk arts and antiques; he pulled the door open and entered his domain.

"Buenas Dias, Senor Novello," two female voices cried out.

"Buenas Dias, Margarita...Lupe..."

The two women, in their mid-20s wearing simple black dresses, looked more like chic boutique clerks in an Acapulco resort. They were drinking coffee and one of them gestured to him with the coffee pot.

"Ahora, no. Gracias." He waved at them and continued toward his office in the rear.

He stopped to look at his display items: much of the shop seemed to be a variation on Russian nesting dolls, that is, like items within like items: copper snakes inside smaller snakes, clowns nesting dwarf clowns. The theme was not native to any of the craft regions of Mexico, but Mariano had done his research and discovered that its origins were up for grabs - Chinese nesting boxes inspired the familiar Russian Matryoshka nesting dolls, which were brought to Russia in 1890 from Japan. However, the Japanese, for whatever reason, honor, or taste – denied their contribution, insisting instead it was created on the island of Honshu by an unknown Russian monk. So, why not an ancient Mexican version, Mariano thought, playing fast and loose with the term, ancient, and went about commissioning the work in an effort to define his own niche.

His many trips to Oaxaca and Puebla proved useless - the various craftsmen there were amused at his propositions, but forgot his offers the moment he left town. In the end he found a number of artisans around Tijuana who were happy to supply him.

He stopped to light a cigarette and looked past his front windows to see the four men approaching. Reaching for an ash tray he pulled it apart to get at the smaller ash tray inside, and inside that as well, working patiently to reach the tiniest of the ash trays. The four young men from the Mustang burst into the shop and Mariano waved the two girls back, motioning the men into his office.

Mariano was proud of his office - no Tijuana cliches of wrought iron lamps and filigreed wooden furniture, nor its opposite, sterile, Mexico City modern steel desks. The result was cream colored sofas, a desk made from an English officer's command table. Nice style for a gift shop owner, but a little unexpected for someone who had his finger in most of the smart crime in the city.

Mariano's criminal activities were certainly not in league with the savage drug gangs that took turns dominating Tijuana's lucrative narcotics gateway to the United States; he was sort of a consultant: putting people together – whether it was contraband or false identities. Mariano knew drugs well enough to leave it to the barbarians. The various sub-divisions of the Arrelano family fighting not only each other but also the invading Sinaloa drug gangs, each side outdoing the other in savagery, had made Tijuana about as dangerous as early Baghdad. Thrown into the battle were the hundreds of Army troops sent by the president.

While Mariano preferred to keep the drug world at a distance it wasn't easy, and he found himself doing business with all entities with his import of stolen SUVs and Escalades craved by both police and drug bosses. But the bulk of his large earnings came from his skills at organizing, rather than participating. The pattern was changing this morning. The original plan was being drastically revised, and he was not happy.

The four men from the Mustang spread out on the chairs and couches. The four, in their late 20s, were Chicanos, Mexican-Americans from Los Angeles. Two were tall and lean, and built more like wide receivers, the other two shorter, built like weight lifters. They were in jeans and T-shirts, an air of genuine toughness that unnerved him.

They were drinking coffee. The girls - Lupe and Margarita - barely escaping with their lives after bringing in the coffee pots. Not that they would have minded dying in that manner. Mariano had to admit these boys had a look that worked with the girls, an edge - very macho, very dramatic. He had to remember to keep Amalia - his longtime girlfriend - away from them.

Their conversation was in English - he felt he probably knew the language better than they, having studied two years in Austin at the University of Texas.

"I have to tell you," he said, "I'm not sure why you were sent down here."

"Hey, you want to debate this with L.A., make a phone call," Enrique said. "We're here - not discussing should we come here. Move on."

Very easy to make these guys crazy, Mariano thought. Maybe, this was not the way to start the conversation.

"I did talk to L.A. about this and the reasons were explained to me. Okay, I think they're wrong; we had an arrangement and my people could have taken care of it."

He looked around to see what reaction he was having. Bored, not actually bored; but acting bored. "This is not the L.A. barrio," he continued. "We do things differently here. You have to respect that. It could get very tricky with the police if matters are not handled correctly. The same with the cartel – nothing that smells of competition. No drive-by bang bang here. You've heard of the drama down here – killing is for friends – competitors they torture, burn, dismember, roll loose heads into wedding parties."

"Hey, we're just American tourists," said Rico, one of the weight lifters.

"I'm advising you that they can get rough here - three kinds of cops competing with each other. Now, with the narcos, they've called out the army."

"Hey, Enrique can talk their language. He was in the Marines, fucking with the woolheads in Iraq," said Rico, gesturing to their tall, lean leader.

Mariano sat back and looked at them - what was it that seemed so familiar? Ah, those ads from the American magazines. With their T-shirts and tattoos, and jeans and sprawling legs they look like those fake tough guys in those fashionable designer ads. Except, these guys, unfortunately, are the real goods. These birds don't even know those ads exist; if they did they would break into the goddamned photo session, surely kill everybody involved for stealing their look. And kidnap the women.

# THREE

Stan felt it was too easy to be annoyed at Marvin, who was still going through his pockets, trying to find the address of where they were supposed to meet. "You had two hours to think of that," Stan said, driving ahead, entering bedlam: a street lined with men waving cars into auto repair and upholstery shops. Thirty shops? Maybe more. Above them on the second floor there were dentist signs.

A great tourist package, seats covered, cavities filled.

Pulling off to the side of the road, Stan said, "Maybe, I could ask one of these upholstery guys."

"Not if you don't want to replace this soft new leather with plastic seat covers," Marvin said. "I know the name of the place - the directions are here somewhere," as he continued through the scraps of paper.

Still parked, a dark blue Cadillac pulled alongside, a heavyset man at the wheel, Mariano, lowering his window. "You need help, senor?" he asked in English.

"As a matter of fact, we do," Stan said, looking from the heavyset man to Marvin.

"Let's give the guy a hint," he growled at Marvin. "Something more than Rio."

Marvin thinking hard, tried some woeful Spanish. "El restorante, El Abajeno? It's on El Rio something."

"El Abajeno?," repeated the man, obviously recognizing the name. "Very nice place; on Avenida Taboada. You almost had it right - near Plaza Rio de Tijuana."

Marvin raised his hand. "That's it. Damn. Taboada. I knew it."

The man smiled and said, "The full name is Avenida Rodolfo Sanchez Taboada. Named after a very famous general and governor of our state." He pointed to the rear. "Make a U-turn and follow this street. It leads right into Taboada. Then you go right, and maybe two streets later you're at El Abajeno."

Waving and shouting "Thanks," Stan drove off, the Cadillac peeling away in the opposite direction.

"Ask a Mexican directions and you get a history lesson," Marvin said, trying to deflect his own stumbling attempts at directions.

It was not difficult to find El Abajeno, a few turns later they were there, and Stan backed into its parking lot to the left of the building, to face the street. It was not what Stan or Marvin had expected, a fairly new building in a new shopping area near the Tijuana River, an area that, in part, evoked the flavor of an upscale shopping street in Palm Desert. El Abajeno had an interesting architecture – a Mexican version of an American version of a Mexican restaurant. However, its interior was indeed Mexican, with the character that eluded the decorators north of the border, the tables facing onto a glassed in center atrium/patio.

It also had mariachis, who were playing a few tables away from where Stan's group was seated, disappearing shortly thereafter for their break. They ordered, the waitress speaking better English than their Spanish. Lunch came and went; the food was okay, Stan thought, not worth a detour of 2 1/2 hours each way, except maybe for the remarkable Queso Fundido - melted cheese with chopped sausage that he had spooned onto a home made tortilla. Looks great on an angiogram, he was sure. But, what the hell, he was feeling good - four bottles of Bohemia beer helped that along. So, where the hell was Marvin's friend?

When the mariachis returned, a table of 12, celebrating somebody's birthday, monopolized them for about 20 minutes. Marvin was getting a little restless about them playing to the other side of the room and Sandy watched him staring at the musicians, his fingers drumming on the table.

She grabbed Stan's arm and said, "Please don't let Marvin bring them over here. I hate sitting and nodding my head, and not having the vaguest idea of what they're singing about."

"I think this one's about the revolution," he told her.

"What revolution? They haven't had one in over 80 years."

"Maybe they're planning another one," he said. He looked at Marvin. "This friend of yours - still think he'll show up?"

"He'll be here. You double check on our hotel?"

"Before we left," Stan said. Lunch had come and gone. They were sitting, waiting. The check came and Stan gave the waitress his credit card. He glanced at his watch: 3:45. "So, what now, Marvin? Where is he? We've come a long way for a couple of tacos."

Marvin shrugged. "He'll be here. I guess the guy's running late. Let's go to the bar." The waitress returned with Stan's card, he signed the receipt and followed Marvin and Sandy to the bar, a level above the dining area.

The bartender listened to their drink order – not complicated, three Bohemias. Stan asked Sandy when she planned to go shopping. She thought later this afternoon or tomorrow morning. The mariachis were starting up in the background. Marvin turned to listen. The bartender set down three bottles of beer, the sound of the bottles hitting the bar resonating against the warm-ups of trumpets and strings. The mariachis were playing at a table near the bar, the opening strains of "La Morena." Marvin watched them, fingers tapping now on the bar. So far, they'd'd lucked out with Marvin and the mariachis – he'd kept his distance, but Stan had the feeling he'd be calling them over soon.

And then, a bit of luck. The front door opened and Marvin spun around. A man with dark, strong Indian features entered, his eyes covering the room, stopping at Marvin, and then walking quickly toward him. Medium height, very trim in a leather jacket.

The men stared at each other, the newcomer slowly smiled; Marvin grinned, throwing his arms around him, embracing him. "Raphael, where the hell have you been?" And not waiting for an answer, said, "Sit down, have a beer, meet my friends — Sandy Blakemore, Stan Willis."

"Mucho gusto," he said as he shook hands. "You I've heard about," he said to Stan, "And you I should have," to Sandy. The easy Mexican charm. Turning to Marvin, he said, "No beer, thanks. I'm running a little late. You set at the hotel?"

"Got it covered," Marvin said.

"Look I want to check in, make some phone calls and make sure I can hook up and run my player. Nothing's guaranteed in the tech world down here." He looked at Marvin for a moment. "Well, so you came. I guess you didn't get my message."

Message? Stan spun around, looking from Raphael to Marvin. "What message?" Marvin asked.

"About what?" Stan asked.

Raphael started to say something, stopped. "We'll go over it later."

"What's going on?" Stan asked.

"Really, we should leave now."

Marvin, trying to break the tension, said, "What, before I sing with the mariachis?" And then, smiling, "Okay, we're moving."

Since Stan realized he had become America's host - Marvin ignoring the bill completely - he dropped his card on the check and shoved both toward the bartender.

Sandy stood up and Marvin turned to her, "See you in the car. I'm gonna find the little boy's room."

"I'll walk you outside," Raphael said to Sandy.

Stan slid her the keys. "Be there as soon as I get this," he said, nodding to the check, which was sitting there waiting for the bartender, who was in the middle of pulling together a margarita.

They peeled off, she picking up the keys and walking out the front door with Raphael, Marvin heading for the bathroom. The bartender picked up the card and was processing it.

Stan felt someone approaching him - a mariachi, who he had noticed earlier because of the birthmark under the man's right eye. In Spanish, he asked Stan, "Tiene cambio, por favor," waving a $50 bill. Even Stan could figure out he was asking – if he could change it. Stan gave him two twenties and a ten for the fifty; the musician tipped his grand sombrero and saying, "Muchas gracias," as he backed away. Stan finished with the bartender, saw a stack of tourist brochures on the bar, picked one up, saw it had maps and lists and slipped it into his pocket.

The bartender returned with the card and receipt. Stan signed it, walked to the front door, and stepped outside into the evening chill: 4:30 on a February afternoon, darkness setting in. He looked around, couldn't see anybody. No sign of Raphael or Sandy, and assumed that each was in a car. Where the hell was his? he wondered. And then realizing that the cars that arrived after him had pulled in front of his row, forming a second row closer to the street. He finally spotted the Jag, which he'd parked, backing in to face the street, but which was now facing into another car. There was enough space behind the Jag to allow him to back out easily, circle the cars and exit. Fortunately, it was a deep lot, maybe 50 yards from the street to his car.

As he walked on the crunchy gravel, he noticed a white Mustang convertible parked horizontally in the parking lot, next to the street. Two men in the front seats, obviously, waiting for someone. His defense mode chugged into action: but the scene seemed benign, late model Mustang, too upscale to be trouble. The sound of gravel crunching underfoot was partially muffled by the street's roar of heavy traffic, a blend of grinding transmissions and phantom mufflers.

He thought he heard a car door swing open as he walked, the sound of someone stepping onto the gravel, coming from the direction of the Mustang. Keep walking. Be cool.

The car next to his, on the driver's side, allowed a comfortable space between cars. He was steps away from his car, but couldn't see Sandy inside. Surely, Raphael would have waited with her. Where is he? She? Something was wrong. Reaching the Jag he looked again at the Mustang, where a man was very definitely standing outside of it, hands behind his back, staring in Stan's direction.

Stan diverted his eyes to his Jag, glancing inside. What the hell happened? The rear seat area was a jumble of clothes. What the hell did Sandy do? Where is she — riding with Raphael? Did somebody break into the car? He walked to the other side of the Jag and opened the right rear door, the door swinging away from him, blocking most of his view of the street.

He looked inside.

"Jesus," he gasped, reaching for the rear of the front seat for support. Blood. Raphael and Sandy. He could make out their bloody faces. Sandy was on the floor behind the front seat and Raphael atop her. Their mouths were open, the rear halves of their skulls missing. The gaps filled in with blood-matted hair. Raphael's arm was wrapped around his neck, the Rolex still on his wrist. Stan leaned back against the car trying to breathe. He looked down and saw the blood soaked gravel that he'd missed earlier. He forced himself to look inside again. Sandy's overnight bag was open, its contents strewn throughout the car. His first thought - the restaurant. Run back. Fast. And then he felt the chilled metal against the back of his head.

# FOUR

Late Saturday afternoon, Pacific Palisades.

Everett Caldwell was sitting in his den of his Georgian home that sat on a hilltop with a view stretching from downtown to the Pacific. The view actually reached Catalina, in theory, anyway, but how often was it clear enough to check that out?

"I see too many stale houses, people whose lives are over" he said to Woody Santos, the soft, well-dressed decorator sitting across from him. "I'm beginning to hate my living room. Replace what you want there — but gradually."

Woody nodded. He knew exactly what Everett wanted — get rid of the psychological cobwebs, new upholstery, different placement, but remaining familiar.

Everett knew the house was much too large for him, especially since Edith, his wife, had died three years earlier, but what was the alternative? Where would a man as wealthy as Everett move? One of those tall condo buildings on Wilshire? Never. He builds them, he doesn't have to live in them. Not among the wealthy widows.

Time stopped in many large homes when the owners passed middle-age, Everett felt. Not so much the style of the furniture – but more of a sort of staleness. You could enter a home and realize instantly that the momentum was over in the owners' lives. Woody's assignment was to make certain it didn't happen to Everett, changing the furniture in the same way that some art collectors update their walls, securing a finer Matisse and selling their existing one. Woody stood up and said he wanted to look around the house and take some notes.

Everett watched as Woody walked out of the office and his thoughts went back to earlier in the day, breakfast at the restaurant of the Los Angeles Police Department Academy in Griffith Park.

While Los Angeles' no smoking law was begrudgingly observed there, the smell from the recently doused cigar in the mouth of the fat detective at the table behind him had been irritating Everett, but seemed to have no impact on Everett's host, Tom Ellison. Tom had been pursuing in his simple monotone his theory of how this city's evils had their impact on the rest of the country. Everett pretended to listen. Outside, across the street there was a sign on an easel that read "Prowler Reported in House." A training session. Only in Hollywood would it look like a rehearsal.

Tom was not getting to the point, which ordinarily didn't bother Everett, but this

was no fucking ordinary morning - Christ, half a dozen careers and reputations were in jeopardy, not to mention enough money to send into retirement half of North Dakota.

While Tom was a fund of raw information, Everett knew he should have been leery of Tom's attempt to process his findings. Why had he listened to him? A question only growing as Everett listened to Tom brag about the backup team he'd put together. He shouldn't have caved, but Tom was a captain in the L.A. Police Department, and considering how much money he had cost Everett over the years it seemed foolish to ignore his advice. Not that the money ever went to Tom - no, he had little interest in vanity goods, living a simple life with his wife in an unpretentious cottage in South Pasadena. The money went to many of Tom's causes.

Tom had become important to Everett because one doesn't put together block after block of real estate in Los Angeles without political help: zoning changes, waivers on height restrictions, ecological considerations, community pressure groups, minority interests. A lot of people looking over your shoulder, all of whom have to be won over. Everett needed a lot of political favors, and Tom very often had the personal data – their flaws, errors, missteps - in his computer, enabling Everett to convince these disparate personalities to side with him.

"Didn't you ever wonder why we treat demonstrators differently?" Tom asked, unaware of Everett's impatience. "Think of it - tough on the decent people picketing abortion clinics, but easy on homosexual demonstrations."

Everett shook his head. "No. Never really thought about it." _What the fuck is he talking about?_

"It's about God," Tom said. "It's no revelation for me to say that this is a God-less city, and the police are the last hope."

Capt. Tom Ellison: head of LAPD Organized Crime and Intelligence Division. Everett knew that Tom was used to the jokes about LAPD Intelligence as a contradiction in terms and the truth was Tom had more in his computers than even Chief Wilson Daley realized. Tom's team sucked in data and filed it away: no matter, whether official reports, unofficial surveillance or undocumented phone calls. No matter, whether it was about the liberal, gay L.A. city councilman or the conservative congressman from just over the city line in Orange County. Or a neighbor's observation about the Lakers basketball star and the teenage baby-sitter.

Everett looked from the window across the table back to Tom, whose waist was still as narrow as any boot outside rehearsing how to deal with prowlers. Tom's thinning hair, thickened by black hair spray, was neatly parted and combed across his upper forehead. Still, it looked a lot better than a few years earlier when he wore it golf pro style, the rounded Buster Brown bangs.

Everett hated police talk, hated when Tom invited him for lunch at this restaurant at the LAPD Academy. He hated it almost as much as when Tom would go on about God, or abortion, or about his church praying for Tom to become chief and bring Christianity back into the police department.

But today's meeting had been different – Everett and Tom had a problem, and Everett needed reassurance that Tom was resolving it.

"No need to worry," Tom had said, "We have a team in motion that is untraceable to us, with a leader who knows his business. It's a simple assignment., the kind of deal these boys understand. We can forget the other muddled undercover work."

"I still think the little girl had it under control," Everett said. "Jesus, that's why I'm paying her."

"The truth?" Tom said, "I never trusted her. We don't need to be more clever than the next guy. We just need our data back. These are tough boys going down there, and hopefully, there's no need for violence, but if someone gets hurt, remember, we didn't start this. This is insurance."

Tom's cell rang. He saw who was calling, and motioned for Everett to follow him outside. "Enrique from down there," he said. They stood near the house soon to be hit by an in-training SWAT team and Tom held the phone so Everett could hear.

"I just wanted you to know we're on schedule," Enrique had said. "But, the local guy you put us with, I have to tell you he is something else..."

"The guys okay?"

"Very antsy. Especially with him. Hope they stay cool, but I don't know..."

"The sooner this happens the better. I want to hear soon as possible."

"Understood. The local guy knows where they're going. We knew when they'd be arriving, and he knew they'd get lost and found them. Give him a gold star as a tour guide, but as I said, this is a strange mix; for the moment we got it working. Long term, forget it."

"If it's long term, you've failed. That understood?"

"Understood."

Everett's office phone rang and brought him back to the moment. He answered, mindful of Woody, who was still off in the living room.

"Hello," he said. It was Tom. "Any news?" Everett asked.

"Not yet, knew you were waiting for my call. We should have some news soon."

"Call me the minute it's done."

Everett hung up as Woody returned. "Everything but my office. Leave this room alone," Everett said.

# FIVE

Feeling the pressure of the pistol against the back of his head and aware of the bodies in his car Stan pulled his head slowly out of the Jag, careful not to unnerve whoever was behind him. He could still see the man in front of the Mustang looking his way. Could he help? "Back up, motherfucker," the man behind him whispered, ending that thought. Where had this guy come from? This is it – thoughts flashing through his head _– I'm going to_ _die in a Tijuana gravel parking lot. For this, I survived Baghdad. Son of a bitch behind me must have been waiting on the other side of the Toyota. Why didn't I hear him walking on the gravel? But looking at that bloody mess I could have missed a sonic boom._

"Okay," Stan said, "Whatever you want...no need..."

"Slowly, man. Back slowly." The voice had a Mexican inflection. Jesus, the gun felt cold.

Time was standing still. Death a finger squeeze away – Stan's brain plunged into overdrive. _Be calm. Work this out. What does he want? Not a drug thing. Money? No, more than money._

Stan asked, "What do you want?"

"Face against the car. Not a fuckin' move, you're fuckin' dead. Where is it?...the..."

Another voice broke in, "What's going on?"

What the fuck? thought Stan, who could feel the gun move slightly away from his head. He turned slowly.

The gun remained pointed at him, but the man's attention was drawn to the other voice coming from the car to the right. From around its rear came the huge figure of Marvin coming out of the shadows.

Reacting instinctively Stan grabbed the man's arm, shoving it away from him.

Marvin, recognizing trouble, swung a massive fist. Over-eager, his blow caught the man on the side of the head, bouncing him against the car.

His buddy, up front, began moving toward them.

Reeling from Marvin's blow, the man dropped his arm and gun to his side.

Marvin swung again.

Again, over-anxious and off-center, landing on the cheek, bouncing the man from car to car. This time the gun dropped from his hand onto the parking lot gravel, bouncing against a car tire to the right.

His buddy from the Mustang stopped about 30 feet away, not sure what was coming down, calling out, "Raoul, you okay?" leveling his pistol toward them, his view blocked by the Jaguar's open door.

Raoul held on to the side of the car unable to respond. Getting hit twice on the head from Marvin, he was lucky he was alive. Stan looked to see where the pistol fell. Raoul had the same idea, sluggishly reaching down to retrieve it. He slid to one knee, recovering enough to shout, "Give me a hand, man."

The other man advanced slowly.

The pistol was jammed against the rear wheel of the nearby car. Raoul, on his knees, groped for it. Stan raised his foot to crush his hand, but Marvin got there first, kicking him on the side of the head, getting enough of his head to propel the man halfway under the open door, head and shoulders making it through. Crawling, he dragged the rest of his body along and was up and stumbling, bouncing from car to car, trying to make it to the front and his friend.

The Mustang man grabbed him and pulled him out of harm's way, firing at the Jaguar, his bullets splashing into the car door that served as a shield. Glass exploded around them. Stan picked up the pistol. "Duck," he told Marvin, who was already crouching behind the door. The aluminum body wasn't designed as an assault vehicle and the door wasn't serving as much of a barrier for the bullets. Maybe he should write a letter to Jaguar complaining, Stan thought.

"What the fuck is going on?" Marvin asked, breathing heavily.

"Fuck knows," Stan said, slapping both hands around the pistol: a Tec-9S, a semi-automatic 9-millimeter assault pistol with a ventilated cover circling the barrel. A 32-round magazine extended about eight inches. It was hard to aim around the car door and too dangerous to raise his head to window level.

Squeezed against the open car door, Marvin crouching next to him, Stan cut loose - bullets splattering wildly into the cars parked in front, bouncing around the Mustang man, putting a crimp in his assault, as he slipped behind a car to deposit his half unconscious buddy. He signaled back to lone man in the Mustang, who was in the driver's seat.

Stan raised his head to look through the smashed window of his lovely new Jag, aimed at the Mustang and sent a cascade of shots, realizing if nothing else, he had torn the front right tire to shreds.

Very good, he thought, considering he was firing this monster for the first time. Strong recoil, but controllable. More so than the .45 that he had practiced with at the Beverly Hills Gun Club as the guest of some ad agency exec. He'd seen this baby there, so he knew what he was holding. Tec-9S or .45 – he'd never have thought he'd be on the street using either.

The pistol felt cool, the air was cool, but he became aware of the sweat on his forehead and Stan realized how badly his hand was shaking. He turned toward Marvin, who pointed to the gun, and managed, "Hey, careful." Stan lowered it. Marvin asked, "Christ, what the hell is going on?"

The shooting drew a few people outside the restaurant, and almost as if they had second thoughts about walking into the middle of some drug shoot-out they quickly returned inside. So what if they lose a tire or car window – the price of living in Tijuana today.

"This is your deal," Stan snapped at Marvin. "You tell me what's going on. Jesus, where the hell were you?"

"I told you, the men's room. Coming out, there were those guys in the Mustang. I didn't like the way it looked. There's another door near the bathroom – I went out there, walked along the side of the building and came in from the back. Shit, this is what Raphael does for a living - why isn't he here saving our asses?"

Before Stan could answer there was the roar of a motorcycle, circling the parked cars, its noise growling through the dark, flashing in front of Stan and Marvin, speeding along the rear exit lane, pumping bullets that bounced off the cars, missing both of them. There was the sound of bullets thumping into tires. Stan looked down – his rear two decimated. He returned a few shots, missed; the bike was long gone. So much for the spiffy new car.

"So, where the fuck are they - Sandy and Raphael?" Marvin's voice getting higher.

Stan wasn't sparing Marvin, just distracted by the people trying to kill them. And wondering why were they?

"Sandy, Raphael - where are they?" Marvin repeated, agitated. "You know?"

Stan nodded toward the car.

Marvin got it. He approached the rear door, bracing himself. Stan glanced toward the men, then looked back to Marvin, thinking maybe he should have prepared him.

"My God," Marvin said, backing out, leaning against the side of the car. Stunned, pale. "Who? Why?" He could hardly breath.

"Good question, Marvin."

"I should have killed the little fucker when I had the chance," Marvin sighed. "I thought he was just some punk hold-up guy."

A second car drove onto the lot with its lights out, pulling behind the Mustang. Stan thought it could have been the dark blue Cadillac from this afternoon, or maybe not. Was this a good thing? He didn't think so. Two men were seated in the front seat, the man on the passenger side stepped outside. There were now four men fanning around the lot, moving toward them. Stan fired short bursts, moving the shots counter-clockwise. The shots stopped their advancement, as they ducked behind the parked cars.

Obviously, they knew Stan had no backup clips. How long could he play this game?

Maybe someone would call the police. Another fantasy. They needed a way out. Stan's car was not it. He whispered to Marvin, "Your buddy, Raphael - which one is his?" nodding to the cars in the lot.

"Shit, who knows."

"You knew him for Christ's sake."

Marvin thought. "Red, that I remember. Red."

Marvin moved back toward the Jag, reaching inside into Raphael's right coat pocket. Coins, business cards, some change. No keys. He slipped his hand into the right pants pocket, obviously uncomfortable feeling the thigh or hip as he searched, but he pulled out a set of car keys. The key ring had a Saturn logo.

"Narrows the list," Marvin said. "How many red Saturns could there be here? He'd been a late arrival, so it had to be in the front row."

Stan bit the bullet and raised his head to scout the cars and thought he could see a red Saturn to the far right, on the opposite side of the lot where the Mustang was parked. He pointed it out to Marvin.

"Looks like it," he said. But, how do we get there?"

"Think you can fit under a car?" Stan asked. A bullet hit the windshield of the car next to them, fragmenting the glass.

The motorcycle whizzed by, the driver firing. Stan returned the fire as he raced off.

"Try me," Marvin said, kneeling on the gravel.

They looked toward the far end of the lot, knowing they would be spreading out. Reaching over the door Stan fired toward them, hoping to keep them locked down for the moment.

"Let's do it," Stan said, and got down on all fours, feeling the biting gravel; he crawled under the first car. The darkness under the chassis was a moment of peace. Marvin followed, sweating past the evening chill, struggling to flatten himself under the car. There was about an 18 inch lane between the cars, an area lighted and visible. For the moment no bullets, no flying gravel, no voices. The men were still pinned down to their left, deciding their next move.

Stan rolled quickly through the open lane to the nearby car, Marvin heaving alongside. And then the next. Moving again, Stan glanced at the other end of the lot and saw one of the group moving, realizing that if these men knew where to shoot under the cars, he and Marvin would be sitting ducks.

As if reading Stan's mind, bullets splattered under the cars near them. But the evening darkness was a gift. They can't tell where the hell we are, Stan thought. They know I have a gun; and while I may be a guy who sits in an office, it could play hell with one of their heads if that head popped under the wrong chasis. A Yuppie bullet kills like any other. Stan's reasoning must have been correct, since the men were being cautious about revealing themselves. Stan could hear the hiss of tires deflating from their random shooting, and hoped that Raphael's tires weren't among them.

Three more cars to go. Bullets sprayed around them again. Stan wanted to fire back, but caught himself, thinking he didn't dare give their position away. He rolled sideways again, Marvin behind him, the gravel biting into them inching into the darkness of car three. Marvin was breathing heavily. Propelling their bodies under the cars, the physical coupled with the stress, wasn't easy on Stan, but that much harder on someone the size of Marvin, who shoved himself to catch up. He patted the gravel looking for something. Stan turned. _What the hell was Marvin doing?_ Marvin mouthed, "my wallet." Stan waved him on.

Less than half a yard separating them from car four, both were breathing hard and sweating. Two more cars. Stan thought he heard footsteps, and jerked his head back under the car. Instead it was a bullet ricocheting off a car bumper and then the gravel, finally bouncing into the barrel of Stan's pistol, stinging his hand, jarring the pistol loose. It slid past Marvin out into the aisle they had crossed moments earlier. Shaking his stinging hand, Stan deliberated whether to go back for it. Shove Marvin after it? _Too risky. Fuck, let it go. Move instead to the next car. Be happy it was the pistol that was hit._

Marvin and Stan rolled past cars four and five. One more to go sideways. The Saturn was sitting there across the lane in front of the car to their right. A final two foot lane to slide across. Bullets were flying, the men still firing at random, cautious about where to stand without getting shot in the leg. Something narrowly missed Stan: a bullet hitting a rock and ricocheting past his head, the whizzing sound filling his ears.

Working himself up to it, he slipped into the space separating the cars and rolled quickly sideways under the car facing into the Saturn. He propelled forward past the bumpers and was finally under the Saturn. Marvin followed, with not a slice of space between them, their hair full of gravel. Wow, so we're here, Stan thought, but what now? He looked up, absorbing the steel, the grease, the tires, wishing himself inside the car.

Since the Saturn had been pulled head on, facing a Honda Accord, Stan realized that if he even got into the car and was able to start it without getting killed he wouldn't have the luxury of gunning it and driving straight out of there. No, he would have to back it into the front lane where the men were stationed, hoping he and Marvin didn't get their brains shot out, and then fly the hell out of there. All based, of course, on the dream that they were under the correct car. The good news was the Saturn tires appeared untouched by the random bullets.

The motorcycle circled the parking area, firing at random, moving too fast to zero in on anything, functioning like an animal trainer - keeping the beasts, centered.

Block the negatives, Stan thought, rolling out into the narrow space between cars to the driver's side. Holding his breath, kneeling on the gravel, he slipped the key into the lock. Was it the right car? Or the wrong car with an alarm?

Between nerves and the mist fading over the street lights, he had trouble hitting the mark and the key bounced around the lock until it finally slipped in. Still hoping it was the right car, he turned the key slowly – and heard the click. Still kneeling, he unlocked the driver's door. The men with the guns were to the left, cautiously walking the lanes.

Quietly, Stan eased the door halfway open, reaching inside quickly to tear out the overhead light. He pulled himself back out; kneeling, and motioned for Marvin to come from under the car. He crawled out into a kneeling position and Stan shoved him inside, pressing on his shoulder to keep him slumped low. As he slid across to the passenger side Stan followed, squeezing into the driver's seat, sitting low. He pulled the door gently, not entirely closed.

They were inside. Stan slumped in the seat and exhaled. Cool out there, but he was sweating even more than earlier. Still slumped, gripping the steering wheel, he slipped the key into the lock, heart beating. He could see the men wandering about in the rear view mirror. What to do?

He pulled the ash tray from the dash, and quietly pushing the door open, slipped his hand outside and filled the ash tray with the parking lot gravel. He cupped his hand over it, bracing himself. The point of no return. He stretched his arm backwards, as if throwing a hand grenade, hurling the ash tray stiff-arm over the shoulder to the opposite end of the parking area.

The gravel hit, splashing in the darkness against hoods and roofs, startling the men. They ran toward it, firing at random. Stan knew turning the key would reverse that; all hell popping their way. They had 10 seconds. God willing 15. With a silent prayer to the God of Saturn, he turned the key, the motor roared, a sound magnified in his head to a rocket launch.

He backed it out hard, wheels skidding, gravel flying, and then kicked it into drive even as they were still moving backwards. The motor whined, tires screeched, more gravel flew as the car shot forward. Bullets poured their way. Only one man had anticipated the pebbles as a ruse, and he was on his knees firing.

The others whirled around, adjusting quickly, firing a stream of bullets. The bullets pinged against metal, once, twice, three times. The car was hit; hard to tell what damage was done, but Stan had the feeling they made Swiss cheese out of the trunk, maybe the fender. Somehow, they missed the tires.

He gunned the car toward the far exit away from the men, a ten second advantage, given that the bike had been in the back lane and the Cadillac had to swerve around the limp Mustang. And in seconds the bike and dark Cadillac tore after them as the Saturn hit the street.

The procession roared onto Sanchez Taboada, a divided boulevard with an island so wide it almost looked like a park. Stan was pushing this Saturn to the moon, and fortunately, traffic, moving in his direction was flowing easily on the three lanes, allowing him to weave around the cars with little problem. Stan could see if he continued to the end of Taboada they would be caught in the backed up border traffic. Back to ducking under cars.

Through the trees they could see the reverse flow of traffic. How to get there and slip through it?

There was a cross-street ahead. Stan swerved into the left lane and screeched onto the short street, facing a red light.

His choices were limited – behind him were screeching of tires and the roar of the bike hitting the cross street.

Ahead, were three lanes of flowing traffic. The facing light, still red. Stan braked slightly, as he approached the stream of cars, leaning on the horn, picking up a crack of space across the first two lanes, in front of two trucks. He hit the gas, horn, flicked his lights and tore through the red light, fighting through the first two lanes, the third lane giving way at the last minute. Brakes squealing, the car on the inside lane, trying to avoid them, swerved left onto the cross street, over the curb, slamming against a tree. Horns honked.

They made it through onto a continuation of the cross street, Ortega, tearing down Ortega for a block. The parade still behind them, tires screeching. Stan turned left onto Ocampo, a street of small houses, cars parked solidly along the curb.

His high beams splashed ahead, showing that Ocampo petered out of pavement in the next block, turning into a dirt road. Maybe he could lose them in the dust. A thought interrupted by the roar of a car on their right. A parked car came to life and shot out, the moron behind the wheel cutting Stan off, narrowly missing the Saturn's front fender, and speeding off. Stan swerved to avoid him. The car, a dark Pontiac, raced through the stop sign on the corner, continuing ahead on the street that was dissolving into dust and gravel. It maintained its speed, leaving in its wake thick swirls of a dark trail.

Stan hit the corner, looked at the dust ahead and made a decision, turning off the car lights. Instead of going straight ahead, he made a left turn, passing a few parked cars, jerking to a stop and parking in front of a parked truck.

"The fuck are you doing?" Marvin shouted, coming to life.

"Down. Get down," Stan shouted back. "Those assholes hit that corner, they'll see the Pontiac tear-assing up ahead. All that dust - it has to be us. Of course, they don't buy it, we're fucking dead."

"Thanks," Marvin nodded.

They watched through the rear view mirror in silence. The bike and car hit the corner simultaneously. A moment of hesitation, looking left and right, then ahead, seeing the cloud of dust, they made their decision. The bike raced ahead, the car following.

"Teach that bastard to cut us off," Marvin said, exhaling. "What now?"

"I figure we bought ourselves 30 seconds."

# SIX

Mariano was not happy drag racing his Cadillac on the half-ass back streets of Tijuana, dust pouring out from under his recently polished car. He gripped the wheel, trying to see through the cloud ahead of him, making out the tail-lights of a car, who was parked half on the sidewalk. He raced ahead to where his man on the motorcycle stood next to it, waving a pistol at the driver. Braking to a stop, Mariano could see through the swirling dust to the car, a Pontiac. A fucking Pontiac. Outmaneuvered. And in his city.

It hit everyone in the Cadillac. The wrong car. Enrique, in the passenger seat, punched his fist into his hand, the boys in the back seat, cursing.

Mariano shouted at Enrique. "Exactly what I warned you about." He pounded the steering wheel. "Trouble for no goddamned purpose. Car chases like in the fucking movies. How do you kill people for no reason? What happened to the plan for the hotel?"

Not waiting for an answer he turned the car around. "They won't be foolish enough to try for the border and sit on line, but we better make sure."

The car sped south and Enrique stared at the passing streets, trying to assess what had happened. His three street hoods over-reacting. He had given them the plan; they'd gone over it, scout the target in the restaurant and pick them up later at the hotel, but they reverted to their fucking roots: shoot first. He and Mariano should never have let them go to the restaurant by themselves. Their explanation was they could speed up things by going after the guy as he leaves the restaurant, and naturally, he pulls his gun, so they kill him and the woman. Morons. Saddled on him by that fuck-head in the police department, Tom Ellison.

Enrique had been trapped into this deal by ego. Tom had met with him, mentioned that he had Enrique's military history in his computer - he knew Enrique had no rap sheet, but his men on the street knew of him. They were positive he'd scored with military finesse on two robberies in the downtown Los Angeles jewelry district. And who knew what else? No evidence or clues tied him to any crimes, but on the street, there was word about him. Nothing more.

Tom had called him in and said that Enrique was clean as far as the LAPD was concerned, but because of his reputation he had a deal for him, one that would allow Enrique to retire for life. Tom had three guys from the streets that would work with him, hard cases, but controllable.

A sergeant in the barrio had been feeding Tom the info. No telling what the barrio was feeding the sergeant, Enrique thought. Hispanic sergeant, so he should know. Like Anglo cops know what's going on in the Anglo world.

"All the planning in the world for shit," Enrique said, turning to the back seat. . Raoul, sitting in the rear between Rico and Carlos, was still feeling the effects of being kicked in the head. He looked at Rico who had run from the Mustang to help him, and Carlos, who had been at the wheel in the Mustang.

Feeling the anger from in front, Raoul leaned forward to explain, "It made sense at the time. It was just the girl and the guy who came in late – one of them was supposed to have it. We wanted to do it quick and dirty. We're standing by the Jag and they walk into our hands. Fuck, if he doesn't pull a piece. Who expected that? So, Rico and I have no choice, right? The chick with him then pulls out her piece. What the fuck? So again, no choice. Clip 'em. We shove them in the car and I started going through the luggage. It's too crowded, so Rico goes up front to the Mustang and is supposed to signal me, blink that flashlight if the other guy comes out. We didn't want a crowd back there. So Rico signals and I grab the guy - I have the asshole stuffed against the car. But, then no signal when the fucking third guy shows. A fuckin' monster. Where'd he come from? We didn't want too many guys around their car, but I guess we should have had Rico back there with me. Jesus Christ."

The Caddy hit the border facing the chaos of 32 backed up car lanes. Mariano kept his car to the rear and told his man on the motorcycle to try a fast check. He spun off, went up and down the aisles and returned, shaking his head and Mariano told him to stay and watch for them. He didn't expect to find them – the two men would know they'd be sitting ducks on those long lines.

As the Cadillac drove away the border noise was pierced by the police and ambulance sirens coming from the direction of El Abajeno.

Mariano pulled his car to an abrupt stop in front of a building that he owned a few blocks from the center of town, one block behind the Fronton Palacio, Tijuana's historic, now silent jai alai stadium. The building, on Hidalgo, near Negrete, was listed in the city records under the name of Mariano's cousin in Chicago, to whom Mariano sent a check every few months.

He stormed out of the car, shouting at the others. "I have some people who know their business. My people. To hit the streets." Enrique and his men followed him into the building.

They entered Mariano's War Room, more like two wars back in history. A few land phones, which was nothing to sneer at in a city where the norm is a six-month waiting period for phone installation. If not for cell phones, nobody would ever talk to anybody in Mexico. The room included a few two-way radios, along with a personal computer, TV set, a small kitchen, a few velour couches, a book case with how-to books, such as how to make a bomb, Crime Lab Exercises and charts breaking down the various law enforcement agencies in the U.S. It was little more than a warehouse, but he strutted through it like he was walking through the briefing room of the CIA.

"I am beyond anger, more like despair at this point," Mariano said, his anger taking a turn toward drama. "My operations have always been efficient and bloodless. There might be threats, bribes or extortion, but in the end the deals work, everybody profits. But, tonight was a disaster. Insanity. You people would rather kill than succeed."

There was no reaction from the quartet. Instead, they watched one of Mariano's men whose telephone was pinned between his shoulder and ear as he marked up a map of Tijuana. Not a slick transparent plastic one, like in the war rooms they'd seen in the movies; no, this was a blown up paper version of a tourist map, with streets missing, and framed by ads for curio shops. The man was having a difficult time trying to locate streets that weren't on the map and was shouting constantly into the phone, "Quel calle?" "Adonde?" "Circa de que?"

Since there was no reaction from the boys, Mariano jabbed his large yellow pencil angrily on the tourist map, breaking off its point on the graphic marking the restaurant, El Abajeno. "I didn't have to work with you," he said, throwing the pencil away. "It was a request from the people in Los Angeles." Mariano looked around the room, no reaction. "You boys are pretty smart. So maybe you don't need me. It should be interesting to see how far you get on your own."

Finally, a voice, Rico: "Keep fuckin' with us, you know how we did those two in the parking lot."

"A threat?" shouted Mariano. "You'll be lobster bait." He nodded to the perimeter of the room - eight men against the wall, pistolas tucked in their belts.

"Your barrio is tough? Ask these muchachos about their childhood. Your poverty is their fantasy." Mariano stopped. Again, little reaction from Enrique's team. "But they have respect."

Mariano stared at each of the four men. "Anything happens to me these tigers win a bonus from my attorney when they go to L.A. to kill you. And they all have relatives there who know the streets. It's no easy bonus - they bring your heads back to collect."

Enrique, still sitting, held his hand up, silencing the group. "Okay, everything's been fucked. But..." He paused: the men waited. He turned toward Mariano. "Killing those two wasn't planned, wasn't a short cut - it happened because that guy pulled a piece on them. Your deal was information – you should have known he was carrying. We knew that, we could be out of here tonight, everybody alive and happy."

Enrique stood up, looking at Rico. "Laugh at Mariano again, those eight tough guys will be rolling dice for our car."

Dignity restored, Mariano enjoyed the moment.

Enrique walked over to Mariano, put his arm around his neck and in one swift motion, reached into his pocket, pulled out a .357 Magnum, popped the barrel into Mariano's ear, and said, "But, you threaten us again, and everybody dies. But you first."

Enrique slapped the Magnum back into his pocket. "Now, let's get back on the street, find those assholes and make us a lot of money."

"That gun in the ear shit - not so cute," Mariano said, rubbing his ear. "Okay, forget it. Let's start all over, maybe we end this in a hurry."

Mariano looked around his war room, thinking what it should have been when he had recruited that engineering professor from the Universidad de Mexico, who had fled to Tijuana after a fling with the wrong politician's wife, and was thankful for any favors, such as a little hideaway, some food, some protection, a few pesos. Unfortunately, the man was paranoid, certain that he'd been tracked down and was soon across the border, leaving in limbo Mariano's visions of technological grandeur in his war room.

# SEVEN

So, we escaped, Stan thought. What the hell, now? The flicker of exhilaration, dissipating. Flicking on the lights he drove aimlessly, making a U-turn and going the wrong way on one-way Hidalgo, driving cautiously to Negrete, where he turned onto Carillo Puerto, and seconds later into the heavy traffic of the tourist street, Avenida Revolucion. There were tourists on the street, fewer than before the drug wars, but still a wave of them, mostly American, a few Europeans.

Marvin stared at the passing crowd, talking low, more to himself, "My fucking fault - Sandy and Raphael. I shouldn't have brought her along. Jesus Christ. What happened?"

"Like a cartel fight," Stan said, eyes following the street's tourist flow.

"Let's get out, maybe get lost in the crowd," Marvin said.

Stan glanced at Marvin. "Like they won't be able to spot you – check yourself."

Marvin was silent.

They had to stop, think, relax for a few minutes, and Stan turned left off Revolucion onto Calle 6, Sixth Street, found a space and parked. A few tourists drifted by, plastic bags of Tijuana memories in their hands, on their way to their cars, passing the side street craft stores that were closed for the night. The rumble of Revolucion, behind them, Sixth Street was dark and quiet. They sat quietly, the tension draining, a slight tremor in Stan's hands as he cut off the motor.

Neither said anything; both replaying the last half hour, and thinking ahead. Should they separate. Easy enough for Stan to assimilate into the tourist flow relieved of the huge presence of Marvin. Maybe, maybe not. It wasn't that Stan felt he owed Marvin anything. Any good reason would do.

"Marvin, the truth? This some drug thing - you pissed off the wrong people? That wasn't a goddamned robbery - they didn't even bother with Raphael's Rolex. Is this about him – his being an ex-L.A. cop? This, some drug shit?"

"Lay off, will you," Marvin said. He looked foolish, huge as he was, that dark beard circling his face. Hard to take him seriously. Even now. "Those were friends, good friends. Good people. Mangled, like that. I know what you're thinking. You could slip away in a minute. And I don't blame you. Go."

Stan jumped. Not at Marvin's offer, but at the sound of sirens ripping through the night. The carnage at El Abajeno had the police on a tear..

"Poor Sandy and Raphael," Marvin said. He rubbed a giant knuckle against his eye. "We can't just leave 'em there." And then, as if remembering, he slapped himself across the hip, reaching into his rear pocket. "Damn it," he said.

"What now?"

"My wallet. Passport."

And then remembering, "Oh, no. Shit."

Stan stared at him. "Back in the gravel?"

"Where else?"

"Marvin, what's the story?"

"Just as I said. We were supposed to meet at El Abajeno, go to the hotel, check the DVDs, listen to his pitch, and that's it." He had the seat backed as far as it could go and sprawled back in it. "Let's get the fuck out of here and go back home."

Stan rolled that around in his mind. "It would be nice."

"Meaning?"

"It's not going to be as easy as all that." For one thing, you don't have a passport. That's a U.S. problem. Not that big a deal. The other is, our Mexican problem - they have to think we're heading for the border. Logical. It's what we should do. So, they'll be there waiting for us, checking the lines - but why us? We aren't that big a deal."

"Has to be about Raphael, maybe the stuff on the other DVD. Maybe, they think we have them. Hell, I don't know." He sighed, looked around, continued, "How do you know they'll be at the border?"

"How would I? But, if they are, it's over. Saturday night and the border traffic is sure to be backed up for maybe 45 minutes. Lots of time for them to go up and down those lines and pick us out."

"There has to be a way out for Christ's sake."

"What about the police station?" Stan said. "Explain to them. The people in the restaurant knew we weren't having problems with each other."

"Only if you never want to get home," Marvin said. "Two Americans dead - they'll hold us till they find out what's going on. And since we're Americans, and haven't paid off anybody, who knows how long."

"So nobody goes to the police here?"

"Nobody. The Mexican legal system is based on ancient Spanish codes built up over fucking centuries. A person charged is guilty until he can prove himself innocent. If we go to the police and they hold us, since there are two bodies in your car, we'd wind up in prison to wait for our hearing, probably end up dead. They don't have to hire a prisoner to do it, one of the guards. There's no jury system in Mexico. A presiding judge rules on guilt or innocence. And since the average state magistrate gets a lower salary than the kid who plays Dopey in Disneyland the temptation level is pretty high."

"How do you know all this?"

"It's called, knowing your neighbor. I did some consulting work for some guys who headed south abruptly, and were being held here. They called me; I spoke to a lawyer, who brought me up quickly on the local rules. I realized later they'd probably called their lawyer first before calling me, thinking I might know some angle. I turned around and went home. Quickly. The irony is Mexico doesn't have a death penalty – that, is the government can't kill you, but everybody else can."

"Okay, no police," Stan said. "If our only problem was the passport, it would be a hassle with Customs, but, at least, we'd be safe. Even if they got word about the murders it would be resolved – the problem is getting that far, getting past these assholes." He pulled out the tourist brochure he had picked up at the bar, and glanced at the sketchy map of Tijuana, a map of few details, but enough to give him an idea. Shoving it back into his pocket, he started the car and pulled out.

"Where we going?"

"Let's see how the lines are at the border."

They drove through the streets slowly, hoping not to call attention to the car, not much of a concern on Avenida Revolucion amid the glare of neon, along with the yesteryear musical blur of Metallica, OutKast. Emminem and Narco favorites Los Tigres and Mario Quintero. The tourist activity wasn't lessening as the street moved into evening, but its demographics were changing: brave yuppies replaced by college age couples and civvie-clad sailors and Marines from the bases in San Diego and Oceanside, the new tourist night life of Tijuana. They passed what used to be the Tijuana Hard Rock Café, closed by the tourist decline. The drug war headlines had hurt business – tourist activity was off by a large margin, but Saturday night was still fairly flush.

Ahead was the start of the highway overpass leading to the United States border entry point. The maze of traffic returning to the United States often began on the overpass, wending its way slowly down to the 32 lines spread across the flat concrete meadow in front of the gates. Stan had never seen it this bad: the lines leading to the border, corkscrewed back onto the overpass with feeder lines flowing from the adjacent streets.

A sea of brake lights made more surreal by police sirens blaring with such consistency that they blended into one long nightmarish piercing sound.

_With two Americans shot to death amid a field of shredded tires and evidence of a gun battle, why wouldn't the Tijuana authorities be on the move?_ Motorcycle police were pouring onto the overpass, slipping in between the backed up autos, and down onto the approach leading to the United States entry point.

"We can assume by now the police have your billfold and my Jag registration," Stan said, driving off. "So, everybody's on our ass. Let's get some perspective." He pointed to the hill on the east side of the border. Getting there was the problem. Based on the map in the tourist brochure, he was driving on Paseo de Los Heroes, to Independencia.

"Damn," Marvin shouted, as flashing cherries and police sirens rushed up behind the Saturn with such urgency there was no choice but for Stan to pull over to the right. But the police then swerved to the right to pass, and Stan cut back to the center lane as the cars steamed by, lights blazing, sirens blasting, flying off into the dark. .

"Adios," Stan said, as the lights receded. "A shame to ruin their evening, finding us and having to cut off those flashing lights and sirens." He continued to a traffic circle, going left onto Avenida Padre Kino, which reversed their path, flowing north to the border, running parallel to the border traffic, a wall setting it apart. Padre Kino ended against a 15 foot high thickly linked chain fence defining the border. Just before the fence was the last cross street in Mexico. At its corner an office building looked onto the border traffic. Behind it, as the hill rose, was a used car dealer. How do you explain Tijuana?

Marvin looked around. "Where are we?"

"Going up the hill – taking that street behind the office building."

Marvin shook his head, slipped down in his seat, as they passed the only construction on a street with no name, an abandoned shack made of mud bricks, walls of wood painted blue, with a roof of green corrugated plastic. On a chipped slab of concrete was the address: 324 Tenampa. Why the owner had chosen that number, or the street name, only he could have answered.

"This is the worst fucking night and the worst fucking drive of my life," Marvin said. "Let's get out of here."

"A couple of minutes," Stan said, turning onto the dusty street carved upwards into the hill; its left side, with no guard rail, no barrier, facing down onto the city, the hill's only illumination pouring up from the lights below. Driving slowly on the narrow road, passing no other cars or buildings. A tight curve to the right loomed ahead and cautious about what surprises the Tijuana Department of Public Works might have in store, Stan eked his way around the curve slowly, stunned as he came out of the turn. Ahead the street dead-ended onto a wide plateau bathed in a mid-day brightness from the bustle below.

The border's chain link fence was a few hundred yards ahead staggering up the hill from below, passing their road and continuing above. At the end of the road a number of men and women were milling in front of the fence, turning to look at the car, but keeping their distance.

The border crossing lay below, the glare from thousands of headlights of waiting cars augmented by the eight long, graceful light towers hovering over the area. At the best of times the wait is over 30 minutes. In years past, the United States Border Guards would wave most cars through with only a brief discussion: questions about place of birth and purchases. More important than the answers were mannerisms, accents, behavior profiles and license plate numbers punched into the computer consoles. If something was awry the driver was waved onto a second inspection point inside the gate. Since 9/11 the process had become more deliberate, the lines longer. Add the new need for passports and those augmented drivers licenses.

Stan assumed the U.S. Customs and Patrol officers had been notified of the killings – there was too much intelligence in the area: two Americans dead; who did it? Was there another shoe to drop? Was this a drug thing? A terrorism thing? Conversations at the gate would be taking even longer, as the customs agents scanned the cars, looking for the gesture, the reaction that might send red flags waving. The tension at the gates had escalated since the San Diego media reported that corruption at the border wasn't only the province of Mexican law enforcement. The stories were that 40% of all U.S. Department of Homeland Security workers were under suspicion of corruption. The drug smuggling climate was so bad that American inspectors at both San Diego gates, San Ysidro (which lay below) and Otay Mesa (a few miles to the east) weren't being told their lane assignments ahead of time, and were not allowed to use cell phones while on duty.

The motorcycles of the Mexican police were weaving up and down through the lines of waiting cars. They talked to some of the departing tourists, occasionally waving a man out of his car to better check him out. Stan's guess was they'd be looking for bullet holes in the cars. "If we only knew what the hell was going on down there," he said.

"What do you think?"

"Depends. How much do the police know about us? Are they looking for a Saturn? Do they know our license number? Are there any witnesses? Do they know anything?"

"Shit, the police couldn't have that information that fast - let's go for it," Marvin said.

"Might work. The cops may have scared off the guys chasing us. We could pull ourselves together, get on line, get past the cops, get to Customs, deal with them about the passport. Better them than those maniacs looking for us. Very fucking possible."

They looked each other over. "The clothes don't seem too rough," Marvin said. "We can dust off the gravel. No blood anywhere."

"Marvin, we look like shit."

Marvin looked down at his clothes. "Hey," he said, "The clothes I wear in L.A., gravel could be seen as an accessory."

# EIGHT

Straining to take in the details below, Stan asked, "By some miracle, any binoculars in the glove department?"

Marvin checked, poking around. "No. No binoculars." Slamming the small door shut, he said, "But, good chance he has a camera with a telephoto lens. Hit the trunk button."

Marvin ran to the trunk, fished around Raphael's overnight bag, and came back with an expensive looking camera case, handing it to Stan. "Raphael had two hobbies – shooting, "Cameras and guns."

Stan screwed on a 600mm lens to the body of the Konica-Minolta and peered through the eyepiece. Instantly, the field of cars was in the front seat.

Incredible, like being there. Motorcycle cops were in action. One motioned for two men to step out of their car. He checked their I.D.s, looked inside and waved them back into the car. But there was another bike cop, trailing the first one that caught Stan's eyes.

"The motorcycle guy from El Abajeno," he said to Marvin, pointing him out and handing him the camera. "Which means the other animals are also here."

Marvin waved the camera away. "I'll take your word for it," he said. "What about walking across? We dump the car."

"Let's see," Stan said, pointing the camera view-finder at the pedestrian overpass, which began on the west side of the border where the Mexican cabs discharged their passengers. The overpass dropped down onto an island amid the traffic, and pedestrians weaved through eight lanes of waiting cars to the sidewalk on the east side. A tunnel passageway led to the U.S. Immigration and Customs Building. If they could get into that tunnel they'd be home free, and somehow, deal with the passport problem.

Stan had to get out of the car to get the angle. "The cops must be really pissed – they never move this fast," he said, handing the camera to Marvin, who peered through the eyepiece.

Directly below pedestrians were waiting to cross into the United States. Three desks in front of the tunnel, a long line leading to them. Men in Mexican uniforms, police, army, federales were checking identification at the entrance to the passageway. Two men with rifles standing behind them. Marvin shook his head. "Damn," he muttered. "Mexico never checks people leaving – pedestrians or cars. Never." He moved the camera to the right and jerked back. "All the bad press they've been getting – wouldn't they love to get their hands on us."

"Who wouldn't?" Stan said. "We've become everybody's game."

"God damn," Marvin whispered, lowering the camera, "This is really cute." He looked ahead toward the chain link fence. "That border is calling to me," he said. "Maybe we should try wet-backing it, hop the fence."

Aiming the camera Stan could see through the chain link fence, and beyond, into the U.S. side. He told Marvin there was a white and green Border Patrol Chevy Bronco waiting for someone to make a move.

"Still worth thinking about," Marvin said, "At least, we can deal with the American legal system."

Looking through the camera, Stan said, "Yeah, but the trick is getting to the fence." A few fierce-looking locals were beginning to pay attention to the car, pointing in their direction. Marvin grabbed the camera: "Coyotes? Still, can't be as bad as the guys after us."

"They'll eat us alive. We're out of here," Stan said, turning on the motor.

Camera to his eye, Marvin stared at the men who made their living smuggling illegals into the United States, considering the horror stories surrounding them - coyotes letting the innocents suffocate in locked trucks, stranding them in the desert, murdering them. "You're right," Marvin said, "Move it. They're headed this way."

"How close?"

"Jesus, just go. They're spreading out. Not only do they get the bonus for our bodies, but a new American car."

The trick was the U-Turn. Stan tensed, with infinity beckoning the front wheels – miss the turn, hello Thelma and Louise, but he maneuvered it, and swung around the curve with its blocked view of the road ahead. No lights coming this way, so he assumed no car. Wrong. A weary, 2001 yellow Ford LTD was limping its way up, dim low beams, hugging close to the hillside.

Stan was gambling on space. Not much of a decision, since the hill went straight down on the right, with no barrier to indicate how close they were to the edge, better to hit the Ford than take the swan dive.

The Saturn's high beams flashed on the couple in the opposite car, the lights playing against their startled expressions, passing so closely it was hard to miss the young woman groping to pull up her panties.

The car passed, dust swirled in the glare of the Saturn's headlights, and Marvin swung his head around to see through the dust behind them. "Saved the fuckin' day," he said, as the old Ford sent the advancing coyotes spinning to the side of the road.

Marvin opened the window as they rode down the hill, listening to the sirens wail through the damp air, the mist weaving them together. He asked, "What about the other crossing, over in Otay Mesa."

Stan knew the place. "Not any better," he said. "Fifteen miles east of here, with only one road leading there. You get there, there's only three lanes feeding into the border. Mostly Mexicans crossing - not that many tourists. Easy to spot us. And usually just as backed up as this."

"You really know this?"

"I definitely know this. I was there not long ago. Warmweather was thinking of outsourcing some packaging down here. I had to come down. It wasn't going to work. Weren't set up for it. It was pretty busy down here for a while, with these maquiladores, before the bottom fell out, and a lot of their business – assembling TVs, making underwear - moved on to Malaysia and China. That's why NASA is checking out Mars. Might be some green guys working for less."

Marvin was being patient. "So, no Otay Mesa?"

"They've probably got someone there, and the police sure as hell do. If we didn't have to worry about the assholes recognizing us this wouldn't be much of a problem - all we'd need were a couple of passports with different names to show the Mexican border guys; then, home."

As they swung around the curves, descending quickly there was a bump in the back seat. Stan reached behind with one hand, groping.

"Jesus, you're all over the road," Marvin yelled. "What are you looking for?"

"Something bouncing around back there," reaching behind again, before looking to the right – a long drop down and no guard rails. Both hands went back on the wheel.

"Just drive - I'll look," Marvin said, reaching behind, and surfacing with a shoulder bag, which he dropped onto his lap. "What've we got here?"

He reached inside and pulled out two DVDs in plastic cases, staring at them as if they dropped through the roof. "God Damn," he said, staring at them.

Stan took his eyes off the hillside road. "Jesus, let's hope they're worth this weekend in hell?"

Marvin continued staring at them.

"Any indication what's on them?"

"No, I only know what he said, something that affects us. One of them, anyway. All he'd say it pretty much shows how we got set up."

"But, they're encoded, he told you – so, how are we going to look at them? He must have had something in mind."

"Pull over," Marvin said. "Hit the trunk button again."

He leaped out of the car, rummaged in the trunk, slammed it shut and ran back to the car waving what looked like one of those new sleek Audiovox portable DVD players. In the other hand he had a couple of cables and a remote. "Thought I saw this earlier."

"Looks like any commercial player," Stan said, pulling the car back onto the road, and into a series of turns.

"We're not talking about some high tech thing. There's simply a decoding system in the software."

It was about 10" by 8," a couple of inches thick. Marvin dropped it into the shoulder pack.

"How'd he get the DVDs?"

Before Marvin could answer they were on Padre Kino moving into the flow of the city.

# NINE

The Saturn came down from the hill, plunging into auto Looney Tunes, slipping into a traffic circle of weaving and honking, before escaping into an older residential area, and moments later once again onto Avenida Revolucion. The media reports of the drug violence may have cut down on the volume of tourists, but there was still an energy on the street. And no diminishing of the sirens in the background.

Stan repeated the question, "How'd he get the DVD's?"

A still dazed Marvin answered in a monotone, "From an ex-cop at LAPD, the guy's dying of AIDS. He got fired, got pissed and stole them?"

"In L.A.? In L.A. you can't get fired because of AIDS."

"Getting fired was the easy way for him to leave. The way his boss feels about gays he might have burned him at the stake. It's some police captain - he runs intelligence, knows everything about everybody, and got most of it on tape or in his computer."

"Any idea what's on these?"

Marvin waved his head, "I told you before, I don't know." He continued digging in the bag , and stopped. "What's this?" He pulled out a .38 semi-automatic pistol, dangling it from the tip of its barrel.

"Jesus, is it loaded?"

"Well, he was a cop," Marvin said, raising the pistol, checking the chamber: empty. He checked the magazine: full. He slapped it back in, dropping the pistol into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a couple of back-up magazines, dropped them back in the bag.

Marvin held up the DVDs, trying read the typewritten tags in the passing light. The only notations were: #2033 Property of LAPD and #2076 Property of LAPD.

"They'd better be hot to be worth all this" Stan said. "But, why Raphael – why'd the kid go to him?

"They knew each other from when Raphael was still working, that Raphael had a hard-on for the captain. The kid came across our tape first and remembered Raphael and me were friends; it gave him the idea how he could really rip that captain. Ours was minor stuff, so he dug out the other DVD which goes way beyond us. The plan was he'd help us if we help him – get both DVDs to the media and nail the asshole."

"And the plan is really working."

"Well, this wasn't the plan."

"What bullshit. First we get screwed facing the U.S. Attorney, and screwed again when someone tries to help us. Now we take on the LAPD and the dregs of Tijuana. Nice."

They were on Articulo, a quiet neighborhood street, its row of small businesses closed, a few with metal shutters pulled down over their windows and entrances. Halfway down the street Stan pulled into a parking space and looked at the DVDs. "Be funny if there's nothing here but some old Angelina Jolie movies."

"Like they killed two people and blew out enough tires to cause a run on Goodyear stock for some chic flicks." Marvin slipped the videos back into the bag.

They sat there appreciating the quiet of this dark street. Ahead of them a car traveling on the cross street, Avenida Martinez, pulled up to the corner. A man's head came out of the window. "Looks familiar," Stan said.

Marvin reacted. "Christ, the directions guy."

The man waved at a young boy on the street. Another man stepped out of the passenger side of the car.

"And the prick that was near the Mustang," said Marvin. They slumped back in their seats, trying to cope with the possibility that everybody in Tijuana could be linked. The Mustang man talked briefly to the young boy, giving him a handful of bills. And then they were gone.

"A lot of trouble for Angelina," Marvin said.

Stan just stared ahead. Was this really about these DVD's? If so, which one, or both? Couldn't we just give them the damned things and go on our way? Or maybe get lost for a day until somebody in L.A. could bring us a couple of passports? What about those new drivers' licenses that Homeland Security had for the Washington – Canadian border – they now had them for California – Mexico.

"Tomorrow may be a little cooler, the next day, more so," Stan told Marvin.

"Mexico is not going to keep the border tight like it is - and these thugs will give it up. Maybe they think we've already crossed. Or, we can go east, maybe drive to Mexicali, or dump the car and just climb a fence along the way. Or, hop a plane to Puerto Vallarta, and then home." He was rolling on free association. "Maybe not fly. We'd need tourist visas at the airport, especially if we tried to fly into the interior. But, the rest is possible. Very possible. New passports, and we're out of here. Could happen tomorrow."

Marvin just stared at him. "Tomorrow? How do we stay alive till then? New passports? Like we're in the CIA."

The boy was facing in the other direction and Stan pulled the car out slowly, the lights off, backing up to a cross street, something named, Mutualismo, spun the car around and took off heading south.

"We can't just keep cruising," Marvin said. "Sooner or later someone will spot us. We need a motel. Small, simple. Make some phone calls. Track anybody who can help us. Maybe, change our clothes, change our looks."

Redo Marvin? Why not, Stan thought. Find a drug store, then some motel. They had to get off the street.

Driving aimlessly, since he had no idea where he was going, Stan turned onto a busy boulevard, Paseo de Los Trabajadores. Tijuana was a city of business and it would continue: sleek trucks from the remaining maquiladores, huge, canvas covered ranch trucks bearing tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, and shiny new trucks from breweries. American dollars. No tampering with that.

At the corner of Avenida Independencia was El Mercado M. Hidalgo. Marvin pointed to it, a neighborhood Mexican market, part outdoors, part indoors, within a sprawling building. Busy, but local. Surely, they had a drug store. Razors, hair dye.

Stan pulled onto a side street of small businesses, auto repairs, plumbing supplies, wholesale garden equipment, all closed, finding a parking space between the many driveways. The entrance to the market was around the corner, but the voices and music seeped from the building onto this dark, empty street.

Marvin started to get out, but Stan stopped him. "Marvin, you can't come in. Those women over there don't come up to your belt buckle. Sirens will go off."

Marvin closed the door, and stared ahead.

"I'm not ragging on you, but...why risk it. I know what we need."

Marvin nodded his head, "Okay, I'll wait. Don't be long. Not my favorite street."

The earlier mist was turning into a gloomy chill, and Stan buried his hands in his jacket pockets. Turning the corner, he entered the market. A world in motion. Noisy, bold colors, signs in pinks and blues. The interior of the long, concrete building held rows of vendors selling flowers, vegetables, unrefrigerated beef on wooden blocks, caged live chickens, plastic toys and a pinata of former Mexican favorite, Super Raton, or Mighty Mouse. Spices, charcoal, meat grilling on braziers, sweetly-flavored liquids to be poured over shaved ice, blended into one heady aroma.

The vendors were hustling - men flirting with prospective female customers, women vendors joking with the men. Children being carried, dragged and shoved. The music was an old mariachi tape. It seemed a good-natured place.

The customers, of varying ages, were modestly dressed, mostly women, many wearing aprons, the lower end of the economic scale. There was a farmacia at the far end. What stood out: no Americans.

Trying to blend in, Stan moved slowly through the crowd, enveloped by the volume of people and the noise: vendors shouting, radios everywhere with their endless stream of basso announcers blaring radio commercials, melding into the sounds of a Mexico City variety show on TV sets around the market.

For the moment he was at ease.

Which ended quickly - the many TVs and their variety shows were interrupted, screens across the market blasting out a newsbreak.

He slowed to watch the TV set on a nearby meat counter. Video coverage of an ambulance transferring two bodies from his car and interviews with some faces Stan recognized from the restaurant. His Spanish was not good enough to keep up with the announcer, but no missing the point - two Americans dead, two being sought for questioning. Everybody involved were NorteAmericanos. NorteAmericanos – the announcer loved the sound of the words. Not the usual report.

The TV set was tilted to enable the butcher and the customers to watch. Since there were no customers at the moment the butcher was staring at it intently, shaking his head.

"Americanos," he said, then interrupting himself. "Dimencia, no?" Insanity.

Stan nodded, agreeing.

The man slapped the meat on the counter and called to some passing women. He looked briefly at Stan, then decided to concentrate on the women.

Stan had to get on with it, and slipped into the drug store, making his selections, paying with American dollars, scooping up his change and splitting.

Holding a couple of plastic bags, he checked his watch: 7:45. A sign indicated an exit to the right. It appeared to be a short cut to the side street where the car was parked.

Entering a long concrete corridor, dimly lit: maybe not such a good idea. As with much Mexican commercial lighting, it seemed low priority. But, it was a market and should be okay.

A sound behind him. He spun around. The tap of footsteps, but no one there; he continued walking, occasionally turning. Someone against the wall? Hard to tell in the dim light. His imagination was in overdrive. He picked up the pace.

Finally reaching outside he relaxed in the darkness, hugging his arms to beat the chill settling in. A man in his late 20s, cell phone to his ear, leaning on a parked car, stared at him. Two chipped front teeth, hair over-greased, he looked like a rat in jeans. One hand was in his denim jacket pocket.

He turned slightly, nailheads on the back of his jacket spelling out the name of the Mexican punk band, Los Muertos.

"You need directions, senor?" He slipped his cell phone in his pocket, his English with only the slightest accent.

I really need this, thought Stan. "Thanks, but I'm going to my car." The man walked toward Stan.

"We just want to be of assistance."

"We?" Stan turned - the imaginary figure behind him had caught up. Tall, razor-thin, dressed in rubbery-looking, cheap leather pants and jacket. Very delicate looking, almost feminine. Right hand in pocket, the man nodded.

He should have taken Raphael's gun, Stan thought. Where the hell was Marvin? The street seemed even darker than earlier. Certainly quieter. The only sound was the rush of traffic on Los Trabajadores, a block away, the occasional siren in the distance. It had become cooler, definitely cooler with a pronounced mist.

"This is Alfonso," the first man said. "People call me Doggy."

Definitely a problem. "Nice to meet you, but...," interrupted by Doggy, "We'll walk you to your car."

"No need. I'm fine."

Doggy removed his hand from his pocket, showing a pocket knife that sprung open into a four inch blade catching what little light there was on the street.

"Hey, this is crazy," Stan said, standing still.

"Only your money," Doggy said. "We get it we don't hurt you." A moment of silence, and he continued, "I'm not so mean, but, Alfonso - he - what's the word - enjoys?"

Alfonso nodded.

"Si, Alfonso enjoys carving. A monster, that man."

Alfonso smiled. The idiot.

It couldn't be – not after their brilliant Matt Damon escape – to be trapped by two lucky half-wits, ready to rob him, hopefully, only to rob. "Okay. The money, no problem." Where the hell was Marvin?

# TEN

Alfonso moved swiftly, wrapping his arm around Stan's neck, holding in his other hand the acrylic handle of a cheap switch blade, its point against Stan's throat.

"Goddammit, I told you, you could..." Stan screamed.

"Alfonso has his own mind," Doggy said. "He wants you to understand how serious we are."

Alfonso jammed the blade against Stan's throat, a shade removed from drawing blood. "Just take the money and..."

Out of the dark, another voice drowned out the bickering, booming, "Drop the fuckin' knife or I'll put a bullet in your head and then tear your fucking heart out." Alfonso and Doggy's heads snapped around.

Marvin, finally. A sight, emerging out of the darkness, coming from behind a car, surrounded by the mist, massive, ominous, pistol in front of him, the glow from the dull street lights backlighting him.

Doggy and Alfonso gasped. A monster. Stan felt the pressure on his neck relaxing slightly, and he fell out of Alfonso's grasp. Alfonso moved to the side and drew his arm back as if to throw his knife at Marvin.

"Don't," Marvin said.

Too late. Alfonso unleashed a whip of an arm. Big Marvin – an easy target, but, maybe it was the pressure of facing a gun - the knife whistled past Marvin's arm, slamming into a car, bouncing onto the street.

Alfonso reached behind him for another knife, more upscale, a 7" Italian stiletto with a rosewood handle. He raised his arm to throw it. Marvin fired. The bullet hit Alfonso in the leg, knocking him to the ground, the knife dropping in front of him. He shrieked, holding his leg.

Doggy stood frozen. "Alfonso," he screamed, running toward him, and then stopping to look at Marvin. He turned, pleading, "Please...Alfonso was a fool. I would never hurt..."

Marvin held the pistol on him, again sweating despite the evening chill.

"Let's get the fuck out of here," Stan said, rubbing his throat.

Marvin shouted at Doggy, "Your jacket – take it off."

Doggy, shaking, said, "My jacket? You want it?" He tried to smile, peeling it off. He too was sweating. "You like it, man? These nailheads, I did it myself." He handed the jacket to Stan, who dropped it in the dust.

"Your pants," Marvin shouted. Doggy, confused, dropped his pants to the ground.

He finally got it. "The two guys the cops are looking for," he said. "That's who we fuck with. Jesus."

Alfonso was holding his leg, whimpering.

"How'd you know that?" Stan asked.

"Every coyote at the border is hoping you try his territory. Nice reward, lots of favors for the lucky bastard who spins you to the cops. The police have spread the word."

"Start running," Marvin shouted. He fired a bullet over Doggy's head, as Doggy in his shorts sprinted into the darkness, shouting, "No, please."

Marvin shouted after him, "Next time, control Alfonso."

Stan came to life, looking down at Alfonso, who was crying and holding his leg. Expecting sympathy? "Dumb bastard, get a fucking job," Stan yelled at him. Alfonso lay under the one light near the entrance to the corridor. Wouldn't you know, a world of darkness out there, Stan thought, and a bleeding Alfonso has a spotlight on him? Back-lit, like in a 1940s movie still.

They ran to the car, Marvin leaping into the passenger side, looking at his shaking hands. Stan's hands \- shaking as badly as Marvin's – were at the wheel. He started the car and pulled away, nodding to Marvin, "Thanks. What the hell was that?" Driving, he jammed the pharmacy bags into Raphael's shoulder pack.

They continued through the dark streets, vulnerable, the only car in motion

Marvin broke the silence, talking almost to himself, "Never shot anybody before. Never even shot at anybody. Not even my one year as a cop. Jesus."

"Cop?"

Stan looked at the huge Marvin, his chin resting against his chest. Marvin a cop? How could anyone tell when he was serious? "Marvin, what do you mean, cop?"

"It's nothing – back in Michigan, when I was in college."

But Alfonso still rubbed on Marvin, who was watching the streets flowing by in the dark; for him, a long period of silence, finally slamming one of his giant fists against the dashboard, shouting, "I want out of this place."

"Take it easy, man."

"I don't shoot people every day. I don't see my friends shot every day." He looked out the window. "Where are we going?"

"I have no idea."

The anonymous traffic of Los Trabajadores was comforting, surrounded by the fast-moving cars and trucks, lost to the outside world. "You said you were a cop? In Detroit?"

"No, East Lansing. For a year. Before grad school."

"Amazing."

"You find that hard to believe? Well, I was. And I don't miss it."

"How'd you wind up in L.A.?"

"Jesus, now? Wait till we're pals."

"In that case, I may never get to hear this story."

Traffic was slowing down, trucks diverted into the left two lanes.

"Trouble, Marvin." Obviously, something happening ahead.

Barricades were going up blocking the side streets, forcing traffic to the inspection site, where State Police, off their parked motorcycles, were checking cars. The side-street barricades were manned by the less professional city police, waving away drivers, trying to turn off from Los Trabajadores.

Traffic was slowing down. To the right, a barricaded side street was coming up They had no choice. Stan hit the gas, two wheels screeching onto the sidewalk, catching the end of the barricade with the left side of the bumper. The squealing, tumbling barrier pounded into the policeman, who was shouting into his radio.

They were onto the side street past the barrier. Behind them, the policeman, untangling himself from the wood planks, was shouting and pointing.

Marvin came out of his lethargy with a string of hard to follow profanity.

The motorcycles and sirens pierced the misty night.

Marvin looked out the rear window, nodding his head.

It would be only a matter of minutes until the motorcycles would catch up with them. They knew their city. Speeding ahead, Stan raced to another north south cross street, this time catching a break with the traffic light turning green. That was the good news; the bad news was the southbound traffic was gridlocked, an effect of the blockades.

The drivers saw the Saturn racing toward them and started maneuvering, some into different lanes, some onto the sidewalk. The squeal of the Saturn's tires frightening drivers to concede inches of space. Stan took the gaps, grinding enough space to squeeze across the lanes. Marvin had his head out the window, screaming at them.

The motorcycles and their sirens were getting closer as they hit Calle Zapata, somehow, spinning onto the street with stalls of car upholstery shops. Each was divided by concrete blocks, with hustlers outside waving in the passing cars. Stan ripped into the third shop, jamming the brakes.

The shop's street rapper, hardly believing his luck, backed up nervously as the speeding car squealed to a stop inside his stall: impossible - a customer who had required no pleading. Stan and Marvin leaped out of the car, Marvin grabbing Raphael's back-pack. "Over there, Marvin," pointing to a chair alongside the wall.

A salesman in a short sleeved white shirt and dark slacks approached slowly. Very thin, his dark hair painfully parted, a wisp of a mustache, smiling, ready for the usual give and take of bargaining. He took one look at huge Marvin sitting quietly in the dark and then back to Stan.

"Quantos?" Stan asked, How much? Without a worry in the world.

"Para Todos?" For all of it?

Stan gave up on his Spanish. "For the front seat only." The man nodded and waved toward the display of upholstering samples on the wall, his finger stopping at a sample of plastic so slick a rider would have to notch it to keep from sliding off the seat.

"Perfect," Stan said, agreeing when the salesman quoted the job at $125.

At which point, two of the police motorcycles whizzed by.

The third slowed and the driver spoke briefly to one of the hustlers a couple of shops down the street.

The hustler shrugged and then, wanting to show the police that he cared, motioned ahead, wiggling his hand like a fish. The cop gave him a two-finger salute and kicked his bike into action. Stan and the salesman stared at the disappearing bike.

Did the salesman suspect them? Stan wondered. Obviously, a wave to the cops would have ruined a sale. Maybe, get the deposit first, then make the commotion? The salesman scanned the Saturn, noticing the holes in the trunk and fenders, obvious bullet hotels.

"The Freeway, Los Angeles," Stan said. "Locos shooting at us."

Was the man convinced? Stan reached into his pocket, pulled out four twenties. . "A deposito - in advance."

The man nodded, pocketing the cash.

Their concentration was broken by a voice from the street.

"Taxi, senor?"

Stan nodded to the driver and waved Marvin to the cab. Stan asked the salesman how long it would take.

"We work fast – maybe two hours."

"Great," Stan said, "See you then," climbing into the taxi, wondering who would be waiting for them in two hours. At Avenida Revolucion they left the cab, merging into the sidewalk flow of tourists. "Blend in," Stan said. "Lower your visibility."

There was no question that the drug headlines had hurt the tourist flow to Tijuana, but still there were swarms of young Americans not put off by the possible danger strolling on Revolucion, voices and laughter blending into the music pouring from the clubs. Marvin didn't stand out as much on this street – mixed in with the many other tall Americans, some with beards, many with long hair. For the moment, Stan and Marvin were anonymous.

The vendors were surrendering the street to the night-life.

The mist gave a longer life to the glow of red and green neon, which lit the street, with the occasional punctuation of yellow, as in the sign for the bar, El Tucano, a massive-beaked bird outlined in yellow neon. A life-sized school bus was parked on the second floor terrace of a bar, whose sign had little frogs painted on it.

"We've got to get off the street," Stan said.

"Let's get a drink."

Walking up the steps to a terrace bar, finding a table, they ordered a couple of bottles of Bohemia, allowing a feeling of sanctuary, no matter how brief.

"Two good friends killed in the back seat of a car." Marvin whispered. "So how do you top that? Only when some fucking freak tries to cut your throat." He looked around the waiter. "So I, who haven't held a goddamned gun since I got out of goddamned college, pull one out and shoot the mother-fucker. What next?"

"Take it easy."

Nobody in the patio could hear them, or wanted to. Behind them something slammed onto the table: tequila shooters, the waiter slapping them on table. Marvin looked on enviously, but waited for his beer. "You really think we'll get out of here?"

# ELEVEN

Everett looked at his watch: 8:10. So, now a simple little exercise turned into a bloody mess. And for what gain? So far, nothing.

Everett caught his reflection in the window, the tension beginning to show in those little red spots under his eyes. How to describe them, maybe broken capillaries? Or was it too much whiskey. His mother's were like that, he remembered, back in Whittier, where she moved the family from Oakland when the telegram came that his father didn't make it over some Goddamned hill in Italy. She did all right though, working in the office in his high school, raising her kids.

One of Everett's three secretaries - usually, Marcie - was always in the house when he worked at home, and she was there tonight, but not working with him, sitting instead with Everett's daughter Arlen, going over the details for the small reception scheduled for Sunday. Well, not so small. One hundred people expected.

Marcie was on the phone in the other room, shouting to be heard. Must be one of the older, going deaf, guests on the list.

Arlen, 24, had her own life as a teacher, her own house and her own world - far removed from her father's, but she was there for him when he needed a hostess.

Not that he had to look far for volunteers, a group led by Sharon Daimler, who, at 42, had softened the divorce shock for many mature film stars, sleeping with them, and serving as their date until they found new lives. Sharon had gone through three marriages, sat on top of some fat investments, pulled together the occasional party that drew many still active in the film business. Sharon was fine at his side, smart, lively, funny, and kept most of her tits in her dress.

Marcie buzzed him on the intercom. "Still trying Tom's cell, still busy, but I left another message."

While Everett's friends were slowing down, his competitiveness had only heightened. Which had brought him to his current crisis. He didn't need to own the last major undeveloped hill in L.A. that had a view of both city and ocean, a hill that would produce a minimum of $1 billion in real estate sales. A hill that was going to be a bitch to get re-zoned. Scheduling this party two days before the re-zoning hearing was out of character for him. He should have remained quiet and distant, as he would have 20 years ago. The ego starts leading the way as you get older.

And would he have allied himself with a Tom Ellison 20 years ago?

Tom had a hell of a record as a street cop - arrests and convictions before moving into his current position. He had supervised the tracking of the Hollywood Hacker - the killer, who used a Chinese kitchen chopper on his victims. He had moved up the ranks, finally into Parker Center and Intelligence.

Tom and Everett met when Tom dropped by Everett's office one day to discuss one of Everett's key employees \- an architect, happily married, who led a second life as a cross-dresser with a secret apartment in West Hollywood. Everett's construction firm was bidding for a major contract, a 22-story federal building on the west side. The architect in question was heading the design team and his behavior could well affect the awarding of the contract. A rival construction company was sure as hell going to leak the information if they got their hands on it.

Consider him gone, Everett said. How could he return the favor? A donation to the Police Widows and Orphans Society, Tom said, shrugging. If he thought of anything else, he'd let him know.

A higher reward than money or power drove Tom. His calling was to work for his God, the community and his beliefs. He had information of value to the important organizations - the Citizens Council, the almost vanished John Birch Society and the Wellmouth Group. All conservative and all able to do in terms of communication what Tom couldn't do as a policeman. Everett contributed financially to them at Tom's bequest \- not publicly, because Everett sure as hell didn't want to be connected in any visible way. Nor were his politics that bent. But, they are sure as hell didn't lean too far the other way either.

Actually, Everett had no politics. He wasn't angry about Black mothers on welfare, or Soviet Jews getting wealthy in one generation, or queers running their own city in West Hollywood, or Arabs buying most of Trousdale, or illegal immigrants flooding into the city. Everett realized that in Tom's mind these were not random happenings, but elements of some master plan of the dark side.

"Years ago, some fellow wrote a book about Texas, called `SuperAmerica,'" Tom told him. "He saw Texas as a microcosm of the United States. Except, being Texas, it was happening in a larger way. If America was booming, Texas more so. If America was conservative, Texas more so. When the economy went bad, it was super-dud in Texas. "But," Tom said, "there's nothing to learn in his Texas theory, since Texas was after the fact. Just happening bigger. L.A. is before the fact - what happens here is soon reflected across the country. If these unnatural events are the norm here, they'll be the norm elsewhere. Imagine a country with pockets of homosexual cities - it's already so in New York, Boston, New Orleans, San Francisco, Atlanta. Southern California's illegal immigrants are now all over Chicago, the Northwest.

"The Jews. Jesus - there can't be more than a handful of them, but for Christ's sake, they're everywhere. Wall Street, politics, movies, media. And the Arabs. They're even smarter. Buying quietly under cover names. Not like the Japs, whose P.R. sense is right up there with their military skills."

It's great to have a police captain who knows where the enemy is, Everett thought, sighing. Crazed Arabs are about to blow up the world, and he's worried about the sane ones buying up Trousdale.

The phone rang again. Marcie wasn't buzzing. He hit the intercom: "That for me?"

"Nope. For Arlen," Marcie answered.

"Maybe we should try Tom again."

"We've already left two messages."

"Make it three. Let him know I'm serious."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mariano liked the bar at El Gusano because it was a Mexican bar, an old fashioned cantina. He found it hard to accept that there was a Hard Rock Cafe on Revolucion. Or was. What's the point of Americans coming to Tijuana? The music here at El Gusano was juke box ranchero, scratchy, off-key, plaintive: old records - Jorge Negrete, Pedro Vargas. An old juke box. Before flutters and tweeters. Old bullfight posters, one of Carlos Arruza, 1942, at Mexico City's Plaza Mexico.

The bar, well-lighted, had old men perched on stools, the room smelling of old beer. People here knew their place and drank quietly – women drifted in only occasionally and rarely was there trouble.

There were no women tonight; he looked around, waiting. Enrique had called his office earlier, wanting to meet with him. "Okay, but no mass meeting," Mariano told him, meet at El Gusano.

The juke box was cranking out a golden oldie of "Tu, Solo Tu," a song that lived in two worlds: Mexicans occasionally still humming it and tourists recognizing it. The old juke box gave the music a blurred sound that appealed to Mariano. No, these boys on the juke box didn't sound like they were trying to break through onto the American charts. Mariano looked up from his beer; Enrique was now sitting next to him. Mariano figured he was supposed to wonder how he did that. More of that mystery man shit.

"Cute," said Enrique looking around, eyes lighting on the small framed photographs of past bullfighters, old politicians and women in battle dress with bandoleers of ammunition around their necks. "Almost looks real," he said.

"It is, you fool."

"I know," said Enrique.

Enrique waved to the bartender, ordering a bottle of Carta Blanca; Mariano, a shot of Don Cuervo tequila.

"We have some mess," Mariano said.

"We'll find them," Enrique said, offhandedly. "What's this about another shooting?"

"Who knows? The police think our friends did it. Not that many Americans come to Tijuana on a shooting spree."

"We created a monster."

"I don't know," Mariano said. "It was just some two-bit holdup guy. Anybody could've done it." A man approached him, whispering.

Enrique waited. He needed Mariano – who knew the territory, knew the people. He didn't blame Mariano for being unhappy - those fools he was saddled with listened to instructions, then did what they wanted.

Enrique had grown up in Sacramento, his mother a legal secretary, his father, a carpenter, who died in an auto accident when Enrique was three years old. His mother remarried, a construction worker who was half indian and spoke no Spanish. Enrique spent a year in junior college before joining the Marine Corps, making it to sergeant before he was discharged just before the war in Iraq. He surprised himself by not re-enlisting. And was much happier that he hadn't when America invaded Iraq. More so when the war segued to Afghanistan.

The Marines tried to recall him, but they had to find him first. He knew how much they wanted him when he became aware of how Hispanic the Corps had turned, recruiting fiercely in the barrios, and could use an experienced Latino non-com. He knew military history and felt the military's hustling of the Latinos was no better than England hiring the Hessians to fight Americans in the Revolutionary war. Many of today's Hispanics were seduced by the bait of American citizenship and the cash bonuses. Paradoxically, 230 years earlier, many of the Hessians fighting against the Americans felt the same way, deserting to become Americans. The English had to pay Frederic II, of Hesse-Cassel, $35 for each troop killed, and $11.66 for each one maimed. Of course, rather than give this money to the families, Frederic kept it, the origin of the term, "blood money." At least with America's "blood money" the death bonuses were going directly to the Hispanic families.

The man whispering to Mariano turned away and left, almost simultaneously with the juke box cutting off.

"It was them," Mariano said. "Confirmed. Shot a goddamned thief. The police have the friend - he described the two Americans." Mariano thought for a moment and slapped the bar, "Christ, another casualty charged to this project."

Enrique drained his bottle of beer and said, "At least, we know they're still on this side of the border. Let's go back to your War Room."

"They're here all right. Ever know of anybody - except a crazy American - having new Tijuana upholstery put on a brand new Saturn?"

# TWELVE

"Well, that's two cars so far," Marvin said, in the bar, sitting low as he could, watching the passing parade. "What now?"

"Cabs. Lots of Americans in cabs - we'll get around," Stan said. "We just need to figure out where to go."

"Like where?"

"Anywhere off the streets. Maybe a motel." Stan looked at the tourist brochure, checked the list of hotels against the map, working out the longest ride from downtown.

Finding a taxi in Tijuana is about as easy as finding an outdoor taco vendor: the drivers pass the time of day standing in clusters on every corner on Revolucion, their cabs parked on the side streets. Leaving the bar, a driver broke from the group and approached Stan, clearly not at ease being towered over by Marvin.

The taxi drove on Revolucion, passing the Fronton Palacio, the old jai alai court, music blaring from the adjoining Tijuana Tilly's - maybe a Mexican cover of a Ted Nugent oldie - loud as hell filling the streets. The weary cab driver shook his head at the volume as Revolucion heading south had a name change to Agua Caliente. As they sped from the party tempo of Revolucion the driver slowed considerably.

Agua Caliente, leading to the former race track of the same name, was at one time the major shopping street in Tijuana, until the 1970s when the Federal Government took an interest in the city, encouraging a downtown revitalization. Assisted with federal funds, city officials took over the Tijuana River area, angering many of the area squatters, who were forced to relocate. In its place they created a development of three divided, park-like boulevards reminiscent of Mexico City's Reforma Boulevard, anchored by a new Cultural Center and the Plaza Rio Tijuana, a shopping mall and a few department stores. The area was studded with theme restaurants, banks and tricky traffic circles forbidden to those with high blood pressure.

It was this revitalized area where El Abajeno was located, where the day had begun just a few hours earlier.

Agua Caliente, which is a half mile west of that new area, still had a life - not its former dominant role, but there were motels, hotels, including the grand 400 room Fiesta Americana, where they were headed, and a stream of restaurants - steak houses, sea food, Mexican, Spanish. Coming from Los Angeles and its cutting edge Pacific Rim Asian restaurants, a visitor had to marvel at the time warp neon: Loon Wah Chop Suey, Tai Tung Chop Suey, Hoo Wah Chop Suey. When was a chop suey sign last seen in Southern California?

On the ride to the Fiesta Americana Stan noticed on the corner of Carlos Medina two motels - Cielo Azul, and across the street, the Vista Grande. He pulled out the tourist map and scribbled the street name on it.

The doorman at the imposing entrance of the Fiesta Americana opened the cab door like he really cared to see them. It wasn't easy to keep a 400 room hotel filled in Tijuana, and he seemed disappointed that there was no luggage. When he tried to wave them into the hotel Stan told him they were only stopping for a drink at the Shangri-La Bar. Its name was splashed in gold, mock-Asian style, on the facade of the hotel, with its own separate entrance.

Despite it being Saturday night the Shangri-La was near empty, the dark room glistening with black lacquer tables and red leather booths, facing into the bar that curved like a pancreas. They sat at the bar and ordered two beers.

"I thought we were going to check in," Marvin said.

"Everybody on our ass will comb through here," Stan said. "Drink your beer, so we can split. Just go along, okay?" Marvin shrugged. It sounded like Stan knew what he was doing. Stan was adapting. In the high tech world of software marketing Stan had to face advertising decisions - whether edgy to startle the target audience, or comfortable? Obviously, comfortable is out of step in the software world, but cutting edge was like telling a joke to a comedian – that's his game. Maybe, irony, sincere with a twist. Like the guys creating software, marketing executives were constantly adapting.

Stan hurried Marvin out of the bar and into a waiting cab. Stan looked at the address he'd scribbled on the drive to the hotel and gave instructions to the driver. "Do you really have any idea where we're going?" Marvin asked. Stan let the question pass.

Agua Caliente is a one-way street in the Fiesta Americana area, so the driver had to make two lefts to head north, driving onto Avenida Gustavo Salinas until it hooked back into Agua Caliente as a two way street. The cab pulled in front of a closed electronics store. The driver turned and looked from the closed store to Stan and Marvin. "This it?" _Crazy Americanos_.

Marvin looked like he was going to kill Stan.

"We're here, man, get out," Stan said, paying the driver.

"Okay, you've been driven insane." Marvin said, as they stood in front of the store looking at TV sets, which resembled those in stores across the border - that is, the names - Panasonic, Sony, Sharp and Goldstar - were the same, but they were slightly different in appearance. More European looking.

"And the reason we're here?" Marvin asked.

The taxi made a U-turn, swinging back in the direction of the Fiesta Americana.

"Say something," he said, "What the hell are we doing here?"

"We can't go anywhere in a straight line. Between the cops and the thugs they have this city networked. Even Alfonso had heard about us, much less cab drivers."

"Christ," he said. "All this voodoo."

"That's where we're going," Stan said, pointing down the street to the corner with the two motels.

The motel Cielo Azul's entrance smacked of the 60s with black steel furniture, silver flecked black formica registration desk and a dark rock fireplace that wasn't working. A snug little area that wore its years well.

The manager, in his mid-40s, professional, amiable, glanced at the registration form that Stan had filled out, and said, "Your license plate, senor?"

"You really need it?"

Marvin, with Raphael's bag now slung over his shoulder, glanced at Stan.

"Man, I'm tired," Stan said, turning to Marvin. "You remember it?"

"Why would I?" Marvin said, slapping the ball back over the net, "It's your car."

Okay, flexible is the word. How to deal with this? "I'd better go out and look." Stan said. "We're parked around the corner."

The motel manager, making small talk, looked up at the bearded giant left behind, asking nervously if he was enjoying Mexico.

As Stan stepped out the door he heard Marvin respond, "Haven't had much time. Been really busy. We're consulting on Mexico's new phone system. Working on fiber optics. Know what that is?"

Outside in the evening chill, Stan scanned the license plates in the motel parking lot, finally realizing these were out of the question, since they were already on the motel roster. He could make one up, but what if the manager decided to check.

Across the street was the Vista Grande with a number of cars in its lot. A blue Buick had an easy number to remember and he dashed back in to hear the manager telling Marvin, "Senor, at our home, it's six months we've been waiting for a phone - if you could put in a word..."

Marvin shoved a desk pad to the man. "Sure, just write your name and address..."

Marvin turned around smiling. "Seems like a nice fella. Maybe we can help him out."

Busy writing, the manager looked up and asked if they had time to see the Mexican Cultural Center in the new Rio Tijuana area, or the Omnitheater that makes a circle around the audience.

Stan wasn't dealing well with the conversation, especially, since he was afraid he would forget the license number, and had no idea what mysterious favors Marvin was promising. He made it to the form, completed it and the manager explained apologetically, "The regulations, senor," reaching behind him for the keys.

Did they want to pay with a credit card. Not a good idea. Stan had registered as Joe Torre, and he wasn't even a Dodger fan.

"How about cash?"

"Como no?" Why not? "$85 dollars each room."

Stan slapped the cash on the counter and the man explained where the rooms were located. Out to the right, second floor, facing the street. And to Marvin he shouted, "Muchas gracias. Whatever you can do."

Walking out of the lobby Stan told Marvin, "If it has no immediate effect on our lives, please don't tell me what that was about."

An outdoor staircase led to the rooms. Stan flicked on a light, taking in the room and its two double beds. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

He ran down to one of the cars parked in front of their motel, and with a dime, unscrewed the car's California license plates, taking them across the street to the Vista Grande, to the blue Buick, and changed plates, front and rear. He returned with the Buick's tags and completed the switch with the car at their motel. The car below now had the license plates from the Buick across the street. If someone wanted to check the plates they'd have no trouble finding them in the parking lot.

The motel room was simple, neat and the blue-trimmed bed-spreads were thin enough to read through. Marvin was sprawled on one of the beds. "Not too bad. A full day's scrub for Joan Crawford, but clean enough for me."

They decided to use only one of their rooms. It made sense to stay close. Marvin pulled out his cell phone, and said, "Work the phones. Anybody you can think of back home that can help us. Somebody who can get us a couple of passports. Or one of those new Home Security drivers licenses. Problem is I don't know anybody who got one of those. Hasn't penetrated the thinking in L.A."

Falling onto the bed, and leaning against the pillows Stan felt the tension dissipate slightly. For this one moment no need to be on guard. He went to the bathroom, washed his face, stared into the mirror, listening to Marvin's shouts on his cell phone. He threw down the skimpy towel and returned to see Marvin pulling the DVD player out of the shoulder back. Marvin nodded to his cell phone on the bed, and muttered, "Don't ask."

Stan pulled out his cell, and Marvin dropped the player and left for the bathroom. The first two calls were to Jerry Ryan and Vernon Bronson, the former a writer, the latter, an investment broker. No answer. The third was to Barbara Wilson, who never even gave Stan a chance to explain. She had a guest; could he call in the morning?

He tried for another ten minutes without much luck, finally slamming the cell shut.

Marvin returned. "Not easy, is it? An old girl friend was convinced I was drunk and wouldn't even listen when I started talking about passports."

Stan stretched out on the bed and detailed his phone experiences: "The American Consulate - closed till morning. Left a message...An answer machine at the FBI office in San Diego...The Mexican operator can't help with information for the DEA in San Diego...San Diego cops said I had to deal with Tijuana cops. They heard about what happened, and asked if we could meet them at the border... Spoke to two friends who wanted to think about it and I should call them back... My attorney wasn't home, so I left a message."

Marvin had Raphael's player next to him as he unhooked the motel DVD player from the TV monitor. Stan grabbed the DVDs. "Let's see what the hell is on them."

Marvin was talking from behind the monitor. "I called my attorney - he didn't believe me at first. Didn't want to act like he was falling for some gag. I should call him in the morning when I sober up. If I ever get back he's the first one I kill...Another attorney friend of mind, half riddled with pot, said he only cuts movie deals and never quite got it; he wanted to call an immigration attorney. I reminded him I was an American and the idiot finally said he'd line up a criminal attorney if I still wanted one on Monday...I tried LAPD – got pissy with me, asked for our hotel phone number, which, of course, I wouldn't give 'em."

That stopped Stan, who was still holding the DVDs. "Why not?"

"Jesus, you didn't, did you?" Marvin asked with a rare, startling streak of sensibility, his head coming from behind the monitor.

"Just the American Consulate and San Diego police."

"Shit, San Diego police will sure as hell check with Tijuana police to find out what's happening. And will pass on our phone number. And the American Consulate - that's almost a Mexican service facility. Either the police or the other guys have someone on their payroll there. The most likely place we'd call. Jesus Christ, man, let's get out of here. They have our hotel phone - it's easy as hell to find out where we are. Why not give them your cell number?"

"For one thing I'm making calls, the other is I don't want to leave it on when I'm not – I don't have a charger."

# THIRTEEN

Marvin in command was an awesome sight. King Kong as a Gunny Sergeant. He buttoned his shirt and shouted, "Help me with this machine."

Stan held up the shoulder bag. Marvin dropped the DVD player back in it.

Marvin lumbered down the staircase, Stan following. They crossed the street to the Vista Grande Motel and Stan stopped Marvin. They needed a game plan. Marvin listened and walked off to the parking lot at the side of the building, out of sight of the front desk.

The lobby was more 1970s than the '60s of the Cielo Azul, but the procedure was the same. Stan filled out the registration form, running outside briefly to take advantage for the second time that night of the license plate switch he had made earlier. He wrote down the tag number of the Buick sitting outside the door, being the one, of course, taken from the car across the street. The clerk explained where the room was and handed over the key.

Stan waited until he was out of view of the office and nodded to Marvin to follow, walking through the chill in the parking lot toward a staircase, and up to the second floor. The room, with two double beds, was almost a twin of the one recently vacated. Stan flicked the lights on, then cut them off.

"Let's see if you saved our asses," he said, drawing up a couple of chairs in front of the window that from an angle faced toward their former room across the street. Marvin pulled Raphael's pistol out of the shoulder bag, placing it on the dresser. He reached back in the bag, pulled out the DVDs, and turned to the TV.

"See if you can rig up the machine," he said.

Marvin watched Stan unhooked the room's DVD player and secured Raphael's to the monitor.

Stan looked back at him, "Let's see what this shit is all about."

Marvin slipped the DVDs into the player, hit the remote. Nothing happened. He pressed the monitor power button. It came on. Marvin was tapping the remote. Still nothing happening. Stan checked the cable. It was secure. He pulled the power cord out and slammed it back in. Marvin pressed the arrow to start, nothing happened.

"You try," he said, tossing the remote." He stretched out on the bed, sighing, "I can't take any more frustration."

Stan fidgeted with it, nothing happening.

He picked up the player, looking at it closely. A hole in its back and one underneath, bullet holes, entry and exit points.

"Shot," Stan said.

"How would you know?"

"I mean, literally." Stan held up the machine, showing him. "From the trunk."

"Jesus, so now I have to go home and jack up a system to decode them," he groaned, "That's if we ever get there. Not as if we could borrow one from the cops."

"The day continues," Stan said, tossing the machine on the floor. Stan looked at Marvin. "You really think this crap is happening because of that bullshit at the office?"

"Looks that way, doesn't it?" he said.

Pulling a chair to the window, Stan sat in the dark and remembered that day.

They were sitting across from each other – Stan and Marvin, in the middle of the table. Morgan Conway at the head of the table, the two Assistant U.S. attorneys, Carl Finley and Elliott Glass, on either side of him.

Finley was taking the lead. "As we understand it you both were involved in the preparation of the prospectus and offerings for your company's two recent acquisitions \- Capdrive Inc. and Bluetin," he said.

Stan looked at Marvin. _And what the hell is this?_ Stan responded to Finley "That's right, why, we have a problem here?"

Finley tapped his pen against the table. "That's what we hope to find out," he said. "Our concern is the unusual amount of early stock buys on both ventures. As you may remember the stock prices of Capdrive and Bluetin rose dramatically during the few days prior to the announcements of each acquisition. Capdrive from 14 to 34 and Bluetin from 23 to 42."

Marvin, realizing Finley's insinuations, started to rise from his chair. "Whoa. Are you accusing...?"

Finley held his hand up to cut him off. "No, but we are advising you that an active investigation is underway on the possibility of insider trading. And if you are aware of anything that might help us..."

"Do you realize how much money we make – you think we'd want to put that at risk?" Marvin asked.

Glass intervened. "Both of you knew well in advance these mergers were in motion. Sometimes people let information slip out inadvertently – there is a certain amount of power that one derives from being the source of information."

Stan leaned back. "I never heard such bullshit in my life."

Finley had remained calm. "I would like to point out some of our concerns. Two years ago," he nodded to Marvin, "Mr. Rowan, you left Sackmore in San Francisco following a similar investigation." He raised his hand quickly as Marvin started to react. "No, nothing was ever proven."

Marvin glared at Finley. "They found the buyers – you have that in your report?"

Finley nodded. "Yes, but they could never ascertain the leak." He turned to Stan, "Mr. Willis, we're aware of your divorce and financial problems involved, and your later investment in a start-up firm, Sanko, which left you heavily in debt."

Stan fired back, "A debt which has since been cleared up through my bonuses here at Warmweather."

Morgan stood up. "This wasn't meant as a contentious meeting, but to get these matters in the air." He looked at Marvin and Stan. "I think it's best until we've cleared this up one way or another, and I honestly believe there will never be any evidence linking either of you to these suspicions – that perhaps you might want to separate yourselves from any business related to Warmweather."

"You mean stay at home as if we're suspended – this investigation could take months, years," Stan said. "And there's really no company that would touch us while this investigation is open."

Glass nodded. "We're very sorry, but understand this wasn't our doing. Many millions of dollars were in play here." And as an afterthought, "Please advise us if you plan any trips out of the country."

Stan looked around in his pathetic hotel room, thinking of that pathetic meeting, and yelled at a semi-dozing Marvin. "What supercilious assholes, those lawyers. We're guilty, trying to prove we're innocent. Except worse, forcing us to hide out in some fucking Mexican motel to keep our asses from getting shot at."

Marvin opened his eyes, blinked, shook his head, went back to sleep and Stan returned to staring out the window into the dark.

Some 30 minutes later, still too keyed up to doze off, Stan remained at the window. Two cars pulled up quietly across the street, and he went into full alert, pulling his head back in from the window. He watched as one of the men in the first car entered the motel lobby and moments later came out with a guest registration card in his hand. The man nodded to the men waiting in the cars. Two men got out of each car and quietly followed him up the outside staircase to the room Stan and Marvin had recently vacated. The men drew their guns. The first one leaned back and kicked in the door and all four ran in screaming.

The noise startled Marvin, who stumbled through the dark to his pistol on the dresser. Stan waved him over – Marvin pulled up a chair and sat at the window.

Their former room burst into light, as did nearby rooms, reacting to the noise. The men poured out the door, looking around. The first man pulled the registration card out of his pocket, ran down the stairs and started checking license plates. He came to the car with the license number Stan had used when switching plates earlier.

He slammed his gun butt at the car's side window. "Jesus," Marvin said.

The man reached into the car, opened the door and the men poured into it, tearing into the suitcases, scattering clothes onto the parking lot's cracked concrete.

A motel room door opened and a man stared below, obviously stunned at what he was seeing and shouted at the men. Two of them rushed up the stairs, grabbing him by the collar of his pajamas and dragged him down, heels of his slippers flapping against the steps. They flung him against the car, slapping a pistol to his temple. His wife stood at their motel door screaming. Marvin raised his pistol. "Too far away," he said, dropping it.

Another car pulled up. The heavy-set man who had given directions to El Abajeno, and whom they had seen earlier, stepped out of his car, approaching like he was walking through sand. He shoved the pistol away from the frightened man in his pajamas, and walked away, waving his hand in disgust.

The two men dropped their pistols, releasing their hostage, who stumbled away as his wife ran down to embrace him. The heavy-set man turned back and held out his hands as if to explain this was all a misunderstanding.

The drama was climaxing in Harold Pinter shadows as the heavy-set man, looking at his group, paced in front of them in silence. Still not saying a word, he shook his head.

Marvin whispered, "It's not over yet," as the heavy-set man signaled the men to stay where they were, and crossed the street to Stan and Marvin's motel. Marvin reached for the gun.

The entrance was not visible from their room, but they assumed he was in the building.

"I checked in as a single," Stan whispered. "We should be okay unless someone saw you tiptoeing around."

Apparently, discovering nothing to interest him the man exited a few moments later.

Marvin sat there until the cars drove off and then walked back to the bed, kicked off his shoes and stretched out. "Jesus, what you almost caused," he said.

Stan remained in the chair near the window, looking out into the dark, waiting for it to turn into dawn, a heavy despondency settling in, feeling badly about the man across the street, forgetting that the confusion had saved their lives. In any case, the depression led to a parade of guilt – stretching back to his mother working so hard trying to create a normal childhood for him, then hurting her when he left Southern California to go off to the University of Washington. He worked for a year at a newspaper in Midland, Texas, a couple of years in Chicago, and then for the syndicate that was servicing a couple of chains of family owned newspapers. They asked him to go to Iraq – it seemed like an exciting thing to do, and he said, yes.

It didn't take long to realize that the military was fighting two different wars – the troops and junior officers were out of a WWII movie, honorable, and sincere in their efforts, while the generals were out of a Vietnam era movie, cynical, political White House suckups, doing or saying anything for another star. While the troops were rotated back into action, the generals were sent home and promoted to sweet Pentagon jobs. It sort of made sense, since the morality of most of the generals differed little from the Washington culture surrounding them. Eventually, they changed the level of generals, but it was too late for Stan.

So, after a couple of years he quit, went home and briefly kicked around in Los Angeles where Caitlin Bradley failed in trying to get him to join her in buying a bar in San Clemente. He had known Bradley in Baghdad when she was working with the governing Coalition Provisional Authority. When he first arrived in Baghdad Bradley said if there was anything he wanted to know about Iraq and why the war was so fucked, he should ask Gertrude. Stan asked where could he find her, and, she said, moron, she's been dead for more than 80 years, and threw a copy of Jane Wallach's biography at him. She was referring to Gertrude Bell, with whom Stan was familiar, only because of having done his homework before leaving for Iraq.

Bell, one of England's early Arab experts, had advised England on the creation of Iraq, and had never even considered the idea of a democratic government, strongly advocating a monarchy. She and T. E. Lawrence in 1920 persuaded Winston Churchill to have Faisal bin Hussein preside as King of Iraq. She insisted that the minority Sunnis should rule the country, since if the volatile Shias were in charge it would become a theocratic state and, ultimately a disaster. Some 90 years later, Stan looked around and Iraq had a Shia president and a Shia dominated parliament and it appeared that Bell's worst fears were being realized. Stan felt that once you read Gertrude Bell very little of what the United States had one in Iraq made sense.

When he returned home he bounced around Los Angeles for a month, realizing journalism was over for him. He followed up on some offers, tripling his newspaper salary by taking a job in marketing with a software outfit in Washington, D.C. And since that was where he met his wife, this led to memories in his Tijuana motel of the marriage and the endless arguments, and, finally the divorce. And while mulling the injustice of being on the run caused by something he hadn't done, he dozed off.

# FOURTEEN

Marcie's voice whispered out of the intercom: "It's Tom Ellison."

"Hello," Everett said, picking up the phone.

"Nothing new," Tom's response.

"Tijuana's not that big, for Christ's sake. Think they returned over the border?"

"No, they're still there." Tom explained about the upholstery shop. "The police almost had them. Our guys were right there too. Damned close. Might send some more people down there."

"Christ, Tom, the Mexicans will be putting up fences to keep the Americans out."

"That'll be the day. The Mex police are going crazy. Lots of pressure on them to wrap this up."

"You getting any cooperation?"

"I have a friend with the state police \- they're sort of running the show. The federals are there because of the drug gangs and marginally interested in our guys."

"You're L.A. pistoleros asking any questions about what's on the DVDs?"

"All they know is there's two DVDs, and I want 'em. They also know what they

have to do with those two fools."

"I keep thinking how simple it could have been with the original plan."

"You really don't know what she would've done with those DVDs even if she got her hands on them. We were playing it safe - it just got out of hand."

"Anything more about that other shooting?"

"Some cheap hold-up guy. His partner I.D.'d the shooters – confirmed, Willis and Rowan. They ran a police barricade and lost the cops, The cops are not happy."

"Some software guys – rather than kill them, maybe I should hire them."

Tom, still on his cell, pulled into the West Los Angeles hotel parking lot. He told Everett he would see him in the morning and ended the call. First, he had to deal with this minor irritant.

The hotel's valet parker recognized the Crown Victoria as a police car, and told Tom he'd keep it out front. Tom entered the small hotel on Los Angeles' Beverly Blvd. and strode into the bar. Morgan Conway, from Warmweather was sitting in a corner at a table for two, a drink in front of him. Tom sat down and told the waiter he'd have a cup of coffee. The two men didn't greet each other.

Morgan looked up from his drink. "You were going to protect me. You were going to destroy that DVD."

"I was, but that crud got to it first. I just want to bring you up to date. As I explained on the phone we're on top of it. Don't start whining – hard enough as it is for me to sit here with someone like you."

"Wasn't too hard to use my information, though," Morgan said.

"Not for any personal gain, be assured. For causes, righteous causes."

"What if they look at it, Jesus."

"You should have thought about Jesus long before this."

"But, they can't play it, can they – you said, they need a certain kind of machine. Just tell me they're not coming back."

"That wasn't the original plan. It is now."

~ ~ ~

Morning had not come quickly enough for Everett, who had selected Burt and Phil's Deli for breakfast only because he knew it would bother Tom, who was sinking deeper into his seat watching the Sunday morning patrons entering this well-worn Beverly Hills landmark.

"We're the only ones here without a walker," Tom said. "I don't know why you come here. All you eat is French toast, anyway. You can do that anywhere. Some place not as likely for an Arab terrorist to heave a bomb through the window."

"Arabs and Jews live in peace in Beverly Hills - like Las Vegas for the mob families."

Everett looked over the top of the menu toward the front door where the old folks were toppling in. Jesus, he thought, he's right. Lucky for the owners the crowd would get younger as the day wore on. These Jews love to eat out - doesn't matter if they have to interrupt an ambulance ride to Cedars Sinai Emergency. It's okay, the bagel with Nova was worth it.

The comedians who used to eat breakfast and hang out at Burt and Phil's were long gone, now swapping routines at breakfast a few blocks away, at Caffe Roma.

"So far we have a disaster," Everett said. "Jesus, even killing one of your own. Well, an ex-one of your own."

"Raphael always had his own agenda," Tom said. "He brought this on himself. The department will investigate his death, but they won't like him being in Tijuana. Narcotics, first thing they'll think, and they won't want to touch this. No, our only concern is finding the two guys. Our boys made a mistake, but the one in charge knows his business. They'll come through."

"They've got a whole city to cover," Everett said. "From what you're telling me, even the police can't catch them - how will our guys? How do we know who even has the DVDs at this point? A damned mess - nobody more religious than you and right off the bat, your team kills two people and accomplishes nothing. If I hadn't listened to you it would have been over by now."

"Hey buddy, not so serious."

Everett looked across a divider that separated the booths. A man with a baseball cap nodded to him. He was sitting with two babes in their late 70s.

"It's the stock market - I took a beating this week," Everett answered.

The man grinned back. "These are my only investments - I never lose," he said, pointing to the two women, who were trying desperately to smile.

"You know him?" Tom asked.

"It's called being friendly, Tom. Shit, I don't know the guy. He's wearing a fucking baseball cap."

"No reason to..."

"Lots of reason, Tom. Like I said before, you're a religious man – involved in a God damned slaughter. And we're God damned accessories."

"No reason to use the Lord's name. What happened down there is in how you see it. Repugnant acts for the greater good."

"Tom, don't start in about Mayan sacrifices for rain. You're talking anthropology, and this is Film at 11."

"No different than Iraq. Sometimes there's collateral damage."

Everett pursed his lips, staring at Tom."So you're going down there?"

Tom checked his watch. "Seven now. I'll be there a little after 9."

Everett waved for the check."I'm not sure you realize how you sound, Tom, but

I know you, so it's okay with me, but for your own good you should be careful."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A few hours away from Los Angeles, Doggy was being led down a hallway in the noisy, confusing Tijuana police station, where nervous wives and girlfriends of prisoners were waiting patiently amid food vendors in the entrance area. The hallway led to a much quieter wing than the one in which he spent the night. He had no idea why he was being held here. He was the victim, as much as Alfonso was.

The heavy-set policeman leading him was becoming more and more conscious of his uniform as they walked, playing with his tie and fidgeting with the wide belt that showed under his short jacket.

It made Doggy think about his own appearance - he hadn't shaved or washed, both of which he did most days.

The cop hesitated as they approached an open door, and then waved Doggy into an office with newly painted light green stucco walls, covered almost completely with photographs of a police officer with various political figures. Doggy looked from the photos to the man sitting at the desk - the policeman from the photos, wearing lieutenant's bars. The man nodded and the heavyset policeman disappeared.

Two men in suits stood along the back wall, and the authority in the room clearly belonged to them.

"Cafecito?" one of the men asked.

Doggy, resident of too many jails in the past, had never been offered coffee in a jail in such a caring tone. Especially by men in suits.

What could they want? He never had anything anybody wanted. Maybe he knew something. No, he thought, he didn't know shit. Only thing he knew, he'd seen those two Yankee assholes that shot Alfonso. Could that be it? Well, he'd seen them. He could identify them. Maybe that was it. Maybe he had a memory that had some value.

"A little coffee would be very nice," he answered.

# FIFTEEN

Sitting in that chair at the Tijuana motel window, sleeping on and off, Stan was wakened by the early morning light, which also roused Marvin. Their brief sleep restored them for the moment, and with little conversation each hit the bathroom to do something about his appearance; it didn't help - both still looked like hell when quietly they ran down the motel steps to the taxi they had called.

Riding north on Agua Caliente. Marvin, yawning, hand over his mouth, ever hopeful, said, "The border. What do you think?"

"Think it's any easier now?"

"This street isn't any safer"

"We'll be on Revolucion in a minute. Let's talk about it there."

The cab dropped them off at Sanborn's, still fairly empty on a Sunday morning.

"What now?" Marvin asked, entering the store, gazing at the different departments - perfumes, leather purses, Hermes scarves.

"Let's have some coffee and think," Stan said.

"So close to the border."

"You want to try it, go ahead."

"I can't stop thinking about it."

They stood at the entrance of the store's coffee shop, waiting to be seated. "Things will cool off," Stan said. "They can't keep the border as tight as it is. We'll talk to some lawyers in L.A. Maybe, somebody with some pull in the State Department. We need to hole up for a couple of days."

Still waiting, Marvin came to life, "I know where," he said. "South of here, Rosarito, the Casuela Hotel."

"A little in the open, don't you think?"

"You don't like it, we don't stay."

They swung around and left.

There were cabs waiting outside Sanborn's, but they walked deeper into the tourist area and let one of the taxi hustlers think he'd talked them into his car.

Marvin told the driver what road he wanted him to take, and he spun out, turning back briefly onto Agua Caliente until reaching a sign nailed to a telephone pole, reading: 1 Rosarito, pointing south. The driver followed the sign off Agua Caliente onto Calle Cuauhtemoc, which was slowly turning from a residential area into a dusty highway.

Marvin stared at the drab scenery - they hadn't hit the coast yet. "We're okay on this old road," he said. "Most people take the toll road. The highway sliced through low brown hills, with only occasional stop lights and even less traffic. "Really, no reason for them to look for us there," he continued. ""It's the opposite direction of the border, thirty miles away. Big hideout for movie stars."

"Yeah, in the 1940s."

"But recently restored," Marvin reassured. "They shoot movies there – in Rosarito - big tanks, sound stages, built for 'The Titanic.' Marvin looked at the scenery and sighed, "Poor Sandy. I can't believe she's dead. What do we do? I mean, her body - the funeral. Jesus."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Casuela Hotel was a mixture of a recently renovated 1940s main building and a new 1990s wing. The lobby was a large open area, with tiled floors, shops and two restaurants. There was an active morning hum in the air, with tourists wandering in for breakfast, ready to plan their day. Two American women presided over a well-placed desk, selling time shares for a condo tower shown in an artist's sketch. The display was augmented by a TV monitor and VCR offering video views of model apartments.

Coming out of the gift shop were two men out of an American Express ad - mid-30s, natty in linen shorts, Polo crew-neck shirts, hair well-trimmed and sunglasses – Stan and Marvin. It would take a great stretch of the imagination to connect these two smooth dudes with the grimy, long-haired, unshaven pair who had checked in earlier that morning. But after each had spent 20 minutes showering away the trauma of the previous night, and Marvin shaved off his beard and Stan trimmed Marvin's hair and used the bleach to turn him into a blonde and combed in a part to make a Mormon proud, they had invaded the hotel shops like teens with dad's plastic, buying shirts, blouses, slacks, shorts.

Somehow, without the beard, bushy hair and leather jacket Marvin didn't look as big: swapping his cowboy boots for sneakers was part of it. He was still a big guy, but normal big, not quite as fearsome or unique, and Stan couldn't help staring at him from time to time, trying to adjust to the transformation. Strolling through the lobby, Stan, feeling good about their new look, nodded to the American woman at the Time Share Desk, and she pitched very quickly: "Let us show you how easy it is to own a weekend escape villa."

"Very attractive," he said, stopping to look at the video: a view of a room facing toward the Pacific, enjoying the distraction of the trivial sales chatter. He turned to see Marvin glowering, and waved her off with "Maybe later."

The main hotel restaurant, which led off the lobby, looked promising. The morning sun bounced off the ocean, filtering through the haze into the restaurant's tiled arches. The dining room was almost full, but it was deceptive, since the volume was low decibel and the room low-energy; even the few children seemed on guard and last night's drunks were whispering. A hostess led them to a patio table near a window overlooking the beach and they swooped down on the menus.

"I'm torn between nausea and hunger," Marvin said.

"Let's concentrate on hunger for the moment."

Marvin closed the menu, looking around. "Where the hell's the waiter?"

"Jesus. Relax. You just sat down. Let's not attract any attention. You couldn't have read the menu that quickly."

The new blond, yuppie Marvin was still a shock, requiring great self restraint for Stan not to laugh.

"What the hell's so funny?" Marvin said, running his hand through his hair, still adjusting as a blond.

Stan whispered, "When you dress up children their behavior usually improves. For Christ's sake, either keep it down, or I'm going upstairs and order room service."

The waiter arrived, asking if they were ready to order. Like waving a gazelle at a lion. Marvin went after him:"Yes...Eggs. An omelette. Spanish omelette. Sausage. Maybe some hot cakes on the side. Some bacon. Orange juice. That's it for now. No, add a couple of sweet rolls."

The waiter looked at Stan, who responded, "Lo mismo para mi."

Marvin glared at Stan as the waiter wrote down the order and walked off.

"Lo mismo?" Marvin said.

"The same."

"I know what lo mismo means. That was cute."

"God, you're impossible. I should have told him to rush with the food."

Marvin ran his hand through his new hair again. "Okay, we have our new look," he said, "but this is fucking reckless. We should stay in the room for a couple of days, like you've been saying, let things cool down."

"I agree, but..."

"Then, why are we here?"

"Because maids talk. These guys will check out the hotels, talk to the head housekeepers. Dangle some money. Are there two guys who never leave their room? The housekeepers will ask the maids. We should be normal, like normal tourists, checking out the babes, which, as you can see, is fantasy at this point. We can stay in the room - not too much."

There was a rustle of activity at the entrance of the restaurant. An elaborate wedding cake was being wheeled by the door, followed by a slim young woman with a professional model Canon Digital Camcorder.

"I guess they don't have much breaking news here," Marvin said.

The waiter returned with a handful of plates, setting down their order, along with toast, butter and a bowl of salsa. Marvin blotted out the rest of the world and plunged in. Stan wasn't sure why he ordered all that he'd ordered, but figured Marvin could scarf what was left. Reality was seeping back in and Stan was slow in starting to eat. Not so Marvin, who was eating like someone had fired a starting pistol.

Marvin looked up from the eggs. "Okay, what's bothering you?" he asked, reaching for the toast. "Just as long you don't tell me anything that's going to interfere with my breakfast."

"Just the DVDs, the DVDs. What the hell can be this important?"

Marvin looked up. "If you see that waiter, nudge him for more coffee," he smiled. "See how my mood changes when you feed me."

While there were many couples in the dining room, mostly young, very young, early 20s, the demographics were fairly wide - large groups of college age males, but judging from the way they kept checking the entrance, it was an easy guess their female counterparts would be joining them shortly. There were also a few tables with smooth-faced men in their early 50s, hair slightly grey, expensively cut, talking earnestly to their younger male companions.

While haircuts, bleach and Polo shirts were one way to change Marvin's look, Stan realized the easiest path to invisibility would be to find a couple of women, transforming them instantly from two nervous assholes on the run into two couples screwing around on a weekend.

Either single women were sleeping in this Sunday morning, or this hotel wasn't listed in any singles directory, that is, until now. Two women, both in their early 30s, not bad looking, were at the entrance. Stan hoped no husbands lagging behind.

The hostess was talking to them, and trying not to stare, Stan thought they pointed to a table near them. Or, did they? They were led to the two empty tables close by, and since they weren't making an issue about which they preferred, he figured they couldn't be in the movie business. Stan had already forgotten about breakfast.

# SIXTEEN

Mariano's War-room was in a frenzy. The smell of breakfast spread through the building propelled by a cook in the galley frying onions for omelets. Boxes of breakfast pastries were on the large dining/meeting table and half a dozen men were sitting there, some eating.

They looked up as Mariano entered with Tom Ellison. Mariano waved grandly at the food. "Have something, an omelette?"

"I ate in L.A. Not that I had much appetite. Not after this string of stupidity." Tom found an empty corner of a long table. Mariano sat opposite him.

"Let's move past blame," Mariano said. "Bad choices were made on every level. The police are fixed on Willis and Rowan. Willis' car, Rowan's wallet; they found the gun that Willis took from Carlos. They're checking for Willis' fingerprints."

Tom waved a hand cutting Mariano off. "Before you get any deeper," he said, "The boys were using Tec-9s, which are coated with Tec-Kote. Tec-Kote retards the corrosive effect of body oils, meaning no fingerprints. The Tec-9 has frustrated every law enforcement agency in the world, but you say the Tijuana police, with their superior technology, are checking to lift prints."

Mariano smiled. "The police here are not that technical. They feel if they could test the gun it would have his fingerprints. It's just a matter of faith."

Tom shook his head. "Attributing fingerprints. Makes as much sense as anything else so far. How are they positioning this?"

The others were watching the conversation like it was a tennis match, heads slowly swinging from Tom to Mariano and back. The fingerprint volley had them in awe.

"Their first thought, a drug deal gone bad, But now they're not so sure. What were they doing at the market? Why shoot that idiot? They have his friend, who says he knows no reason why. The police are pretty sure they shot their way out of a holdup, but whatever the reason, it works for the police, establishing that the Americans are running crazy. That one of the dead Americans at the restaurant was retired LAPD makes it even crazier for them."

"From what I know LAPD hasn't been notified yet."

"They're waiting, hoping they might have something more to tell them by Monday."

"How long are they going to work the border like they are?"

"No way to tell. They don't want their tourist business tampered with - bad as it has become. On the other hand they like the idea that Americans killed Americans on Mexican soil. It allows them to be outraged."

Tom walked to the rough map blow-ups, now heavily marked. "We keep thinking they're going to try for the border, but why? This area is swarming with people who'd like to decapitate them. They could be anywhere."

Enrique approached them. "There is one thing definite," he said.

Everybody waited.

"No car. Unless they stole one this morning - if they're moving, they're using taxis." He turned away from Tom and Mariano to face the men. "So, move your asses, ask some questions. Talk to the drivers."

"Tell them there's a $1,000 reward if their tip works, if we get them," Tom added.

# SEVENTEEN

When Marvin looked up from his sweet roll he saw Stan sitting at the table with the two women. Making a move on women was not one of Stan's great skills, but panic has a way of making you challenge your limitations, and even before the women had a chance to glance at their menus, he was at their table talking to them – soaring far beyond bar pickup chatter, rambling on about the charms of a get-away weekend, carrying on about the tensions of the romantic world of high tech software. As if his days were like being at the wheel during the Grand Prix. They didn't yawn or call for security, and he waved over Marvin, who was about to reach for Stan's untouched sweet roll. He introduced them, Terry Scanlon and Carol Benson.

Stan and Marvin had their coffee while the women had their breakfast, and discussed their employment - the Madison Company in San Diego, incredibly boring jobs at a title research firm. But it was reliable and secure and not at all like their previous jobs at an electronics company whose Air Force contract was canceled, plunging it out of the fast track, sending management into exploring the kitchen appliance market.

A half hour later they were on the tennis court, three passable bodies and one larger than life. Many big men were surprisingly graceful, but Marvin was not one of them, pursuing the ball with such heavy tracks that his partner Carol kept glancing about, certain that the match would end with her being trampled to death.

Terry, a brunet, hair cut fairly short, wore little makeup and had the sort of features that grew in definition the more you looked at her - attractive in a handsome, crisp way with a gentle laugh that Stan thought he would find appealing at any time, much less this weekend from hell. And she laughed constantly, watching Carol cringe as Marvin dodged by her.

Carol, however, treated Marvin as if he were an actual member of the human race, being gentle with him, apologizing for ducking when his racquet whizzed by her head. She was taller and a little more raw-boned than Terry and her light blond hair flew around her face as she ran cautiously around Marvin.

An hour of tennis was more than any of them could take, which they followed by walking on the beach deep into a conversation that was more questions and answers, feeling each other out, and touching on the sexual choices, parsimony, politics, liver spots, I.Q., skin condition and addictions of Los Angeles' TV, movie personalities and newscasters. It didn't matter that neither Marvin or Stan had the first bit of information on anyone mentioned, since they improvised recklessly no matter whose name came up.

Stan realized he had to change the conversation when the women tossed in a ringer, a nine-year-old TV sitcom star. Marvin, who had never heard of the child and had no idea of his age, slandered the youngster breezily, labeling him the worst kind of sexual deviate.

Seeing the revulsion spreading across the women's faces, Stan jumped in, explaining quickly that Marvin had confused the youngster with a notorious, much older actor with the same name, who was now living in bitter isolation near Bend, Oregon..

They turned onto a path from the beach, leading to a patio bar adjoining the hotel terrace, and sat at one of the tables.

"I want something with a coconut, umbrella and a cherry," Terry said, "Something that says vacation."

"Makes sense to me," said Marvin.

Stan waved at a young woman carrying a tray of drinks, ordered. The drinks came, and then more drinks. Talking, laughing he hoped they resembled many of the other couples seated in the flower-filled patio. Marvin was actually being charming; Terry and Janet had spent their last vacation in Europe, and he was talking about French bistros and arrondissements, and Stan was twitching, wondering when the next shoe would fall.

In the background a group of children in dressy wedding clothes were being organized for a photo session. The boys were in dark jackets and shorts, the girls in white and pink embroidered dresses. The youngsters were being led by the young woman seen earlier with the Canon camcorder. She had them running toward her camera, tossing an inflated beach ball for them to bat around, romping on the flower-filled patio in their spiffy clothes. Stan was so taken with the innocence of the scene, he lost control for the moment, saying, "Hard to believe we're not here on a simple weekend romp," the words coming out of his mouth before he could think.

Marvin looked stunned.

"We're not?" Carol asked, looking confused.

"That's what I mean...We are..." Stan said, trying to recoup, saved by the waitress with the drinks.

Desperate to move beyond his gaffe, he glanced at his watch and asked, "Getting hungry?"

Again Terry and Carol checked each other, each trying to gauge the other's response. The point of no return – if they agreed to go for lunch, this could be it, Stan felt, their camouflage. Marvin jumped in, "Let's shower, regroup in an hour and then, massive lobsters in Puerto Nuevo."

Hearing Puerto Nuevo, Terry jerked slightly, again catching Carol's eye. "Or, we could go somewhere else," Marvin said, not sure how to read their reactions. "No, that's fine," agreed Carol. "Really. It's just that we were talking about it on the way down from San Diego."

It was Stan's reaction that should have concerned him. What was he thinking of, Stan thought. Puerto Nuevo, half hour away, not that long ago jammed with tourists – who knows these days - instead of something quiet and discreet, close to the hotel. Too late now. Marvin draped one of his massive arms around Carol's shoulders as he talked, giving her a suggestion of a hug. Terry leaned closer to Stan, interrupting his concerns about Puerto Nuevo, and he slipped his arm around her waist. "So, then, Puerto Nuevo," Stan said, as if it had been his idea.

"There's an old saying among Mexican Indians, never plan your meals too far in advance – you're challenging the Gods," Terry said. "But, since I'm not an indian I'm so hungry they can toss my lobster on the grill right now." Laughing, they walked toward the lobby.

And then it occurred to Stan, how to explain they don't have a

car?

Reaching the lobby Terry and Carol waved and walked briskly toward their room in an opposite direction from Stan and Marvin, who stood awkwardly in the lobby, feeling denuded as their protective coloring marched off. A fidgety Marvin pointed to the lobby men's room and took off, handing the shoulder pack to Stan.

Looking toward the women at the time share sales table, Stan noticed the confusion around their TV monitor, and moved closer. At least, it wouldn't be as obvious as standing alone. One of the time share women saw that he'd returned and nodded to the poster of the new tower. "Thinking about it?"

"Well, sort of." He gestured toward the monitor. "Problem?"

"Always on a weekend," the woman answered. "I don't know whether it's the machine or the cassette."

Marvin returned, watched from a distance, and they started toward their rooms. "What is it with you and the time shares?" he asked.

"A moment of normal life."

He mumbled something and kept walking.

Watching him, all Stan could think of was how Marvin had got him into this mess, the feeling boiling over as he snapped, "Marvin, what's on these DVDs? What the fuck is going on - you must have some idea. The cop must have told you something."

"Jesus, how many margaritas did you have? Let's get to our room?"

The hotel room at the Casuela was a distant upscale relative of the motels of the previous night. This room faced the calm Pacific Ocean, a permanent Baja haze blocking the fiercest of the sun's rays. Its light, however, poured into the room, a far more positive mood than the previous two motels. Or at least it was until the door swung open and they entered, slamming the door behind them. Stan fell onto a sofa, reached for his cell.

They were using one room, registering under the names of Bourke and Clark, paying in advance in cash. The clothing purchases were strewn around what was called a suite, but was actually one large room with two double beds; it stepped down into an area where two small sofas faced each other at the window looking onto the ocean. Between the sofas was a coffee table with a splash of tourist brochures.

Stan called his attorney. "Lou, Stan again," he shouted. "Any ideas?" The attorney said, "I think we should go by the book on this. Bring in a criminal attorney. I'll make the call. It's been all over the TV. How can I reach you?"

"I'll call you," slamming the phone shut. "Asshole."

Marvin fell onto the opposite couch, punched numbers into his cell, listened, and was strangely intent. He cut it off, redialed and listened again. And again, strangely intent. And then, very quietly, he said, "Well, at least, some idea of what's going on."

"Huh?"

Marvin held up his cell, punched redial, handed Stan the phone. "My machine at home."

Stan heard some beeps, finally, a voice: "Marvin, Raphael here. Hope I haven't missed you. If you pick this up, call the trip off. The LAPD knows I've been talking to you, not sure whether they know about today's meeting, but with their surveillance shit, who knows? An old friend on the job called here this morning. Sorry, I got you involved, but I was only trying to help. I'll wait to hear from you." It beeped.

Stan was stunned. They should have been home in L.A. Throwing the phone back to Marvin, he lost it, slamming his fist into the wall. "Son of a bitch , couldn't he have called earlier? Or something?" Why get us in the middle of this? Damn, why didn't you check on the drive from L.A.?"

"I just didn't," Marvin said. "Hey, it's not as if Raphael got a free pass."

# EIGHTEEN

About time he finally got a break, thought Doggy. What a fuckin' sweet life this is. Man, have I been on the wrong side of the fuckin' law.

The slicked-up Doggy was sitting at a small table about ten feet away from the tunnel or passageway that foot traffic takes from Mexico to the United States. Police manned three desks, checking passports of those Americans waiting to return to the United States.

"We don't want to frighten the tourists," one of the suits had said earlier, justifying the efforts of a barber trimming Doggy's hair. They sent him to the showers, had him slip into a pair of light blue slacks, white shirt and tan leather jacket, all courtesy of the police. The good life.

Doggy had heard rumors about the Americans being seen in bars and cars around Tijuana, but these reports had all played out wrong, which only made Doggy more important to the Tijuana police, a new feeling for this 28-year-old felon, who was born and raised in Tijuana by a mother who had come up from Morelos, hoping to slip into California - a trip she never made, but one taken frequently by her son whose life was a series of petty crimes on both sides of the border.

He sat between two denim-jacketed detectives from the State Police, both wearing radio head sets, their holsters and demeanor far more threatening than the two soldiers with rifles standing behind the other tables. It didn't take him long to figure out that the state police had no confidence in the local police. As if half of the state police weren't also on the payroll of the narco-mafia and kidnappers.

From where Doggy sat he could scan the long line of foot traffic waiting to cross, and after eight hours of faces he had the horrible feeling that the memory of the two Americans may have been fading. But, he forced himself to go back into his memory and retrieve those images - especially that huge gorilla. He had been told that the Americans may have tried to change their looks, cutting off the big one's hair and beard, but no one had any proof. In any case, the size – what can they do with that? Doggy would remember him.

The detective on the left whispered to him, " Maybe they have a car hidden, maybe not. So, we have to check the car lines too."

A motorcycle cop, boots gleaming, creases in the shirt finely outlined, pulled up in front of Doggy and nodded, obviously not thrilled at the less than macho assignment of carrying someone on the back of his bike. Doggy, on the other hand, swaggered over, looking around to see who was watching and off they went checking the lines of cars, peering into their windows, jarring even further the already jittery nerves of the motorists.

# NINETEEN

The Pacific Ocean stretched outside the window, but it couldn't distract Stan from Marvin's cell phone revelation – if only the God damned fool had played that message on the way down. In frustration he tried the cell war hassle again and got through to Jerry Bach and Vernon Prado, both of whom were out when he had called the night before. Both were interested, and why not? Stan's offer was $10,000 each if they came up with some way to pull them out. Sounded good, very good, each said, they'd get right on it. Stan said he would call them back. Neither bothered to ask for details.

Marvin returned from the shower. "All yours," he said. Stan entered the bathroom, facing the scattered towels and started to say something, instead he kicked the used towels into a corner and stepped into the shower.

When Stan came out, Marvin, with towel draped around him, was on the sofa working the phone, an old girl friend on the line, and judging from Marvin's side of the conversation Stan had the feeling the woman was probably doing her nails as he spoke. When Marvin got around to offering $10,000, her response had Marvin shouting, "What's that crap – am I'm sober?"

Marvin threw his phone down. "So, where are we?" he asked.

"The same as half hour ago – do whatever to keep the girls happy – they're camouflage. Play this as long as we can. Which brings us to Puerto Nuevo – why there, and no bullshit?"

Marvin shrugged. "A long shot - Sandy was going to meet someone there for lunch today – I told her we were leaving at 4, she said she'd call, maybe go back with her friend. I figure, maybe the friend doesn't know what happened, and can help in some way. Can't hurt."

"Who was she supposed to meet?"

"An old girlfriend. I don't know who, but, I know where. I'll leave Sandy's name up front, and maybe whoever it is will ask for her. It's a gamble. What's to lose?"

"Meanwhile, we're without a car," Stan said. "How do we explain that?"

"We don't – we're too tired to drive – why not take a taxi?"

Terry and Carol, leaning against the assistant manager's desk, waved as they entered the lobby. They had decided to leave the shoulder bag in the hotel's safe, so waving back, they detoured to the reception desk where Marvin checked the bag.

Terry was wearing a pink silk blouse and a pair of tan linen shorts, a beach look, with her dark hair, still wet, pulled back and tied into a small pony tail. The morning sun had brought out a few freckles on her cheeks. Carol was in denim shorts and a tank top, her light blond hair combed back, framing her face.

They looked great, Stan thought, especially considering it had been desperation time when he approached them at breakfast, prepared to settle for anything remotely female and ambulatory.

Marvin and Stan had dressed for lunch out of the morning's tourist shop purchases: Stan in dark blue slacks and a striped blue and white cotton shirt, the simplest shirt available in a gift shop flush with bright, flowered alternatives. There were only two pair of slacks that even came remotely close to fitting Marvin and he bought both of them, intimidating the tailor to have them altered by noon. He was wearing a light blue T-shirt, carrying a blue sailing jacket with Raphael's pistol in its pocket.

"Thought you boys were hungry," Terry said, laughing. "Let's move it."

Stan had rehearsed the moment. "Let's really relax," he said. "No driving, no pressure. A cab to Puerto Nuevo."

"Not sure anyone used relax and taxi in the same sentence in Mexico," Carol said. "But, why not – an adventure."

Marvin returned from the reception desk and they walked outside as the sun was disappearing into the clouds. No chill in the air yet, but the promise was there.

There were two highways leading south from Rosarito to Puerto Nuevo - the well tended, landscaped toll road, and the native, funkier ribbon of character, the Rota Libre, the free road, that runs along the ocean, meandering past diverse roadside shops. Driving in a taxi along the free road, Terry, Carol and Stan were squeezed into the rear seat, Marvin up front. Trying to remain in tourist mode, Stan asked the driver to slow down passing the pottery shops alongside the road, fronted by their irregular lines of whimsically shaped terra cotta.

The drive was so removed from yesterday's brutal reality Stan actually allowed himself the brief fantasy of being on a holiday. Very brief. He snapped back to the moment - who was it that might meet them at the restaurant in Puerto Nuevo? Could be four pistoleros. Marvin said Sandy's lunch date had been for 2:30. Stan checked his watch: 2:10. Plenty of time.

"You all right?" Terry whispered. "So quiet."

"All that exercise this morning; I'm starving," Stan said, dropping his hand briefly on Terry's knee. She placed her hand on top of it. When she removed her hand he lifted his too, as if to reassure her she wasn't with a maniac.

Looming directly ahead was Puerto Nuevo, a cluster of small buildings squeezed between the highway and the ocean, a former fishing village whose fishermen had converted their homes into restaurants. A quiet, little hideaway 15 minutes from Rosarito and 45 minutes from the border. Lobsters caught this morning were on the table this afternoon. At least, that's how it was before being discovered in the 1970s by college kids from San Diego, weekenders from Los Angeles and occasional tourists from abroad.

Now, some more than 40 years later, there had been little change in geography, but in density. The same three block area that had few restaurants was now swollen with restaurants, many owned by the same family, using the same name, but numbering them, as in Ortega 3. Sequels made sense to most Southern Californians, so no one thought twice about all the similar names. The other change, of course, was in the origin of the lobsters: the waters around Puerto Nuevo had been fished so heavily the lobsters frequently came from further south, some as far away as Tortuga Bay, almost a 24 hour trip by fishing boat.

Or, if those suppliers were running low they might be serving frozen lobster tails flown in from Australia and South Africa. Their origins were irrelevant because by the time the customers loaded up on Mexican beer, beans and rice and home-made tortillas who'd be able to question the lobster's provenance? Also irrelevant was the customer's choice of preparation, since all lobsters in all the restaurants in Puerto Nuevo went through the same beginnings: first sliced in half and dropped into a pan and sautéed in grease and garlic. If you ordered them grilled they hit the grill only after being slapped into the grease pan. And whether boiled, fried or grilled they tasted pretty much the same

Many of the places had decor best described as simple, almost dining hall style, designed so that frenzied college kids could drink enough beer to make half of them sick before they reach the border, eat enough lobster with melted butter to ensure enduring prosperity for San Diego cardiologists, pile up enough shells to simulate an Aztec pyramid and wind up with a good fist fight without causing a peso's worth of dining room restoration. But that early look was also being rethought, and there were now a number of slicker looking establishments trying to entice the tourist who was ready to move on to a more civilized ambiance.

The taxi pulled through one of the two large brick arches, both of which were topped with a large plastic sign reading Puerto Nuevo Lobster Village, with a picture of a cute little lobster in between Lobster and Village. The driver turned onto a dusty cobble-stoned street lined on either side with parked cars, almost 75% of which had American license plates. He slowed and Marvin said something. They piled out of the taxi, watching it drive off before walking toward whatever destination Marvin had in mind.

There was a relaxed mood in the village; outside some of the restaurants hawkers spoke in greeting card prose about the culinary wonders waiting inside. Since lobster was the reason everyone was there and since the prices were all relatively the same, their pitch was more weakly poetic than descriptive. The group slowed to inspect each restaurant Marvin moved them on.

After two blocks he said, "Yeah, there \- that's the one I heard about," pointing toward a restaurant called La Estrallita. Since everyone was delighted a decision was made, no one was about to challenge the choice.

They entered bedlam: a wide demographic mix, but dominated by American tourists in their early 20s. Lobster shells were stacked on tables like badges of honor, mixed in with empty beer bottles, mostly Corona. Mariachi music cut through the talk.

The young woman up front suggested a table near the door, but a party was leaving a table facing the ocean and Terry pointed to it. The woman shrugged and led them to the table, walking past the mariachi group.

"Yea," Terry said, celebrating her minor victory.

Marvin grabbed the hostess before she left, slipping her a $20 bill, telling her that someone might be looking for them, asking for a Sandy Blakemore. He told her to write the name down. The woman, folding the bill into her pocket, cheerfully said, "Si, senor."

"Someone joining us?" Terry asked.

"A friend of mine thought he might be here this weekend," Marvin said. "He usually eats here." The women weren't really listening, instead scanning the lobsters on the neighboring tables.

The busboy slapped down a bowl of tortilla chips and salsa. Beer and margaritas came, the former for Marvin and Stan. They ordered: lobsters, three medium and one grande, more beer and margaritas.

The drinks finally moved the conversation away from safe San Diego and L.A. geography into personal lives. Both women had been married, both ending with few fond memories. Terry wrapped her arm around Stan's and he placed his hand over it, hoping not to appear too distracted.

Lunch arrived: bowls of tomato flavored rice, refried beans, large, hot tortillas and the massive dish of halved lobsters. Conversation ended.

Before the waiter left Marvin asked if there was an Estrallita Dos or Tres. "No," the waiter said. "Solamente una. Aqui." Sandy's missing friend wasn't down the street seeking the wrong Estrallita. The friend must have gotten the message about last night.

As they ate, the men continuing to glance at the door, and the empty shells landing on the serving platter, the table slowly began to resemble the surrounding carnage.

The mariachis moved closer, one of them, violin under his chin, walked to the large window facing the street as he played.

The hostess, walking by the table, said to Marvin, "Your friend is not coming?"

"Guess not," Marvin answered.

She reached for the plate of discarded lobster shells and handed it to a passing busboy. "You know that musician," she asked, "the one with the violin?"

"Don't think so," said Marvin.

"He said you look familiar. Are you in the cine?"

Marvin laughed and said, no. As she walked off, Carol teased Marvin. "I'll bet you are – hiding out this weekend." Marvin, playing along, said he'd been hoping not to be found out. The mariachi, the one who thought he recognized Marvin, oddly enough, looked familiar to Stan, and then it hit – the birthmark under his right eye – he was the one who had asked to break the $50 bill at El Abajeno. The change in Marvin's looks must have thrown him. Marvin, ordinarily, would not be easy to forget.

"He thought he knew you because he was at El Abajeno last night," Stan said to Marvin.

"Oh, where's that?" Terry asked.

"Tijuana," Marvin said, nodding to Stan. He understood the problem.

"Fun?" Carol asked.

"Okay," Marvin said. "A simple restaurant."

There was a break in the music and the mariachi reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a cell phone and walked to the rear; a small piece of paper was held in place by the cell's flip cover. It was obvious he was heading for a quiet place to make the call; the sanest corner, the men's room. He passed their table, and it was obvious he was trying not to look at them, continuing toward the rear. Marvin stood up and excused himself. A waiter, guessing at Marvin's needs, also pointed to the rear, saying, "El bano."

# TWENTY

The men's room at La Estrallita was to the rear of the dining area, a few steps away from the kitchen. As Marvin approached the bathroom he saw the musician, leaning against the door, holding his violin and bow under his arm, glancing at the slip of paper, punching numbers into his cell. He held the phone to his ear.

The bedlam of the front was magnified near the kitchen, with the popping grease and the shouts of the kitchen crew. The mariachi never heard Marvin walk up behind him, never knew what was happening when Marvin reached around and yanked the phone out of his hand. Outraged, he spun around. Marvin shoved his pistol into the man's stomach. "Silencio," said Marvin.

The waiter, who had routed Marvin, rushed by on his way to the kitchen, pointing to the bathroom. "Aqui," he shouted, running, never noticing Marvin's pistol. "Gracias. Occupado," Marvin shouted after him.

"Inside," Marvin said to the mariachi, shoving him into the bathroom, where there was barely enough room for one, almost impossible for two, much less, one of them the size of Marvin. A small, square room with a urinal, toilet and sink.

"What do you want?" the mariachi asked. "I have no money."

"Who were you calling?"

The man shrugged, "My wife. Why do you care? What do you want?"

"So important you had to do it between songs?"

The man, frightened of both the gun and strong possibility that he might say the wrong thing, just looked at him. Marvin raised the pistol as if to slap him. The musician's nerve gave way. He raised his hand. "No, momento. Okay, not my wife."

"Who?"

"Senor Mariano."

"Who's Senor Mariano?"

"Un Mexicano. From Tijuana. He talks to everyone who saw you at El Abajeno. Even those not at El Abajeno. He offers much dinero if we see you, and call him."

The mariachi knew he was just the thickness of the door away from freedom and an escape from the crazy giant who, he'd heard, had already killed two people. The mariachi would never have recognized him from the previous night, except for his size.

Marvin scanned the tiny space, deciding what to do next; the mariachi noted Marvin's distraction and reached for the doorknob to bolt. Marvin grabbed him, wrapping one of his giant hands around the man's neck, pinning him to the wall, the legs moving, the body staying in place. Marvin, slipped the pistol into his pocket, and with two hands raised him by the throat until they faced each other. "You want to die?" Marvin whispered.

The man wheezed, trying to shake his head no, his natural bronze coloring turning a sickly grey. Marvin dropped him, the man's feet hitting the floor with a thud, his knees buckling. Marvin tore off the man's belt and placed him on the toilet seat, where he sat gasping and rubbing his throat. Quickly, Marvin stripped the man's shoelaces, pulled the man's hands behind him, binding them with the laces. Marvin knew the shoelaces weren't going to hold him very long, but he wasn't going to be there very long in any case, since someone would want to use the bathroom. Marvin pulled the man's belt out of its loops and wrapped it back around him backwards, securing the mariachi to the toilet's pipe that ran to the ceiling.

Marvin shoved the violinist's chin handkerchief into the man's mouth, then wrapped the mouth with the mariachi's small scarf. Done. He opened the door, pressed the button locking it from the inside and shut it behind him.

When Marvin returned to the table, struggling to be cool, Stan had the group primed to leave. He had signaled for the bill and paid it, knowing that whatever was happening just around the corner, there was going to be a quick exit.

Outside Marvin whispered to Stan that the problem was locked in men's room. Three taxis were waiting at the cab stand. "Ah, that's what we want," Marvin said, as they poured into the cab. Starting the motor, the driver looked across the front seat for instructions from Marvin, but Stan leaned forward, tourist brochure in hand.

As Terry started to mention the Casuela Hotel, Stan waved the brochure, telling the driver, "Tijuana. The Rio Plaza Shopping Mall. You know where it is? Entiendes?"

The driver turned back to the front. "Si senor." Of course, he knew where it was.

Terry started to protest, but, again waving the brochure, Stan said, "According to this, well worth a visit. Bet you've never been there."

She looked at Carol, who shrugged.

"Supposed to have some great shops," he continued. .

She wanted to be convinced. "We were thinking of returning to San Diego this afternoon."

"Impossible," said Marvin, turning to the rear as the taxi drove through the lobster-topped towers, making a left turn onto the highway. "You're only a half hour from home," Marvin continued. "Do it in the morning." He reached over the seat, swallowing Carol's hand in his big paw.

"I don't know," Carol said, looking at Terry, who was going through the ritual of thinking hard, but it was no-contest. Terry dropped her hand on Stan's thigh, patted it briefly and said, "Why not?"

Pressure was off for the moment, the drive allowing Stan to consider the possibilities when the women leave. The only sanctuary appeared to be the American Embassy, which was closed on weekends. If they were to throw themselves at the mercy of the Embassy on Monday morning would they be turned over to the Mexican officials or shuffled out of the country? Since the Embassy had to observe the laws of the country, most likely turn them over. A good chance they couldn't even reach the Embassy, since the police or the thugs would probably have someone stationed outside the Embassy grounds to intercept them. There was a useless Embassy phone line 24/7 but what could they tell them? They could call the Los Angeles Times, but so what?

It was vital that they hold onto Terry and Carol, but that was only until Monday morning. So far, the women seemed flexible and inclined to indulge the eccentric suggestions. A weekend adventure. In any case, come Monday morning they're gone.

The taxi pulled in front of a mall that \- except for the signs being in Spanish - was reminiscent of many malls of the 1980s in the United States. The facade wasn't as fortress-like as most American malls, since store windows rather than brick walls faced the street. A large open entrance area flowed with people entering and leaving.

The mall faced the street, Ninos de Los Heroes, that ran north and south, a street on which they had driven briefly the previous night. With its park-like area dividing the opposing flows of traffic, the boulevard appeared more benign in daylight.

It wasn't sleek, since nothing in Tijuana could hardly be called sleek, but a far cry from the Tijuana of legend that conjures up visions of broken sidewalks, historic hooker bars, pastel-colored walls and relentless street vendors. Actually, it was a typical Third World contradiction, a boulevard that would be considered elegant in many cities, capped here by a shopping mall right out of monotonous American suburbia.

Marvin and the women stepped out of the cab, out of hearing range, and as Stan paid the driver he told him, "This will work out fine. We're right near our hotel. Shop for an hour and walk over to the Metropolitan from here."

Terry and Carol led the way into the mall, new shops to discover.

Marvin had had heard the conversation. "Is there really a Metropolitan?" he asked.

"A hotel, couple blocks south of the mall."

The mall wasn't enclosed and was U-shaped with two facing wings, a style of mall that Americans were re-discovering.

"We staying?" Marvin asked.

"For a few minutes. When they catch up with our driver they'll be pouring through here. There's a museum a block away – figure out a way to get them there."

Marvin laughed. "This is a mall, a mall with shops – you're going to tempt them with a museum?"

"We need something here, Marvin. Anything. Anything, but the truth."

They caught up with the women at a bakery looking into the window at the trays of pastries, cakes and hard rolls. Like all bakeries in Mexico, it was self service, the customers milling around, using tongs to fill their individual trays.

"Looks wonderful, doesn't it?" Carol said, burrowing into Marvin.

"It's hit and miss with Mexican bakeries. Not always as good as they look."

"Christ, just make small talk," Stan whispered to him.

"Well, it looks good to me," Terry said. "If I wasn't so stuffed I'd be in there."

Arm in arm our foursome moved to the next store.

The crowd flowed around them, a far different group from those in last night's market, more middle-class, more worldly.

They strolled by a book shop, an electronics store, an ice cream parlor, with mothers handing cones to their children, peering into the windows, a world where life was normal, where people weren't dodging thugs out to kill them.

Every time brakes screeched outside Stan jumped. They had to get out of there. "Seen enough?" he asked. "We should move on to the museum."

Carol and Terry looked at him as if he had lost his mind. "I think we just got here," Terry said, incredulously.

Marvin picked up on it and was trying. "Well," he said, groping, "One of their exhibits is Pancho Villa's favorite horse, stuffed." The women stared at him blankly."

"A stuffed horse?" said Carol.

"Oh, that's for us," he said, still groping. "Thought you'd like to see the clothes."

Carol, still jarred by the stuffed horse, asked, "What clothes – in a museum?"

Marvin was ready. "Oh, very nice stuff," he said, shooting blindly. "An exhibit of gowns from president's wives – from Diaz, Porfirio Diaz up to today."

It was amazing. Marvin shrugged. He had just jumped from a stuffed horse to Carmelita Romero Rubio Diaz without blinking an eye.

Carol and Terry were actually interested. "Who's Porfirio Diaz?" Terry asked.

"The last dictator of Mexico, like back in 1917," Marvin said.

Terry and Carol looked at each other, shrugged. "Really, all those gowns?" asked Carol, taken with Marvin's story.

Outside, they walked toward the Tijuana Cultural Center, a half block down the broad boulevard. The Center's park-like area had a serenity that seemed reassuring, with its young trees planted closely together creating shade and density. Set off 100 yards behind the street were the Cultural Center's two earth tone buildings - more dominant was a hemisphere, a massive circular ball, housing the Omni Theater, with a giant surrounding screen. A small poster announced a documentary about gorillas. The other building, set back from the Omni, was a square brick and glass museum that appeared particularly serene in its setting.

Two church buses were parked at the curb.

"Very nice," Marvin whispered to Stan, taking in the setting, the buildings, landscape, children. "Maybe, they won't think we've gone completely nuts, until we get inside."

"What do we tell them then?"

"Got the dates wrong. That ridiculous brochure of yours – wave that at 'em. That the exhibit actually starts next week."

The Tijuana Cultural Center was built in late 1970s in this newly developed park-like area of Tijuana's east side through the financing and the urging of the Federal government in Mexico City, which had become very uneasy with the growing cultural dislocation of its northern cities, whose residents were being heavily influenced by the American way of life.

The Cultural Center was more than a museum with gallery space. It was created as a reminder to the residents that Tijuana's soul was centered to the south, through a permanent exhibition that capsuled the history of Mexico and its various regions. The fact that it was built for Tijuana and its residents, and not aimed at tourists, was driven home by the exhibition monographs that were all in Spanish. No English translations. Simply unheard of in a city where English sometimes seems the first language.

The north had always been trouble for the Federal government, stretching back to the turn of the century when Pancho Villa and his army roamed at will, defying the Federal troops and leading forays into Texas, much to the embarrassment of Mexico City. Later, it was from the north that came the revolutionary forces of Villa, Venustiano Carranza and Alvaro Obregón, marching into Mexico City in 1914 to oust the dictator Gen. Victoriano Huerta.

More than 90 years later it was the north being pesky again, this time challenging the establishment political party, PRI, so strongly that it was swinging presidential elections away from them.

It was a long stretch from Mexico City to Tijuana, the most distant point from the Capitol of any major Mexican city, a city whose growth was unparalleled in the country. In the 1920s, Tijuana was a shanty town with a handful of residents, a fifth of them prostitutes; in the 1930s, a sin city where Americans, bored with prohibition, could gamble and drink, (a period examined in the movie, "Seabiscuit"); in the 1940s, a dangerous town primed to fleece visiting war-time servicemen from San Diego. In the 1970s, the City and Federal government began reassessing the city's direction, creating these new European-flavored boulevards and shopping areas on the eastern side of the city.

By the early 2000s, boasting over a million population, it had become the second largest city along the Pacific Coast, larger than San Diego, San Francisco or Seattle. Its population swelling, with a flow of residents from the interior hoping to capitalize on the city's growth, or arriving to use it as an illegal step-off point into the United States.

Stan, Marvin and the women entered the museum, passing a book shop and then a photo exhibit taken of village dances, an exhibit of little interest to Stan and Marvin's group, not to mention the line of youngsters ahead of them who were being herded by the nuns, priest and the few accompanying parents into the historical area of the building.

"So, where's the gowns?" Carol asked.

"Just hold on – I'll ask somebody," Marvin said.

# TWENTY ONE

Mariano and Enrique stood outside La Estrallita, talking to the mariachi with the birthmark, whose wife was trying to pull him away. She couldn't bear any more of his stories about a giant who grabbed him in the bathroom. Mariano had just given him three crisp $100 dollar bills, and the man was alternately rubbing his throat, massaging his hands and holding his chest as he explained what had happened.

El Abajeno was his regular job, he had been filling in for someone here in Puerto Nuevo. Since all the excitement of the previous night – the killings outside the restaurant - was still very much on his mind, he was startled to see the two Americans quietly eating lunch in Puerto Nuevo with two women. At first, he thought he must be wrong – they didn't look quite the same, and they were so calm. And the women were not there yesterday. But the more he looked at the big one he realized it was him – different hair, no beard, but he remembered how big he was. He walked to the back, near the men's room, to call Mariano when the giant attacked him. The different look - the blond hair, the shaved beard, the women, these new details piqued Mariano and Enrique's interest. They wanted to hear more.

The mariachi described the men and the women again and explained how after ten minutes in the bathroom a waiter found him there. As he spoke an ambulance pulled up, and the musician's wife dragged her husband to it, telling him he was a musician, not a detective.

Mariano and Enrique watched impatiently as the ambulance attendant sat the mariachi down to take his blood pressure. The attendant was absorbed in the mariachi's story of how he had been attacked by a gringo giant in the men's room. He asked what had taken place between them, should he check for rape? It was the final straw for the mariachi's wife, who shouted at the attendant, "What a filthy mind! How could you be trusted to work in an ambulance?"

While the attendant snapped back at the wife about his responsibilities, Enrique took advantage of the distraction, asking the musician, "How did the Americans leave?"

"Who knows? Maybe a car, maybe a taxi."

With the wife and the attendant reaching some sort of truce, she turned to find Enrique and Mariano back. Furious, she tried to wave them away, but Enrique ignored her, asking the musician, "Where do the taxis line up?"

"Mostly over there, on that corner."

Mariano asked the musician to call him if he remembered anything, and reminded him that when the police arrived he was to say he had been calling the police when the gringo shoved him into the bathroom. The musician nodded, and Mariano pulled out another $100 bill and told the man to take it easy.

The wife watched Mariano leave, and turned back to her husband, "More money than you make in a month," she shouted at him. "What did happen in that bathroom?"

Enrique walked to the corner and spoke to the cab drivers standing there. One of them thought he might remember a foursome that fit that description. Enrique handed him two twenties. The man nodded.

"Gustavo went off with them, maybe 30 minutes ago." He remembered because the big one almost couldn't fit into the taxi. "Only gringos get so big. What do they feed them?"

"Will Gustavo return here after dropping them off?" Enrique asked.

"Unless he picks up a ride somewhere."

~ ~ ~ ~

Rico, the small weight-lifter, who had come to his buddy's aid during the El Abajeno shoot-out, had been left behind in Porto Nuevo to question Gustavo, if and when he returned. Rico sat at a window table in a restaurant near the village's taxi stand, strolling outside each time a taxi returned from a run, but after a lobster and four Modelo Negros still, no Gustavo. If only this Gustavo had been driving a radio cab. Rico stared out the window, annoyed that he had drawn this assignment, deciding against a fifth Modelo Negro. No chance to work out in three days, most of which were spent eating. A lot of sweating ahead of him when he returned home. How could two American suits generate this much action? Why shoot that guy outside the market? And where'd they get the gun? Not one of ours.

Rico had learned to lift weights in Folsom, spending two dreary years there because of a robbery that from the start had been of little interest to him. A friend, working for a furniture company, talked him into hitting a house in the Hollywood Hills. He had delivered a couch to the house a few days earlier, a rush order, because the guy was going out of town. This would be easy - nobody home.

They broke in only to discover little of value: books, cheap jewelry, an ancient

TV set, no money, no silver. Lots of scripts. A TV writer. Their haul was pitiful: a video camera, some porno videos, a tiny TV from the bathroom, a handful of pills. Rico wasn't jailed for the robbery, but for its residual effect, later whacking the friend who had persuaded him to make the run, punching him through a store window, where a jagged shard of glass cut the young man's throat, killing him almost instantly.

Unfortunately, the police witnessed the whole scene and Rico drew five years for manslaughter, paroled after two. Folsom Prison was bearable only because Rico instantly aligned himself with the Chicano gang, allowing him to depart Folsom still the anal virgin. But there were favors to repay upon release, first a murder assignment. Rico waited for the target to approach his apartment, then.shot him three times; next arson: a taco stand, where the owner had helped the narcs bust a dealer. He torched it.

But, they kept asking, and it wasn't as if he were getting paid. You owe us, was constantly hammered home from Folsom. And if he reneged, he'd be fodder for the next Folsom parolee. He'd been there a couple years after Edward James Olmos filmed "American Me" at Folsom, the story how the prison gang tentacles extended so strongly into the barrio. From what he'd been hearing, Olmos was lucky he wasn't put on their list. They hated the movie. No different from the rest of the country; nobody had seen it.

Another cab was pulling up. Better move his ass and check.

He finally got lucky. Gustavo returned, and Rico was now in the front seat of his car, parked around the corner from the cab stand in Puerto Nuevo, on his cell to Enrique. The driver had dropped them off at the Rio Plaza mall, and there'd been conversation about the Metropolitan Hotel.

"Took him long enough to get back," Enrique said. "We'll try both."

"Hold on," Rico said. "The cops also know this. Part of the reason he was so late getting back, they're talking to all the cabbies. They stopped this guy and he gave them the information."

"When did he drop them off?"

"Half - hour, maybe 45 minutes ago."

"Shit, they're gone. When did the cops find out?"

"Maybe fifteen minutes ago. The cabbie stopped for a taco and they flagged him down on his way out of Tijuana."

"Meet us there. The shopping center."

# TWENTY TWO

Stan, Marvin and the women walked up the ramp leading to the museum's permanent exhibit, Identidad Mexicana, a condensed tracing of Mexican history, putting Tijuana in national perspective. Tijuana sits atop the Baja Peninsula in a distant northwest corner of the country, The peninsula is tenuously connected to the mainland by a thin east-west strip of land and separated from the mainland by the Gulf of California.

"We gotta go through this till we hit the exhibits inside," said Marvin. "Patience ladies." They caught up with the children, the four nuns, the bored priest and two couples explaining each of the displays.

The youngsters looked up at Marvin as if he were one of the museum's wonders: boys pointing, young girls giggling. "Maybe you can get a job here," Carol said to him.

Stan looked at his watch: 4:30. Marvin spotted a gallery guard and walked over to have a conversation, returning to apologize to the women. They were a week early for the presidents' wives exhibit. Stan wondered, God knows, what he had really discussed with the guard. It was fifteen minutes since entering the museum. The displays moved from Pre-Colombian pottery to the Corn People, illustrations of the invasion of Cortes, pictures of Zapata, pictures of Pancho Villa. Except, there was no reference to the name, Pancho, always his Christian name, Francisco. Not even Pancho in parentheses. "I think he'd rather be Pancho," said Carol.

Then, the history of Baja: a few references to the growth of Tijuana, photos of the 1920s when Tijuana was barely a village - maybe 1200 people. A photo from the 1940s of the longest bar in the world, measuring 241 feet, located on Revolucion, but long displaced. If one end of the bar had rested on a football field's goal line it would have extended to the other team's 20 yard line.

"At this point I'll settle for the stuffed horse," Terry said. "More than anyone needs to know about Mexico," Carol agreed.

Marvin tried his best to appear interested. "I found this very educational."

Reaching the end of the exhibit, Terry said, "Has to be a date first – men tricking women into going to a museum."

"Right now, el bano, if you don't mind," Carol said, as the two women dashed off to the bathroom.

"God, they must think we're out of an asylum," Stan said. "I'd better go outside, see what's happening."Take the women over to the gift shop, buy something, anything." The flow of the museum had led them back to the entrance area where large windows faced onto the park-like surroundings. The two school buses were still there, but traffic was moving slowly outside. Something was happening.

"The books are all in Spanish," Marvin protested.

"I didn't say read them. Just go over and look around. Act like you want to buy something. Buy anything. There's some gift stuff."

"Like they want to look at books they can't read," Marvin said, as Stan walked off. Marvin turned back to greet Terry and Carol, returning from the ladies room. "Let's buy something you don't want," he said.

Stan looked down the street, where half a dozen white motorcycles were lined up in front of the mall, flanked by four white cars, the word, Policia, written in blue.

Two policemen were standing near the entrance. Stan assumed the rest were inside.

The police cars were double-parked, blocking the cab stand; no way to get to the cabs without passing the two cops. Marching Marvin past them? Stan didn't think so.

Stan returned inside. Marvin was at the gift shop browsing through Revolution photos of stiffly posed men, wearing sombreros, holding rifles, bodies swathed in bandoleras of ammunition. A few women were among them, some fighters, carrying rifles, some along for a more basic function. There was a flurry of activity at the entrance where the church group of children was gathering to leave. The priest was getting them in line. As he finished Stan approached him, asking if he spoke English.

"A little," he answered. He was in his late 30s, tall, pleasant-looking, some of his dark hair receding. A heavy beard that must have required two shavings a day.

Stan told him that he spoke no Spanish, but needed a cab, and holding up his cell, asked if the priest could make the call – the number was on the on the bulletin board near the door. And Stan wondered, what additional wrath God would bring on him for enlisting a priest to assist a couple of guys wanted for murder.

"What name should I give?" he asked.

Stan thought quickly, "Crawford, Douglas Crawford."

The priest glared at him, punched in the numbers, and said "Bueno, Padre Dominguez aqui," and proceeded to order the cab, giving the location. He handed the phone back to me. Stan said, "Father, you have no idea..."

Father Dominguez held his hand up interrupting. "It's okay, I must go now," and walked off, triggering the nun to move the group out.

Stan rejoined the group. "Very pleasant guy. Cab's on the way."

Through the front windows they could see the two buses revving up and departing, the children staring through the window at life outside. A few moments later a station wagon taxi with the words "Radio Cab" on its side pulled into the space vacated by the busses.

They ran out to the cab, got in, Marvin and Stan trying not to notice the police guard at the nearby mall entrance.

The driver poked his thumb toward the police activity. "Que pasa?"

Stan looked out the rear window. "Shop-lifting, I think." One of the policemen showed some interest in the cab, staring at it.

"Avenida Revolucion," he told the driver, sitting low, trying not to be seen. The driver hit the brake, turning around. "No senor. A minimum for Radio Cabs. Entiende?"

He looked out the back window again. The policeman was talking to his companion, gesturing toward the cab. The other man shrugged. A civilian car pulled behind the line of police cars.

Stan pulled out a twenty dollar bill. "Okay. Viente dollares. Revolucion, por favor."

Contented, the driver said, "Si senor, como no?" driving off.

"Did you say, Revolucion?" Terry asked. "We going shopping?"

"Just for a minute," he said. "I need a belt." And we need very much not to travel in a direct line. How much of this crazy routing will these women accept before wanting to know what is going on?

"You have a nice belt," Terry said, looking at his belt.

"Not for me. A gift for somebody in the office."

The taxi drove south on Los Heroes, made a left turn and was into the rush of the commercial area of downtown, moments later on Revolucion, amid the stream of Sunday tourists parading on either side of the street.

He tapped the driver on the shoulder, handing him the $20. "This is fine."

Carol and Terry moved ahead, peering into the shops, dodging the hustlers in front shooing in customers.

"Can't believe these babes," Marvin said. "We wind up with the only two saints in Tijuana. I may go visit the cathedral."

Two minutes after Stan had bought his belt he had forgotten its color and type of buckle. Or even if it had a buckle. Time to get off the street. Carol and Terry had it with the crowds of Revolucion and Marvin's stories about what he had heard of the dangers of diseases transmitted by Mexican leather.

"Not that I believe a word of Marvin's bullshit leather theory," said Carol. "But, shopping with men is a form of hell, anyway."

They found a taxi at the corner.

"The border?" the driver asked.

_How tempting_. "No, Rosarito."

A block from the hotel, Stan had the driver stop in front of a drug store and paid him.

The abrupt cab stop did it - the straw that broke the burro's back. Terry grabbed him as they left the cab, pressing him against the wall of the drug store. "Okay, what's going on?" she asked.

"You mean, like, why get out here?" How was he going to bring this back under control?

"Why everything? You and Marvin conspiring, whispering, these strange side-trips and taxi rides. You guys married? Are your wives here?"

Carol and Marvin were watching, amused. Carol slapped Marvin on the arm. "Well, are you?"

"Believe me, we're not," Stan said, laughing _. It was going to be okay_. "The one thing we're not. We're also not drug dealers or enemy agents. It's just that we work in a very rigid world, and we decided this weekend that when we came down here to be form-free, impulsive, not do anything in a straight line."

She pushed him harder against the wall. "I never heard such a crock of crap, but..." Then leaned forward and kissed Stan hard on the lips. "But, you are kind of cute. Whatever the hell you guys are up to."

Terry's body felt good against his, the sensation hitting home, pressed against him in front of the drug store. He couldn't believe that he was actually thinking of something other than being on the move. And he couldn't wait to hear what absurd excuse he would make for having stopped here. Condoms? Too presumptuous.

"The reason I wanted to stop here is not very dramatic," he said. "Toothpaste. I need some toothpaste." Maybe condoms wouldn't have been presumptuous, since, pressed against him, he was responding like an aroused teenager. He hated to break away and run into the drug store, but she eased up some, and with more than a little difficulty he managed to run inside. Returning with a bag of toothpaste they walked to the Casuela, through the front entrance, passing older Americans in slacks and resort dresses, college kids in cutoffs and bathing suits and a few Mexican families.

The lobby's video game room with its eerie beeps and gongs was mobbed by youngsters.

"So, we change clothes, freshen up and go to dinner?" Stan asked.

"Well, you've already talked us out of going home this afternoon – so, like we have a choice?" said Terry.

Before walking to their room, Terry hugged Stan again and said, "It really was an interesting day – strange, but interesting. Looking forward to later."

Carol punched Marvin mildly on the arm, saying pretty much the same, then standing on her toes to kiss him on his ear and leaving with,"You really don't think we believed that stuff about the clothes at the museum?"

"Hour and a half at the bar," Stan said to the women as they left.

The maid had tried to bring some sense of order to their room, their new clothes stacked neatly on the beds.

Marvin shoved the clothes to a side and fell onto one of the beds, stared at the ceiling, then rolled off, walking to the bathroom, talking pretty much to himself about lies, deceit, dying his hair, choking a mariachi, shooting a thug, running from police, and plunged into the shower.

Stan hit his cell again, got a friend, asked if he could help, listened and told him that he wasn't responsible for the stories on TV. All the shit he had done for him, he wasn't being very goddamned helpful. He said that they weren't talking about the last plane to Lisbon, that he was just a couple of hours away. How could he get them back? And when he wanted to know where Stan was staying Stan told him he'd have to call him back, and realized he didn't trust anyone.

Stan pulled off his new socks and stretched out on top of the covers. Their third hotel room, and this was as close as he'd come to a bed.

The brief silence was interrupted. "The bathroom's yours in a minute," Marvin said, surprisingly agreeable. "Anybody able to help?"

Stan told him the TV news had everybody crazy.

"Anybody important owe you a favor?"

"You think somebody important would help smuggle two murderers across the border?"

Marvin pulled his head back into the bathroom and closed the door.

# TWENTY THREE

It was a cool February evening, but between the tall, circular gas heaters and the body heat of over a hundred of Los Angeles' most assertive adults, the chill of the outside hills wasn't penetrating the large party tent, as smartly anticipated by the many women in sleeveless or off-the shoulder dresses, whose ages were reduced by a decade by the soft lighting devised by Everett's decorator, Arlo Santos.

He stood in a corner examining his work: lights bouncing off the mirrors, crystal, silver and chandeliers while the controlled lighting from below, sprayed a soft pink glow on the tent walls and on the tall, slender vases of purple orchids with pink and white lilies and the banal red anthuriums with their protruding, penis-like projectiles that fascinated Everett. There were few dining tables – few because Everett preferred his guests to mill about, drink, snack, talk and be gone – done in varying shades of pink linen, centered with flickering votive candles, The three bars were backed with framed mirrors and the buffet table weaved in serpentine fashion.

A trio was playing softly, the voices of the guests droning above the 1950s melodies. Everett was talking to a middle-aged man who had been left more financially sound than he deserved. Everett had a wealthy man's respect for another wealthy man, but deep in his heart he despised those who had inherited their money.

Where the hell was Sharon? he wondered, his eyes flicking around the room, people standing much closer than needed, almost as if each was cutting off any distraction for the other. There was Tom at the opposite corner, looking awkward, reaching for whatever was being passed around by the caterering staff. Hopefully, Everett thought, he had driven up from Tijuana with something positive to report.

Everett felt the kiss on the cheek, and spun around. It was Sharon, backing away, waving.

"Don't move, Ev. I'll be right back," she said. "I must say hello to Maggie."

Everett kissed her on the cheek, and whispered, "Don't get involved. I want you close by."

She smiled back at him. Giving orders? The smile got thinner. Everett sighed. What bullshit. Hard being cool.

Moments earlier Everett had spoken on the phone with two of the men who were captured on the missing DVD that was now bouncing around Tijuana. The conversations had left him feeling edgy. Not only were the men unaware a DVD was missing, they didn't even know they were on it, that they had been secretly taped taking bribes; that their fucking lives, as they knew them, were in major jeopardy. They had been taped as insurance, if the need arose.

Everett's eyes cut to Santos who was circling the room. Everett reached out for the decorator.

"Looks very nice, Santos," he said. "Very nice."

"Thanks, Mr. Caldwell. It only takes money."

Everett, waved to the man to whom he'd been talking, threw his arm around Santos' shoulder, feeling the soft silk of the jacket. "Act like we're talking very seriously and walk me toward that end of the room," Everett said, nodding toward where Tom Ellison was standing, his large hand holding a small dish with an egg roll on it.

Santos jerked his head. "We have a problem?"

"No," Everett said, "I want to get to there without anyone stopping me."

They walked heads down in what appeared be a serious chat, Everett nodding to a number of people as he passed them. To the right Sharon Daimler was huddling with Maggie Delson. Sharon's large breasts were barely covered by a small black sequined dress hugging the bust-line. How did he miss that earlier? She winked at him as he caught her eye. He smiled. He guessed that Sharon and Maggie must have a direct line to every intensive care unit and divorce lawyer in the city – charting the dying wives and divorcing husbands of L.A. While they served as the rite of passage for many rich, newly single men in Los Angeles, neither had any fiscal concerns, having emerged financially triumphant in divorces from actors, developers, manufacturers.

Everett and Santos approached Tom, who almost appeared acceptable in his inexpensive dark gray suit, white shirt and dark tie. Tom made little effort to mask his feelings about Everett having his arm draped over Santos' shoulder. Santos nodded and walked off as Everett, amused, accepted Tom's extended hand.

"Tom, relax, this is not exactly a bedroom. I'm safe."

"That's not the point. It's about acceptance. Freedom is very contagious. Do you know when they have riots in prisons? When conditions improve, when the food gets better."

Everett looked at Tom. Maybe this was police department small talk. What the hell was he going on about?

"Accepting homosexuals is condoning their behavior," Tom continued, "which means encouraging their behavior."

"You think Santos is outside trying to bang one of the parking attendants because of me?"

"Okay, Everett, forget it."

"Christ, Tom, cut the crap. You and I are now accessories to fucking murder. Careers are about to go up in flames, your handling of Tijuana is a bloody mess, and you're raising eyebrows at me talking to a gay decorator. Jesus." Everett reached for a glass of white wine from a passing waiter.

"We have problems, true." Tom said.

"So, surely we have more to worry about than my decorator."

"That's not..."

"What's happening down there?"

"For one thing, no cooperation from the police - not the federals, locals or state. Antsy about the LAPD. Warning us out. It may be our cop, but it's their crime."

Everett saw Sharon start toward them and very gently waved his head to

discourage her. She got the message, joining another couple.

"The state cops are running the show and being the most difficult," Tom said. "Men I've dealt with many times. The drug scandals have hurt all of them. Not that long ago they fired the whole police department in Morelos. Tied into a drug boss in Juarez."

Tom reached for a mushroom stuffed with crabmeat from the tray of a passing waiter.

"What about our people?"

"They've had some contact with the police - giving them some information. But the police are keeping their eyes on them."

"Your plans?"

"I'm driving back down after the party."

"You made the drive just for the party?"

"Well, that, and sort of to bring you up to date."

"Very nice of you, Tom. But, if we don't get this cleaned up pretty soon, I'm going to have to prepare a lot of people – break the news that not only were they taped but we don't know where the damned tape is. There's going to be one helluva fall-out."

"No need yet. I had some backups drive down this morning."

"Why all the whispering, boys?" Sharon came from behind them, slipping her arm under Everett's, her breast bouncing lightly against his arm.

"Crime," Everett says. "Tom knows all the juicy stuff the media can't print.

"Like what?"

"You wouldn't ask a doctor for medical advice at a party? Leave Tom alone."

Sharon smiled, knowing she was being put off, and pressed up against Everett. Tom pretended not to see her bouncing a breast against Everett's arm, or that her breasts that were about to pop out of her dress. He turned to a passing waiter. "Refill?" the waiter asked. "Club soda," Tom said.

Everett knew he should never have scheduled this party.

# TWENTY FOUR

The thoughts played through Stan's mind: funny, how showering and new clothes can make you forget there was an army out there trying to kill you. Well, not really. He and Marvin cut through the hotel guests in the lobby, past the restaurants, bars and the noisy game room. Marvin was wearing his dark blue cotton sailing jacket over a checked grey shirt and dark slacks; Stan opted for tan slacks, a pinstriped blue shirt, and a navy blue sport coat, testimony to their serious damage to Stan's credit card at the gift shop that morning.

"Just remember," Stan told Marvin for the third or fourth time, "agree with their politics, religion, anything. A long shot, but we just might convince them stay over for a few days." It was just nervous chatter. "Marvin, are you listening?" Marvin nodded.

Stan almost lost Marvin at the game room. Marvin stopped off to check out and then argue with some 12-year-old over the technique of beating one of the 40 electronic games there, all of which were in use.

Entering the bar didn't calm Stan's nerves – he realized they'd be far too exposed; the room was too well-lit, too many people checking it out. They had to find the girls, have a drink and evacuate to some hideaway restaurant until late at night. And play it from there. The lounge was oval shaped, with tables near the windows facing the ocean; evening was setting in and the hotel's exterior lights sprayed against the surf.

Terry and Carol, seated at a table near the window, waved them over. They were sipping at straws plunged into coconuts. Stan and Marvin fell into the empty chairs, Marvin asking, "Don't you guys drink anything out of a glass?"

"This is why God made coconuts," Carol said.

Marvin waved for the waiter, and then leaned over to kiss Carol on the forehead; a move so unexpected that Carol stopped sipping at her straw to eye Marvin up and down. "That was sweet," she said.

What luck, Stan thought once again, checking out Terry and Carol; very attractive, perhaps a shade more L. A. hip than earlier: Carol was wearing a denim skirt, a dark blue silk blouse, and thin silver necklace. Terry in jeans with a dark green coat over a white T-shirt. Very cool. Why not? Why shouldn't they be tossed a bone or two this beastly weekend?

The waiter returned with the drinks, beer for the men, more coconuts for the women. After a couple of rounds, Marvin stood up – stress was obviously playing hell on his kidneys - excused himself and headed for the men's room.

He disappeared down the hallway, and as he left Stan glanced at the entrance area where two men in their late 20s were standing. The first one looked familiar; not so the other. They entered the room, shirts over their slacks. Stan glanced at the first one again - it hit him – the backup, the one standing in front of the Mustang at El Abajeno last night.

Anxious to avoid eye contact Stan turned back quickly to Terry and Carol. Terry noticed his reaction. "Something wrong?" she asked. "You know them?"

Stan groped. "Stopped us earlier, tried to sell us some hot jewelry." He moved his head forward, trying to disappear into what would seem an anonymous grouping. Thank God, Marvin's not here, he thought. Who could miss him? _If only Marvin would take his time returning._

The men glanced around the room.

Could he remember me? It had been dark, and he'd been a couple of hundred feet away, the other end of the parking lot. And they're looking for two guys. Do they know about the women? Have they spoken to the mariachi? We're too public – damn, this was inevitable.

One of the men moved to the other wing of the room.

Concentrating on not looking their way, Stan struggled to follow Terry's discussion of some new TV show. Who cares about real people? She said. Stan agreed, having no idea no idea what she talking about. He sensed someone approaching the table. Back turned, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket - nothing there - Marvin had the pistol. Not even a butter knife on the table; only a plastic spear for the lime that came with the beer. In prison a clever convict might be able to retool it to keep the cell block at bay, but here in the bar it barely gets through the lime.

He spun around: a busboy cleaning the nearby table.

Stan raised the beer bottle to his lips \- not easy trying to make smart conversation when a couple of goons who would like to kill you hovering a few hundred feet away. Covering his distraction, he said, "I've been thinking where to eat. Marvin gets back, we should definitely take off for dinner."

"Where to?" Carol asked.

"Brochures from the room," Stan said, pulling a couple from his pocket. "Diego's and La Luna sound kind of interesting." Marvin returned, sitting down, giving Stan a meaningful look. _Had he seen them?_

Carol patted Marvin on the arm. "We're talking about dinner," she said, mentioning the two restaurants. "Which do you think?"

"The closest, quietest and darkest." he said.

"Not too quiet," Terry said. "We want to have some fun."

"Okay, the closest, noisiest and darkest," he responded. "I'm easy."

"No way of telling from these," Stan said, waving the guides. "Their descriptions, you'd think Rosarito was Las Vegas."

"Okay, Diego's," Marvin said, standing up, holding the chair for Carol. Stan scanned the brochure. "About two blocks from here on the main drag. We can walk."

The noise was deafening passing the game room with its electronic horrors, teenagers blasting, decimating, obliterating.

The hotel's night club had its horse-shoe shaped neon sign flickering over the entrance, La Costa Ultima, with giant papier mache crustaceans circling the canopy over the bar. Only a few people were seated, the musicians moving slowly onto the stage.

"This way," Stan said, leading them toward the hotel's side exit.

"No," answered Terry. "Through the lobby."

"But, why do we..." Stan started to say, stopping when he felt something poking him in the back. _The boys?_ _No, only Terry and Carol behind us._ "Jesus," he said, reaching around to rub his back. "What was that, your..."

"Gun," Terry said. "That was my gun; is my gun"

Stan and Marvin, both stammering, "What the hell?"

Terry had her hand in her purse. "Take my word," she said, with a trace of what Stan had remembered as her great laugh, "it's an ugly Glock Semi-Automatic, the new police favorite, 15 shells in its magazine."

Stan was trying, but this was really hard to compute. Terry and Carol? No wonder they bought all of today's bullshit – they knew who we were. Who are they? We were using them. Some joke.

Terry held the pistol forward with her left hand in her purse, pointed at Stan, moving from Marvin back to him. "Allow me," said Carol, her purse and pistol against Marvin's back, dipping her hand into Marvin's pocket, and with a handkerchief covering it, extracting his pistol and dropping it into the recesses of her large straw purse.

"Sorry about dinner, boys...maybe next time," Terry said. She gestured with her purse. "Into the lobby, the registration desk. The vault. The DVDs."

"Whoa, I need a second to take this in," said Stan.

"Just do it." Carol said. "Don't think about it. Keep walking."

"Can't believe this." Marvin said. "Next time you want to pick up a couple of babes..."

Carol poked him in the back, interrupting him, "I said, keep moving."

Marvin turned and started to raise his hands.

"Down, you bloody idiot," Terry snapped. "Keep 'em down. And walk."

"Is this the same woman who was rubbing up against me all day?" Stan asked.

"The very same," she said, "And enjoying it."

Marvin turned to look at her. "You going to shoot us?"

"I hope not. Unless you push it. And then we will, and who would blame us? Everybody thinks you're a couple of killers."

They entered the front lobby, reaching the desk.

"The DVDs, boys. Then back to your room, tie you up and we're gone."

"Better than what we'd get with the other guys," said Marvin.

"Yeah, and you almost got laid."

"Were we that close?" Stan asked.

"If it had to be," Terry said.

Stan glanced at a mirror reflection of Terry. God, I must be sick. She looks twice as sexy as she did when I thought she worked for an escrow company.

Marvin started to turn around. He got another poke in the back. Angry, he turned anyway. Carol flashed what she was carrying in the straw purse: a Ruger Mini 14, a semi-automatic pistol that carried 18 rounds, then dropped her hand back into the purse.

"Not that I really want those DVDs, anyway," he said. "How do you know they're in the shoulder pack?"

"Like you'd check a shoulder pack of Mounds and Snickers, but leave the DVDs in the room."

Marvin called the desk clerk over, showed him his room key, asked for the package in the hotel safe. The man walked to the vault, bent down, unlocked it, pulled out the backpack, walked back and handed it to Marvin. The four stood in silence as the shoulder pack hit the counter.

Terry reached over and picked it up. .

And pistol shots rang out. Flat, metallic sounding thuds.

# TWENTY FIVE

Pistol shots. Very definitely pistol shots, Stan thought. Jesus, were they shooting at us. I didn't feel anything. They couldn't have missed – the guns were at our backs.

Stan spun around – the two men from the bar 20 feet away firing at Terry, who was picking up the shoulder pack.

Terry fell to the marble floor, a bullet in her shoulder.

The lobby was in stop motion, people frozen for the split second. Then the desk clerk threw himself down behind the desk.

Terry, spun around, blood spurting out of her shoulder, fired back.

Stan realized the men must have seen Terry's gun, understood what was happening and made their move. They had to neutralize her quickly. They didn't. And they backed away realizing it was now a gunfight. Rico was partnered with Eugenio, one of the new arrivals from Los Angeles.

Stan and Marvin hit the floor, rolling off to the side.

Carol, on one knee, hand in her purse, pulled out the pistol and joined the battle, firing back at the men, flinging the purse to the side, lipsticks and keys sliding out of it.

The lobby was a shooting gallery; the sound deafening: guns blasting, electronic beeps from the game area, screams from people scrambling for cover. Chunks of the wall coming down, a mist of plaster covering the lobby like a fog.

Terry, holding her bleeding shoulder, was still firing. Rico and Eugenio were backing up behind a desk. Rico didn't move quickly enough. Terry caught him as he turned, a bullet in his neck, he fell, his neck looking like a side of beef.

The surrealistic setting was frenzied – people fighting to leave, battling people coming to see what was happening, the plaster mist hanging over all of it. Teenagers poured in from the game room.

Eugenio had made it behind the desk, but Carol was tracking him with her pistol, bullets chipping at the desk. He came back into view from the other side of the desk, and Terry, somehow still conscious, despite the torn shoulder, let loose a stream of fire, almost decapitating him.

Rico, still breathing, but barely, using his left hand to prop up his right, unleashed a volley in his final seconds of life, the bullets tearing into Terry's chest. She slumped to the tile floor, life leaving her.

The ferocity - blood spilling onto the blue tiled floor and flesh torn apart seemed like a scene from a high blood budget Hollywood slasher movie. The crowd was trapped by the pressing surge behind them and couldn't escape, watching the gunplay like a stunned theater audience.

The final gunshots were like the curtain coming down. The screams continued as the reality of what they had been witnessing sunk in, the screams of those closest still trying to evacuate, fighting through the wave of arriving spectators. The perimeter was pandemonium. The reality of a floor full of death replaced the fury of the gunfight. Guests were shouting, pushing their way through, new faces coming to see for themselves what had happened.

And then silence.

Almost instantly, security and nurses came from out of nowhere.

Carol arose from her kneeling position, miraculously unhurt, shoving her pistol into her purse. Stan stood up, a little wobbly, Marvin next to him. "Out of here," Marvin said. The crowd was swirling around the scene. A hotel employee asked Carol if she'd been hurt. She shook her head, grabbing Marvin's arm.

She said, "Please take me with you. Before the police get here."

Marvin looked at her. "You're on your own."

Stan reached down and pulled out the shoulder pack jammed under Terry. Her pistol, the Glock semi-automatic had rolled to the side, along with her purse, still open, its contents spilling onto the floor. He grabbed the pistol and shoved it into the shoulder pack. Her car keys were lying next to the purse, and he slapped them into the shoulder pack.

Stan and Marvin became anonymous as the crowd poured in, innocents caught in some kind of war. They merged into the surrounding crowd.

"Please – we can use my car," Carol said. "I know this area."

"What about Terry's?" Marvin said to Stan. "You have her keys."

"It's not here – it's at a bar, Geraldo's" Carol said. "Please, we can help each other."

People were swarming around the lobby.

Cutting through the crowd, Stan made the decision. "Take her, let's find out what the hell's going on."

Marvin hesitated, looked at her. "No more bullshit?"

"It's over for me," she said.

"Follow me," he grunted.

They pushed through the crowd in the lobby entrance area, unnoticed by the swarm of nurses, hotel officials and security who were focused on the bodies some 20 feet away.

Marvin cleaved a hole through the mob, Carol and Stan following in his wake. As they reached the rear, Marvin turned, "A cop ahead of us. Look like we're trying to see what happened." They turned, pretending to be spectators, and were waved away by the hotel security cop into the mob pressing against them.

Carol led them to the back parking lot, pointing to a Toyota, hitting the open button on her key.

They poured into the car, Stan hitting the front passenger seat, Marvin the rear, slumping to get out of view.

The macabre scene of moments ago was beginning to sink in. Carol was fumbling to start the car, and Stan said out loud, but more to himself, "Will this ever Goddamn end?"

Blinking to block her tears, eyes barely open, Carol drove around the edge of the lot, avoiding the front of the hotel, swerving onto a side road.

"Let's get out of here," Stan said.

"You're not going to believe this," Marvin said from the rear, "but I got to go. Got to take a leak. That scene did it to me." He opened the door, walked to the rear and started to relieve himself. Carol and Stan looked at each other, neither strong enough to find the humor of the moment.

Marvin back inside, Carol was driving with the lights off, moving slowly toward the highway, staying on a side road that was parallel to the main road into the hotel. A Ford Explorer, bright lights on, was racing toward the hotel on the parallel road. It pulled in front of a car leaving, stopping it. Four men flew out of the Explorer, pulling the driver out, pinning him against the fender. Two guarded him, the other two pouring into the car, not finding what they were looking for, climbed out. They gestured for the man to move on, slapped him on the back, held his car door open for him. They sped toward the hotel. Carol continued toward the toll road, reaching it and flipping her lights on. She found the entrance toward Tijuana and took off.

There was silence in the car. So many questions hanging there.

The opposite side of the toll road was bedlam – sirens, light bars, ambulances, unmarked cars piercing the dark. A hornet's nest.

The Toyota rushed through the road in silence, except for Carol, quietly crying, her hands shaking as she held the steering wheel.

It was if Carol was invisible, a chauffeur in some insane excursion.

Stan thought his year in Baghdad should have prepared him for this – bodies in the road, explosions in the market place. But it hadn't. This had been too up-close, a woman he knew. Its immediacy had an even stronger impact than the previous night when he had discovered Sandy and Raphael. That had been after the fact.

Marvin rested his head against the back of his seat, replaying in his mind the hotel lobby scene over and over, remembering the conversation that became more sickly flirtatious as they approached the lobby. Terry's clothes, the blouse drenched in blood, the man with part of his neck flying off. So fast, so loud. Thirty seconds; it seemed forever.

Stan looked back at Marvin.

Marvin shook his head, the words came out slowly, And then, almost reassuring himself, "We're going to be okay," he said. "The police and the assholes are still chasing us, but we're still free, still here, still riding down the freeway," and then switching gears, a silence and then, "Poor Terry."

He leaned over to Carol. "Start explaining."

She gripped the wheel, staring straight ahead, fighting shock, driving on instinct. She shook her head. "Not now," she said. "Two friends in two days. This is not a good moment."

Stan reacted. "Two friends?"

"Terry and Sandy – Sandy from your trip down here." She exhaled. "Not now, please."

Stan and Marvin, almost in unison, erupting: "You knew Sandy?" Marvin fell back in his seat trying to process her words. Sandy had been playing him?

Carol, still fighting tears, punched the steering wheel.

The Toyota tore through the dark, racing past late '60s restaurants, bathed in dim lighting, facing the ocean. Tourist cliches of Mexican restaurants: stucco, fake balconies and neon. The police were racing in the opposite lanes past the restaurants with their signs announcing dinner specials in Spanish and English. Stan slipped his hand into the shoulder bag, and gripped the Glock, as if to reassure himself.

"When do we talk?" Marvin asked.

"Fuck it," Carol said, as she turned onto a freeway exit.

"Hey, where are we going?" Stan asked.

"Geraldo's."

"A bar? Do we want to go to a bar?"

"You wanted Terry's car? It's at Geraldo's."

She drove through a series of dark streets, finally pulling against a curb, parking. She pointed up the street. "Over there, the black Mercedes."

"No, we've got to talk," Stan said.

"I need a drink, bad," she said. "Real bad. Geraldo's is okay. You can believe me. As of 20 minutes ago, I'm out of this game."

"Where is it?" Marvin asked, looking around.

"We're here," she said, nodding to the building on their left, darkened windows, no sign of life. A doorway with a bulb barely making it. No sign with a name. Stan picked up the backpack, slipped Terry's pistol into his pocket. Who knew what was next?

They followed Carol into a large room, dark, a bar swarming with bodies, a wall of cigarette smoke. A mariachi song on the sound system segued into a sax solo of "Rhapsody in Blue." A TV over the bar – a Mexican variety show, sound turned off. The crowd – half American, art chic, dark shirts, women in textured sweaters next to an L.A. hip scene of women in skin tight pants and men in leather athletic jackets. Definitely not yuppie tourists.

Carol found an empty table, Stan and Marvin sat, obviously uncomfortable. A waiter approached, and Stan ordered, "tequila, all around. Some good stuff, Patron, whatever."

They waited for the drinks in silence. Played for fools, first by Sandy, then these two. How sadly predictive Terry had been - planning your meals too far ahead was challenging the gods. No dinner for Terry.

# TWENTY SIX

"Just when it can't get worse it gets worse," Marvin finally said. "This whole damned weekend. But Sandy? All this time with her and I couldn't tell something was going on? I can't believe it, fucking me around like that."

"Then me doing the same." Carol said.

"Well, I hardly even knew you. But Sandy, we were really getting close. Jesus Christ." Marvin was trying balance a couple of tough reactions here, anger in being played for a fool by Sandy along with the dark memory of her shattered head.

"Tough, very tough," Stan said.

The waiter returned with the drinks. Before he got away, they ordered another round. Marvin and Stan picked up the shot glasses of tequila, and downed them in one gulp. Carol sipped at hers.

"This was all Sandy – she was Terry's boss," Carol explained. "I drove in from San Diego to keep Terry company in the hotel. Backup, whatever. To look like two women on a holiday. They'd been in the Navy together – Naval Intelligence in San Diego where I first met them. I was San Diego police. They got out, formed a security agency in L.A. Lots of upscale clients."

"You still with the police?" Stan asked.

"No, I have my own office in San Diego – security work, investigations. They sent a lot of work to me. Mostly, I track down husbands coming to Mexico for a weekend with their babes. Has me so busy I keep an apartment in Tijuana. Not that far from here."

"What's this all about?" Marvin asked

"Sandy was hired by a real estate developer in L.A. to recover some DVDs. When they found out that Marvin had somehow got involved – sorry, Marvin – she made her move on you. When she heard about Tijuana she scammed her way onto this trip. Soon as you got the DVDs from Raphael, she was going to figure out some way to steal them, meet us and drive home with Terry. There was never any lunch meeting at Porto Nuevo, like she told you – she was going to meet us in Rosarito at the Casuela."

"The guys who killed her – who are they?" Marvin asked.

"My guess, the L.A. barrio – they have that look. I'm not sure what's going on – who's working for who. Sandy may have brought this on herself – she had a way of getting cuter the closer she got to finishing a job. According to Terry, Sandy's fee started going north of the original $100,000 deal. I know she was working with a guy named Mariano, who operates out of a little tourist shop, La Ventana, on Revolucion. They go back a long way. When she started jumping her fee the guy in L.A. may have lost confidence in her and brought in these thugs. Since they tracked you guys so well I'd say Mariano was involved, but he was crazy about Sandy. He's involved in a lot of crap down here, but stays away from any bullshit with the narcos and they leave him alone. But murder is not his usual game. Especially, this blatant stuff. "

"How'd you spot us at breakfast?" Stan asked.

"Sheer luck. We were on our way back home. We'd heard about Sandy and it knocked us for a loop – it was over for us. But, then Terry spotted you this morning. We had seen pictures of both of you. Sandy had them. And it's hard to disguise Marvin."

"Definitely a problem," Stan said, drawing a look from Marvin.

"We went down for coffee this morning – and you guys sort of fell into our laps, and Terry thought, what the hell, play it out and see what happens. I was still ready to go home after breakfast. This was getting too deep for me. But Terry said we could make a fortune with those DVDs and nobody would get hurt. I should have followed my instincts and cut out."

The waiter dropped our second round on the table, and conversation stopped. It allowed them to become conscious of the buzz near the bar. The TV had cut to a man behind a news desk, who was replaced onscreen by a long shot of the Casuela Hotel. And then a cut to the Casuela lobby. The sound was off, but the bar customers shouted to the bartender, and he reached above to adjust the knob. They couldn't hear much from where they were sitting, but the scenes were of chaos in the lobby, the after-effect of the shooting: ambulance attendants wheeling bodies out, interviews with hysterical spectators. And then back to the newsman at the desk.

Carol looked back from the TV. "Time to leave."

"We're ready," Marvin said.

Stan threw some bills on the table; they stood up, moved silently to the door, and left.

Outside, they were greeted by the evening's chill.

"I never thought about TV," Carol said. She pointed down the street – "The Mercedes over there."

"Can't believe it's still here," said Marvin.

"Safest street in the city," she said. "It's Geraldo's block."

She asked if they had any idea where they might be going.

"If we knew, should we tell you?" Stan asked.

"I understand," Carol said. "But, they were trying to kill me too. If you feel you can trust me and you're just wandering around, my address is 37 Hidalgo, third floor on the left."

"Wait, do you know what's on the DVDs?" Marvin asked.

"You mean, you don't know?"

"We were supposed to find out down here, but the machine was shot up, not working."

She thought for a minute. "I have a machine at my apartment."

"The DVDs are encoded," I said.

"I have an LAPD decoder. Carol dropped it off at my condo. Sandy got it from friends at the LAPD – she wanted to see what she had before she turned them over. I told you she was getting cute."

"Your address, 37 Hidalgo?"

She nodded.

"Give us some time," Stan said. He looked at Marvin. "Might be the only way we'll ever see these damn things."

"You worried about them coming after you?" Marvin asked her.

"It's not that. I – well - feel bad about being part of this stupid set-up of you guys. Not who I really am." She got into her car and took off.

They walked to the Mercedes, looked around to see if anybody cared. Nobody was on the street. Stan opened the door, slipped behind the wheel. The pistol in his jacket pocket was banging against his ribs, so he dropped it behind the front seat, and took off.

"What do you think?" Marvin said.

"About what – a lot of categories here, Marvin?"

Swinging the car into the street, Stan started to flick on the headlights, then decided in favor of discretion, driving in the dark almost half a block before making a right turn. What appeared to be an alley loomed ahead on the left side of the street, and he turned into it, dodging a couple of garbage cans standing sentry. He prayed against a dead end, the prayers answered almost three hundred yards ahead, where the alley led to a lighted cross street.

As they neared the cross street, behind them there was a roar of motors, like an army on the move. Stan slowed, foot off the accelerator, rather than triggering the brake lights. In the rear view mirror they watched them speed by - no sirens, but light bars flashing - six police cars, then the screeching as their brakes grabbed, pulling up in front of Geraldo's.

Stan continued through the alley, lights still off, half-expecting a police car to pull in and block the alley exit now half a block ahead. Neither turned to watch the police cars passing behind.

A buzzer cut through the tension; both heads swept around: the car phone. Neither reached for it. It finally stopped.

Stan stared at the phone on the dashboard, Nokia 810, Bluetooth. "The goddamned phone," Marvin shouted. "Somebody is fucking calling us."

"Maybe, Carol. Or someone who doesn't know about tonight."

He glared down at the phone and screamed, "Fuck off." His face red, cheeks puffed. Then thinking, "Should we answer it?"

"I'm not sure. Could be somebody confirming that we have the car. Fuck 'em. No. Fuck, no.And then, maybe it's Carol with some news."

Again, the tease of crossing the border \- they wouldn't be looking for this car. Try it? Stan was tempted. Why not? Well, passports for one. And they were exhausted, the last hour draining the last of what was left of them.

Stan drove - thoughts steaming through his head – _we're going to be okay, we made it this far, chased for 24 hours and still free, riding through the fucking Mexican streets_. Pulling onto a neighborhood street, and satisfied he had put enough distance between them and Geraldo's, he flicked on the headlights.

"Didn't take long for someone to turn us in at that fucking bar," Stan said. "Maybe somebody who'd been at the hotel. Or, followed us. Who knows?"

"God, that hotel, some scene," Marvin said.

"Marvin, leave it. We have to move on – Jesus, who was that on the phone?" But Marvin was lost in some reverie. Stan felt safe for the moment in a car that no one would link to them. Safe, that is, inside the car. But that phone. Who was on the phone? Outside it looked dark and gloomy as hell.

"What about Carol's place?" Marvin asked.

Tempting, Stan thought. Lots of reasons in favor – seeing the DVDs, a place to hole up for a few days and the possibility of Carol finding a way to get them home. That is, assuming they could trust her.

"God, the girls must've been laughing at us this afternoon, our pathetic little Dodge 'Em game." Marvin leaned forward, poking around the glove compartment, almost talking to himself. "Right behind the cops and the crazies chasing us will be the Mexican Hotel Association," he said. "We've screwed up more hotels in the past two days."

They were driving into a business district that signaled the beginning of downtown. Tiny shops: markets, lawyers, dentists and those undefined mechanical or technical shops that serve some purpose known only to those living in the area.

"Anything there?" Stan asked, nodding to the glove compartment.

"Lots of CDs. Nothing you can hum. Bartok, Stravinsky, Copland."

"Stravinsky? Doesn't sound like ex-Navy. Any Sousa?"

"Where the hell you from - Salzburg?" Marvin snapped, mostly distracted by the envelopes he'd pulled out. "Fucking atttitude. Stravinsky too upscale for the Navy?"

"Relax. I wasn't passing judgment. What've you got?"

"Registration. Terry Scanlon. Thought it might have been Theresa."

"What else?"

"Mexican auto insurance." He waved both envelopes. Stan reached for them, glancing at them as he drove, not able to make out very much, finally slipping them into the inside pocket of his sport coat.

He flipped on the radio, playing softly in the background - a San Diego jazz station. John Lee Hooker, singing "Mr. Lucky." When he hit the lyric, "Looking for the good luck man," Marvin lunged at the dial, cutting it off.

"Fucking blues," he said, "Not tonight. Good luck, looking for the Good Luck Man."

At a red light, a child, maybe ten years old, in pigtails ran up to the car, banging softly on the window. Stan jumped at her tap. What if she had a grenade in her hand, like in Iraq? Anything possible tonight.

"Senor, you want to buy?" she asked, pointing to a small gathering of tourist items propped on a few boxes near the sidewalk: silver painted plaster tigers, a beat-up plaster Bart Sanchez, paintings of ocean cliffs, blankets and a small array of silver jewelry. An older woman, apparently her mother, guarded them. Stan started to say no, but then looking at this poor kid out in the middle of the night, he pulled out a five dollar bill and handed it to her. She grabbed it and ran back to her stand.

A man in his 50s, deep into his tequila, came from behind the girl, wrapping his

arm around her. Another man, early 40s, dressed in white T-shirt and jeans, stood behind the first man. The girl tried to push the first man's arm away. His hand roamed till he found her coin purse, opened it and took out a small cluster of dollars and pesos. The mother brushed the hair out of the man's eyes and tried to seat him next to her.

Obviously, a family member, maybe the father, maybe the mother's boyfriend. The child was fighting to keep her tears back. The man reached back to slap the girl as the Mercedes passenger door opened and a monster leaped out, streaming across the road. The man tried to back away as Marvin wrapped one hand around his throat. The man gasped, trying to pull Marvin's hand away.

The man in the rear pulled out a knife. Marvin heard Stan's door open and shouted, "Don't bother," releasing the first man, who was coughing, trying to suck in air. Marvin swung his leg, catching the man with the knife in the groin. The man sunk to his knees, the knife dropping.

"Like beating up kids?" Marvin shouted to the first man, who didn't understand English, but understood trouble. He shook his head. Marvin reached for the man on his knees, grabbing him with one hand around the throat and did the same with the first man, slamming their heads together. Both went down and out.

The girl would be of voting age by the time either of the two men woke up. The mother held the first man's head in her lap. Marvin, almost out of control, shouted at the unconscious men. "Just the wrong bloody night."

Marvin ran back to the car. "God, I feel better," he said, climbing into the front seat, stepping over the shoulder pack.

They drove off, leaving the scene behind, and then out of nowhere, the buzzer again. Like an Iraqi IED, Stan thought. Hearts jumped. Again, neither spoke, both staring at the phone. Who the hell could it be? "You really think, Carol?" Marvin said.

Stan picked up the phone, with intentions to hang up and cut off the sound – but phone still in the air a man's voice broke through, "Don't hang up. Stan, Marvin, I must talk to you."

# TWENTY SEVEN

Driving slowly, Stan held the phone like it was the head of a rattlesnake.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"You don't know me. Put me on the speaker."

Stan checked to see how to do it, finally pressing the proper buttons, replacing the car phone in its bracket.

"Stan, Marvin, this is Mariano, a friend of Sandy's. Sandy's and Terry's."

Stan looked at Marvin, who was staring straight ahead.

"Hello, you there?"

Marvin breathed deeply. They both answered, "Here."

"Nobody knows we're talking; this exercise got out of hand. This was not the way it was supposed to be. She and Terry were very dear to me. These are savages."

Marvin talked to the phone/speaker, asking, "How did you know how to reach us?"

"I was at the hotel moments after it happened. It was not something to see. One of the clerks, who occasionally works for me, saw you pick up Terry's car keys. I know the car's phone number. You don't have to be CIA to figure it out."

"So, you're Sandy's friend, but, you're working with these guys?" Marvin asked.

"In a sense, yes...But..."

"Let's cut the shit, man," Marvin interrupted. "I know what you want. Say we get it to you, how do you guarantee getting us out of here? We've seen how you take care of your friends."

"This was not my doing, believe me. She and I have collaborated many times, very successfully, very warmly. This was a disaster."

"And we should believe this?"

"Careful," Mariano responded. "No specifics, nothing. Very easy to do a radio scan this time of night."

"I don't give a fuck," Marvin shouted.

"You guys are gold medal winners up till now, but this is no way to talk. Go to a restaurant, Mi Corazon, on Culiacan. Corner of Obregon. The maitre d' will have an envelope in your name, with my phone number. There is a pay phone in the entrance. Call me from there. You'll be safe. The place is filled with Americans."

"What then?"

"We'll set up a meeting." Mariano cut out.

Marvin punched off the phone and looked at Stan. "Gets better all the time, doesn't it?"

"What do you think?"

"Maybe, check out this place, see if it looks okay, get the number and talk to this asshole. If he can get us home he gets the fucking DVDs."

"Could be a trap."

"Circle the street before we go in. Carol didn't exactly hate him – maybe he's pissed at these guys – look, he knows what we're driving. If he's still with them they could track us down, anyway."

Driving toward the city lights and downtown, the dull beams of the street lights punctuating the darkness - the streets were getting livelier as they approached the business area: more cars, more people walking, more music blaring, more food vendors on the corners.

The streets were definitely more commercial - shops open, people moving in and out of snack food places, placing orders with men in white jackets and scarves around their necks. They found Avenida Culiacan, cruised the street until they came to the sign: an abstract red neon heart, pierced by a white neon arrow, with the words underneath, Mi Corazon.

"I wasn't counting heavily on romance tonight," Marvin said.

Driving by, they peeked in; dimly lit, with a clientele that appeared almost entirely American, mostly couples. They drove around the block; nothing unusual.

There was a parking space down the street and they walked back to the restaurant, where the maitre d' bowed slightly, saying, "Welcome to the restaurant mas romantico in Tijuana. Everybody is in love here."

Marvin muttered, "Can you go to jail for killing a maitre 'd?"

Stan mentioned the envelope to the man, who transformed from a welcoming Ricardo Montalban to a complicit in intrigue Javier Bardem, reaching inside the maitre d' stand to pluck out the envelope and hand it to them. Stan looked into the restaurant where a Mexican harpist was playing a romantic song so tragic, he thought that the busboys were probably near tears. Shadows of flickering candles played against the orange/red plaster walls. Marvin grabbed the envelope, and they walked toward the door, the maitre d' followed, waving them back in to eat.

"One of the Circles of Hell," Stan whispered to Marvin.

"Not tonight," Marvin told the man, who had reverted to Ricardo Montalban. "But, senores, you can't just leave," he said, extending each syllable. "Mr. Mariano wants you to be his guest."

They were out the door, walking toward the car, the maitre d' standing in the entranceway slowly shaking his head.

Stan drove a few streets away, parked in front of another restaurant, the Durango Grill - a hacienda, with echoes of the American West, a lasso circling the name. Marvin pulled out his cell.

"He asked us to use a land phone," Stan said.

"I don't give a fuck if some scanner picks up anything we say. We're not the ones at risk. It's a little ridiculous, isn't it - his buddies kill two women, spend two days trying to kill us and he wants us to sit in the mas romantico restaurant in Tijuana and listen to harp music."

"Use the car phone, put it on the speaker."

Marvin checked the piece of paper and dialed.

Waiting, Stan looked through the windshield into the Durango Grill - the bar was two deep and a few couples were on the dance floor. A small sign above the dance floor read, Disco Every Nite.

The phone was ringing. Someone answered. "La Ventana, Mariano speaking."

"Marvin here."

"At the restaurant?"

"A different place."

"Too bad. You're missing a wonderful dinner. You were to be my guests."

"Maybe later."

"Okay, I'll be very brief," Mariano said, "But I will give you some background to make you feel somewhat easier about me. We – Sandy and me - had a game going that backfired. Obviously, you've figured that out by now – and I'm saying this gently – you were being used by Sandy. The man who hired her to retrieve the DVDs lost confidence in her. He knew I was working with her and called me Saturday morning that he was sending down some backup."

"Go on."

"She was making this seem much more complicated for reasons I will explain later."

"Why did Sandy need you or anybody?" Marvin asked. "I was told she was going to grab the DVDs from me in Tijuana and run with them."

"That was the reality, but not what she had told her employer, because she had become ambitious. It was a way of increasing her fee. She told him she was tracking you down in Tijuana, working with me, that you were picking up the DVDs there. But her client has an adviser with the LAPD, who had his own reasons to get involved. He had her office bugged and knew when you were leaving, who you were going to meet. He sent these thugs down to see me, back her up, get the DVDs. When I saw them I knew the deal had changed. She was in trouble."

"Didn't these guys know she was supposed to be working with them?"

"They thought the DVDs were going to be given to you by someone in the restaurant; you were in there quite a while. The original plan was to scout you outside the restaurant and follow you to the hotel. Tie you up, nice and quiet and be gone. The boys decided, why wait, take them at the restaurant. She comes out with this other man – the ex-policeman, who they think is you. When he pulled his gun they reacted. These are high-strung boys. Turned out she's got a gun too, so, they killed her. These are not the most stable people."

"So, how do we get out?" Stan asked.

"For a trade; I can arrange it - a new car, passports, different names, a young woman to drive you through the border, you take the car to L.A."

"How long to get this going?"

"Tomorrow, before lunch."

"Simple enough. Settled. Except for one thing?"

"Yes?"

"Why should we trust you?"

"For one thing, killing is very much in their plan right now. The client in L.A. thinks you know what's on the DVDs, and that's as dangerous as the DVDs themselves. He wants you out of the way."

"And you?" Marvin asked.

"Violence is not how I operate. If I get the DVDs I'll deal with the guy in L.A. It won't make the cop happy, but that's not my concern." A long sigh from Mariano. "We should meet," he said. "So we can talk face to face. There's still much to explain. You are calling from a pay phone, correct?"

"Well, no, the car, actually," Marvin said.

"For God's sakes, why didn't you tell me – oh, never mind."

"So what do we..."

"Hold on. Some people are coming in the front door. I think, our friends. Hopefully, we weren't scanned, or, Jesus... Call me in an hour. You feel safe, go back to the restaurant. Have a nice dinner. We have a private room. Adios."

The connection was cut.

They drove through little traveled streets, passing warehouses, small factories, auto repair shops, all with high fences, some with barbed wire atop, some with shards of broken glass.

It sort of made sense, thought Stan. A guy who almost sounds normal. Maybe, we could do business with him. We need to sit down and decide how to proceed, get off the street. Mariano's restaurant? Tempting, but foolish.

"What do you think, hole up at Carol's for an hour?" Stan asked, "Run this by her, get her feelings about this Mariano guy?"

"Maybe so, you remember her address?"

"Like I'm going to forget our one possible sanctuary," Stan said. "37 Hidalgo Third floor. But how do we get there?"

Marvin lunged for the shoulder pack, pulled out Charlie Buck's Guide to Baja, another morning purchase at the hotel gift shop. Turning pages and running his fingers up and down the lines. Finally, he flipped on the map light, turned pages to the sketchy map of Tijuana, studying it, tracing routes with his finger, shaking his head, finally snapping his head up. "I kind of see where we are now, but Hidalgo. I don't know. That, I don't see. Should we stop and ask?"

Getting no response from Stan, who hoped Marvin wasn't serious about

stopping for directions, he dove back into the map, and then popped back up. "I got it" he said, finger jammed onto the page. "Not far at all."

They drove through a few blocks of downtown, driving west to where the Bullring by the Sea was located, a neighborhood of middle-class homes near the beach. Marvin guided them to Hidalgo, a dimly lit street.

No spaces available near Carol's apartment house; they had to park near the corner, where they sat, scanning the neighborhood. "It looks okay," Stan said, realizing that's exactly how it would look even if it wasn't okay. A gamble. But, they had been gambling for two days. The car was security and leaving it was not easy, something they both sensed, preparing to get out. They stepped into the chill air, the slight breeze blowing in from the nearby ocean, and walked toward the house. The ocean mist was outlined by the street lights. Steps away from the door, Marvin slowed; he'd left the backpack with the DVDs in the car. He was going to return to the car to get them.

Stan stopped him. Get the more recognizable Marvin off the street. "I'll get it," Stan said. "Go ahead, see if Carol is home." Stan returned to the Mercedes, Marvin, walked toward the apartment house. A late model Pontiac with Baja plates turned the corner. Stan and Marvin froze. A man and woman inside; it sped past them. Marvin approached the front door of the apartment house and scanned the names near the buzzer.

# TWENTY EIGHT

The party was essentially over, had been for about an hour and Everett was

nursing a glass of Marc, ugly and strong, the French version of grappa, brandy distilled from the dregs of wine pressings. Life wasn't so bad, he thought, trying to forget his problems south of the border, a transition made easier with Sharon pressed against him, talking to Larry Weller, who wrote a column for something - one of the movie trade papers or weekly give-aways, or slick L. A. monthlies. Who knew which? He assumed his daughter had invited Weller – sure as hell wasn't on his list.

They were standing on the terrace, a bridge between the house's indoor patio and the tent, now empty save for the caterer's clean-up crew. The writer was sucking up to her, laughing, smoking, taking notes. But later this little asshole was going to leave, get into the sports car he can't afford and go home thinking about what a grand life he has that allows him to enter into this world, his bright personality that allows him to remain when others leave. But, I live it, Everett thought - by the time Weller reaches his little apartment or house Sharon will be licking my body, running her tits all over me, holding my balls, going down on me.

And if she wants to go to Sardinia in the morning I can have my secretary work out suites, check out someone's Gulfstream IV and be gone without so much as a flicker of bankbook concern.

So, why in God's name, had he jeopardized all this for some fucking, unnecessary hill? For money that he doesn't need?

For fucking ego.

Exactly.

How many times had he seen ego nail someone? No one is too high, too powerful not to be tricked by it? Check Nixon, check Clinton, check Martha Stewart, Tom Cruise. Check the TV actress holdouts when the shows go on without them. The execs at Enron, Adelphia, the others. Probably JFK if he'd lived longer. Executives. Men who charge off daughter's weddings to corporate expenses. Hollywood executives burying hooker expenses. That loony governor of New York half ass burying hooker expenses. Ego will do it.

And he had been aware of it, always had been aware of it, it couldn't happen to him. But they said he couldn't have the hill, and that made him want it.

Everett's eyes drifted, searching for Tom, who had been working the phones in Everett's office the last half hour. Tom was coming out of the living room. Tom made eye contact and waited.

"Having fun?" Everett asked, reaching Tom.

Tom nodded politely, everything he loved in life - liquor, flirting and small talk. God help him, he'd rather be covering a three-car tear-up on the I-5.

"Good," Everett said, "Anything?" nodding to the office and phone.

"More shootings." He related the details of the hotel disaster, ending with the assault on the mariachi, who was in an Ensenada hospital recovering from a heart attack.

"Underestimated them at every turn, haven't you?"

"We'll get them."

"When, Tom?"

"The problem is, this has become politically hot down there. The Federal and state police are going crazy because of the pressure. Yankees using Mexico as a battleground."

Some of the catering crew were about to enter the house carrying buffet chafing pots to their truck; Everett held up his hand, stopping them. Without saying a word he signaled them to use the patio exit to the driveway.

"Bottom line," Everett asked, "What about the DVDs?"

"They'll never get out of the country. Either of two ways it'll happen: our guys find them and they'll earn the cool million you promised them. Or, the police find them, toss 'em in jail, and we buy the DVDs from the Mexican cops for 25–30 thousand dollars. Save you over $900,000."

"Don't try to save me money." Everett said. "I'd be happy to pay the million right now and call it quits." He thought about the fucking hill, and what he had to go through to get the zoning change in Los Angeles. Only three key people: a city councilman, the Chairman of the City Planning Commission and the Commission's consultant.

The process started when the City Council assigned his zoning change request to its City Planning Commission, made up of six to eight appointees. The chairman of the commission then hired a neutral consultant to compile an Environmental Impact Report. Everett happened to have the chairman on his team, and was in a position to direct which consultant should be hired, allowing him to control the direction of the report. The consultant was Charles Elson, a professor of Social Engineering at UCLA, who assembled a group of minor partners: a traffic engineer, noise engineer, wildlife consultant, among others.

Charles assessed his team's data, drew his own conclusions and made his recommendation. Since Charles had a new wife and had recently moved his family into a home in very posh Santa Monica Canyon his mortgage and upkeep was going to require a great deal of consulting work. He was taped receiving an envelope with $50,000, which he was asked to count by someone off-camera.

The Commission Chairman was equally unfortunate in having been captured on tape. Sam Darman, a 47-year-old attorney, had three children and a wife who wanted a larger home in Brentwood. College tuition for the boys was threatened by Sam's sorry investment history. Most expensive of all was Sam's mistress in Playa Del Rey. Sam is seen on the tape agreeing to $100,000 being wired to his account in the Cayman Islands.

Ralph Bleeker was the third party, a 72-year-old City Councilman, who had been in local politics since acquiring his degree at the old Los Angeles City College. He had earned his district's support by being on the contrary side of most of the city-wide social improvement bills, while being obsessed with minor improvements in his own distrrict. When his wife, Elsa died 15 years earlier, his weekly poker games continued as before at his home, but a young Black girl was on hand to clean up. Reports on the young girl's street and drug history, the fact that she had been under-age at the start of their relationship had been funneled into Tom Ellison's files. Ralph was taped with a voice off-camera assuring him the files would remain closed in appreciation for having pushed this zoning recommendation through. There was an additional present: an envelope of cash, plus arrangements for a quiet holiday in Tuscany for Ralph and his young friend.

Everett stood on the patio reflecting on his crisis. These three moments, on the DVD, were now on the verge of becoming public knowledge because of that little queer who stole them from Tom's files. If only he could get the DVDs back and destroy them he'd forgo the hill, give it to the Conservancy. He knew that the two Warmweather guys had a second one that affected only them. Not his concern. If he could only work out a deal – they keep theirs, and return his. Might not work for Tom, but screw him.

"Call me if you hear anything. I'll be up late," he said to Tom, and walked toward Sharon.

# TWENTY NINE

Carol had been sitting in her living room, an open bottle of Corona on the coffee table, leaning back on her couch, eyes closed, enjoying the darkness, remembering this morning when Terry convinced her how easy it would be, these guys had been dropped into their laps. Give up the day, she said. So much money at stake.

How had everything gone wrong? How could she have allowed herself to get caught in the middle of this? She shuddered. The violence was why she left San Diego PD. Her stomach was still turning, her hands shaking, thinking about the hotel lobby. Tomorrow, she'd get lost in American slickness. San Diego. Maybe, call Gary, lunch at some place busy and commercial, the Del Coronado. Maybe not. All those retired admirals in Coronado made her nervous.

She shouldn't have given those two her address, but she could stand the company, and perhaps not feel so vulnerable. Were those footsteps? Someone on the staircase? Maybe, it's them. No, couldn't be someone for her – no one had rung her outside buzzer.

Carol's three story Tijuana apartment house was concrete, painted white, her apartment, on the third floor. Two apartments to a floor; divided by a staircase in the center leading to the upper floors. Her apartment was on the left side of the staircase. Since this was Carol's pied a terre, rather than her home, which was in a high rise condo in San Diego, the décor was minimal.

She'd been right – there were footsteps on the staircase. And when they banged on her door, and she opened it with the chain still on and they told her to open it or they would knock it down, she didn't have any choice, since they had flashed their pistols and would have shot her through the door.

So, now she was sitting on one of the stools facing the kitchen counter, the overhead lights on, playing solitaire while a creature named, Raoul, sat on a matching stool watching her.

Raoul, who had a hard day, following a hard night, getting slammed all over the El Abajeno parking lot by the big-assed American, was tired, hungry, and now dumbfounded in pulling open Carol's refrigerator, and finding only beer and mangos. No meat, no cheese. In the cupboard, no crackers. What kind of broad was this? Just to make sure she was a broad he'd slipped his arm over her shoulders earlier and cupped her breast. She delayed her reaction, and finally shoved his arm away.

A few minutes earlier at that hotel bar, and none of this shit would have been necessary, Raoul thought. If Enrique had been there when it went down – it would've been cream, but Enrique, Raoul and Mariano arrived just after the shoot-out. What was with Rico? Stunting for the new guy, turning a gimme into a shooting gallery. Had to be he saw the broads' guns. Lucky, the room clerk told Mariano this broad split with the two guys, and Mariano, mucho pissed, gave Enrique her address, and took off. So where were those assholes? How were they traveling? And why would they show up here?

There were three of them in the apartment – Raoul and Carlos, two of the original four, and Rocky, who was stationed downstairs, one of the half-dozen new faces from Los Angeles. Raoul was going to keep a thumb on Rocky, in his eyes an amateur, barrio-wise and city-dumb. Raoul wanted this clean if they showed; no carnival of blood, like Mariano called the hotel scene.

So far, a breast squeeze, Carol thought. Jesus Christ. But this idiot running the show gave her the feeling it was a sign of things to come. And, what balls, pissed at her because she hadn't stocked the refrigerator. Like she knew she'd be entertaining. Right now, they have business on their minds – for some reason, they think the boys might be coming - but later? Be brave, she told herself. Maybe, these assholes will get a call that the boys were seen somewhere else and take off. Maybe one will get careless, put a gun down that she could grab. She ruled out the bathroom as an exit, no possibility through the window. Just keep thinking.

Raoul watched her shrink into the corner. Not bad looking, he thought. Maybe too thin, too American, but, what the hell, might be fun for later.

He heard a car pull onto the street and park. Carlos started toward the window. Raoul waved him back.

The maestro giving orders, brooded Carlos, definitely not happy with Raoul in charge. He had screwed up the parking lot scene, so why's he in charge? This was an action thing, not Raoul's quiet, serious bullshit. He thinks he's better; older, maybe. With Raoul it's always quiet. At least, there's Rocky downstairs. The new guy. Tough. And funny. How come they didn't know each other back in L.A.? Carlos liked the way Rocky looked - wiry and lean. Real tattoos. Not that prison shit. Looks were important to Carlos, who enjoyed standing in front of the mirror combing his hair, checking himself out.

Raoul looked out the apartment door, down the staircase to Rocky, who nodded and pointed outside; he'd heard the car. Raoul pulled his head back inside the apartment, leaving the door open.

Carol stopped playing with the cards. What now?

Standing behind the front door, Rocky leaned against the wall, his 9mm Beretta against his chest. This was an upper, like opening the window to someone's house and nobody's home.

Standing in the entrance area, Marvin scanned the list of names and pressed the button next to Carol's.

The buzzer cut through the silence in the apartment. Carol could feel the tension go into overdrive. Raoul placed his pistol against her head. "Sound happy."

At the speaker, she asked who was there.

The voice filtered back, "Hey, Carol, Marvin and Stan."

Raoul, fist raised; Carlos spun around, bumping fists.

Raoul whispered, "Be convincing, puta."

Downstairs, the voice crackled out as Marvin listened, looking around the street. Carol sounded cool, "Hey, man, c'mon up."

The buzzer rang below, releasing the door.

Marvin opened it, turning to see if Stan had found the shoulder bag and was on his way. He stood halfway inside the entry area, back against the door, keeping it open for Stan. He started to look back, when he felt the cold steel against his temple.

"Upstairs, asshole," Rocky said, reaching high with the pistol, jerking Marvin inside, allowing the door to close. "No bullshit, or the neighbors' dogs will be eating brains for breakfast. Where's your buddy?"

Marvin started to turn, but Rocky jabbed him again. "Your amigo?"

"In the car."

Give him some time, Marvin thought. Better than walking into this. As long as he's loose, who knows?

"Upstairs, gigante. Remember, this gun makes you a midget. Move it."

Raoul came out of the apartment to look down at the two men walking up the stairs. Jesus, he'd forgotten how big he was. "The buddy - he's still in the car," Rocky shouted up, as they climbed the stairs, the pistol now at Marvin's back. "Maybe waiting to get the word it's cool."

Raoul.waited for Marvin to reach the third floor landing. "The car - where'd you park?" Raoul patted Marvin down. Stall, Marvin thought. Seconds. A minute. Give Stan a chance to wonder what's happening.

Raoul shoved Marvin into the apartment, stared at Carol. What was her role in this? She gestured with her hands in apology. "I had no idea."

Standing on tiptoes, Raoul slapped Marvin across the back of the head. "You fuckin' deaf? I owe you plenty from last night. Where's the car?"

Carlos and Rocky looked on, amused at the contrast in size between Marvin and Raoul.

"Halfway down the block, that way," Marvin answered, pointing in the wrong direction. Pausing; he'd better level on the make of the car. Carol may have told them. "Black Mercedes."

Raoul shoved Marvin into a wooden chair, pulling drawers out till he found what he wanted, a roll of Nylon hikers' rope, and tied Marvin's hands behind the chair. Finishing, he looked up at Carlos and said, "The other one - this pendejo says up the street for the Mercedes. Probably bullshit. Try the other way first."

Carlos nodded, drifting out to the staircase, a Tec-9 semi-automatic in his hand.

Waiting till Carlos was out the front door, so he could get full credit, Raoul pulled out his cell, hitting the numbers, and shouting into the phone, "We got the prize."

~ ~ ~ ~

Stan saw Marvin disappear into the building, and it seemed odd, without so much as looking back or waving. Was Marvin anxious to get off the street, or was this reason to be worried? There were two street lights on the block, each sending a dull glow that almost reached the sidewalk. The lights, feeble at any time, weren't cutting through the thin mist. Two of the buildings on the street - one of them Carol's – had lights at their entrances. Pathetic little globes.

Nervous in the darkness, Stan walked rapidly toward the apartment house, shoulder pack in hand. Even more nervous when he remembered he had left the Glock in the car, behind the front seat, where he had dropped it after leaving Geraldo's. Damn, go back again? He deliberated.

Halfway to the car he stopped; it wasn't like Marvin to just walk off like that. Maybe check the entrance from across the street. If it looked okay, he could always return for the pistol; he crossed to the opposite side of the street, slipping behind a parked car to face into the front of Carol's building.

Since everything they did was fucked, he thought, he should go back for the Glock. Too late. The front door of the apartment house was opening. Who the hell was that? And then he recognized him – one of the assholes from the parking lot at El Abajeno, pistol dangling at his side. _Shit, what now? They were here. How did they track Carol, or did she set them up? He stared across the street. The asshole who rescued his buddy in the parking lot. Young; Too young for this. Maybe 21-22. Jeans and a T-shirt. Not bad looking. But, can someone look stupid? He looked stupid. Maybe, it was the grin. He seemed to be grinning to himself, standing with a grin and a gun._

Headlights again at the corner. Another car turned onto the street. A Toyota with California plates. A young couple drinking Tecate out of cans and laughing.

How could anybody be having fun? Stan thought. Seemed easy enough for the pair in the car. Probably going to one of the clubs, still drawing Americans despite the warnings.

The punk glanced at the Toyota as it sped by, grabbing his crotch, gesturing toward the car and the blond in the passenger seat. Stan could hear his grunt across the street. His eyes followed the tail lights receding into darkness, then turned to scan the street.

Stan was still. He knows I'm out here, somewhere, but not where. He's looking toward the Mercedes. They must know it's ours.

Cautious, Carlos crouched and walked toward the Mercedes.

Stan's instinct was to beat him to the car and get the hell out of there. He also knew he wouldn't make it. How could he have forgotten that gun?

Backing up, a stone spun out from under Stan's shoe. Not much of a sound, but on this dark deserted street it was unmistakable.

The punk stopped, looking to see where the noise had come from. He walked back toward the apartment house and started to cross the street.

The bouncing stone had caught his interest.

A dog was sprawled asleep in front of one of the buildings on Stan's side of the street, penned in behind a waist high chicken wire fence. Stan dropped the shoulder bag near the wheel of the car, picking up a pebble and throwing it at the hound, hoping to rouse him to take the rap for the earlier noise. The dog twitched as the pebble hit him, opening one eye and closing it again.

Bark, you little asshole. Bark.

The punk was definitely crossing the street. Stan followed him through the window of the parked car.

He tossed another stone at the grey dog, hitting him on the ribs this time. He twitched again, opened both eyes this time, looked around.

Bark, you little bastard.

Nothing.

The punk had stopped mid-street, abruptly returning to the other side.

Why? Stan soon realized why.

Headlights at the corner. Maybe flag the car and ask for a lift. Except, maybe that asshole would kill them along with me.

A black Mustang convertible, couple years old. Slowing down. California plates.

The car stopped in front of the punk. Two men in the car. Booze, coke or meth. They had that bouncy movement. Tweakers.

The man in the passenger seat got out, talking to Carlos. His voice carried. "Hey, amigo, you know where Lizardos is? The club. You know, rock 'n' roll, man."

"We're fuckin' lost," said the man still behind the wheel. He opened his door, got out, stretched. They were in their 20s, blond hair hanging over their shoulders, scattered tattoos on their forearms.

As they pulled up, Carlos slipped his pistol behind him into his jeans, pointing into his ass, pulling his T-shirt over it. He answered, "No man, I'm just visiting."

The two men stared at him.

He stared back. "I don't know shit, I said. I told you I don't know this fuckin' city."

"You American?" the first man asked, walking toward him.

"Yeah, so?"

"You look you could be from around here."

"L.A.," Carlos said, looking down the street, hoping to see Stan. He was getting fuckin' pissed; if not for Stan these two redneck American assholes would be fuckin' dead meat. Shoot 'em, put them in their car and burn it.

"Hey man, in that case, how about helping out some fellow 'mericans. We could use a few bucks," the passenger said. He was almost chin to chin with Carlos.

"No fuckin' directions, no fuckin' money." That was it. Carlos reached behind him, pulled the semi-automatic out of his pants and leveled it first at the passenger, moving it in an arc from one to the other. "Out of my face. Back the fuck up."

"Jesus Christ," said the passenger, backing away. "We're not lookin' for any trouble. Just askin'. Just askin'."

"Hey, hold on, man" said the driver, raising his hands like an orator. "You got us wrong." He turned slowly in a circle, hands aloft as if pleading a case to a jury.

It was enough of a diversion. Carlos, pissed, stared at him. The other man swung around swiftly in a crouch. In one fluid movement he pulled out a knife that had been tucked into the waist of his jeans under his T-shirt and swung in under Carlos's pistol, plunging the blade into his stomach. The blond kid opened his hand to release the knife now pinned deeply into Carlos who went down silently, mouth open, the pistol falling under his body.

The driver leaped into the car behind the wheel.

The man from the passenger seat reached for his knife, twisting it hard in the punk's stomach before pulling it out, stabbing him again, pulling it out and wiping it on the dead man's T-shirt.

Staring down into the dying man's face, he said, "Not what we wanted to do, man. Shouldn't have pulled that piece."

He reached into the man's jeans pocket, grabbed a handful of bills, leaped into the car and they raced off into the dark.

Cold, clinical. Stan looked on stunned. Even the hotel lobby bloody shoot-out – horrible as it was - had more passion, anger. This was indifference. He rested his head against the cool roof of the car in front of him. At least in Baghdad there was a fucking war.

He sat down on the curb. Jesus, what now? Reality returned. So, it's confirmed – they're here; they've got Marvin upstairs and they're looking for him. And who knows how many of them are here, or on the way?

He crossed the street, and looking at the still body made him feel queasy again. No sound from Carlos, but his mouth was moving in a pantomime for help. Or, so it seemed. The poor bastard dying. There was no help for him, not that Stan would have been offering any.

What now?

Stan inhaled deeply. Something he learned before going out with the troops in one of those Rube Goldberg tricked-up armored Humvees. At least, in Baghdad there was a Green Zone. Returning to America was supposed to have been returning to the ultimate Green Zone. And it was. Until this weekend. Marketing meetings facing tough company presidents was an amusements park ride.

Stan picked up the body and draped it over a fender. Carlos' pistol, on the sidewalk, was a Tec-9 semi-automatic, the same as Stan had fired in the parking lot the night before, its 15-round magazine, smaller than the 32-rounder of the previous night.

Once again, the temptation was to bolt: leave Marvin and split. Stan had the keys, the DVDs and two guns. Maybe, steal someone's I.D., see if this guy has a passport, be in San Diego in an hour. And safe. Could he pass for Hispanic? He patted down his pockets – no passport. He wasn't that serious about leaving Marvin. Well, maybe.

# THIRTY

"It's not your style, so I'm not saying you have any direct connection with what's going on," the man said to Mariano, stopping for the moment and then continuing, "So, why am I discussing this with you?"

"A good question."

"Because you know everything that happens in this city."

Mariano looked away, watching the handful of customers in the bar of the

Lucerna Hotel: a banker that he knew, a rancher from Saltillo, with his wife.

"Americans couldn't be moving around the city the way they have,"

Emilio Escobar continued. "They lose cars, they find new cars. The police believe they are being helped by people from here."

The Tijuana banker across the room noticed Escobar and walked over to say hello. He was cool to Mariano. He was different with Escobar, who he pulled to a side, talking quietly, hoping they could get together for dinner the following night. Escobar told him he was staying at this hotel and to call him here tomorrow.

The man left and Escobar apologized - the man had a problem with the government. Escobar thought that Mariano would have known him.

"Only since high school," said Mariano. "Pompous then, even more so now."

Escobar was amused. Mariano was aware that living in Mexico City had changed Escobar. While still skinny as a rooster, giving evidence that Escobar may well be that rare creature, an honest politician, he had overcome that blemish to achieve considerable success. For many years Escobar had represented Tijuana in the legislature in the nation's capitol, but a few years ago he resigned to join the staff of a president, who felt that a man who knew northern Mexico and had many friends there was extremely valuable. Admiring Escobar's hand-stitched suit, Mariano realized that Escobar dressed much better these days. Maybe, he's not so honest anymore.

"It's a very difficult time with our government," Escobar said. "The drug cartels, the privatization program, trade agreements, the division of Pemex. The Bolsa - the stock market – has been reacting like a jumping jack. The peso is fluttering, the Indians going crazy in Chiapas, riots in Oaxaca, billionaires kidnapped, Mexican police looking like shit – because of drugs, the girls murdered in Juarez, the American consul people killed in Juarez, the immigration bullshit in America."

The waiter brought new drinks - scotch for Mariano, a Mexican brandy for Escobar.

"So, you might say, we have enough headaches," he continued, sipping at his drink. "But, this weekend, five Americans dead, five that I know about. With the border we get it from both sides. If the violence is Mexican, the Americans get on their high horse about how unsafe it is here. If the violence is American then the old men in our party and the newspaper columnists say that America is not only dumping its culture but its meaningless violence in this country."

Mariano wondered what exactly did Escobar know? Or who he knew in America? Did he know Everett Caldwell? Mexican politicians were always fluttering around Los Angeles, many campaigning. Mexicans living in America were allowed to vote in Mexican elections through absentee ballots – that meant 11 million voters in the U.S., the majority in Southern California, 15 per cent of the electorate.

Mariano felt his cell vibrate. Jesus. He didn't dare check. He had to leave soon. What about Marvin and his partner? Did he give them his cell number, or just the office? They may be trying to reach him. But he had to be careful with Escobar – the last thing he needed was trouble with the government.

"We have to show America that their people have gone on a rampage here," Escobar said. "We have many meetings ahead with Americans regarding trade agreements. We want to be indignant about this incursion into our country. Granted, this is a most trivial incident, but we hoard these things; every little incident helps. While it must be stopped, it must also be shown these are Americans killing Americans. And doing this on our soil."

"I'm not sure what you think I can do," Mariano said.

"The police - state and federal - are doing what they can, but your relationships cross many lines. Here and over the border. Mariano, I have seen your home - one doesn't get a home like that from a cute, little curio shop. Cut the bullshit. These people must not escape back into the States and disappear. It is vital we find them and process them in our courts. You can be a hero with us if you lead us to them, or we could take a closer look at some of the games you play."

Escobar stood up. "The serious talk is over," he said, smiling, signing for the check, reaching for Mariano's hand. Mariano stood up and shook Escobar's hand, watching as Escobar spun around, nodding to two men sitting at the bar, also in suits, who followed him out of the bar and into the hotel lobby.

# THIRTY ONE

Not much had changed in the apartment - Marvin was still sitting in a kitchen chair with his arms tied behind him. Raoul had deliberated about tying up the girl, but finally decided he didn't want to worry about her, and tied her as well; not that it mattered to Raoul, but the act did bolster her credibility with Marvin. Staring at Raoul, Marvin remembered letting the little fucker off with a punch to the head and a kick to some part of him. He should have killed him.

"You made me look like shit last night," Raoul said, waving his pistol at Marvin. "So, maybe I should get even. We'll see. But, if we get the DVDs, maybe you can go home. That is, if you get through the police. They are heavily pissed. You shouldn't have killed those people in your Jag." Being cute, Marvin thought. This little prick.

Raoul was so fucking low in the managerial department, Marvin thought, how would he know what was in store – whether we live or die? Just keep him talking, keep him distracted. Maybe Stan is up to something. Or, maybe he jumped ship, took the car before Carlos found him and headed north.

"Mariano says you work with these high tech companies," Raoul talking again.

"Yeah," Marvin said.

"You know, something maybe I could invest in, like a sure thing," he said, "What do you think? I may get some big money out of this deal."

"I guess so," Marvin said.

"Hey, don't think we can't do that shit," Raoul said. "You have any Chicanos in your company? I don't mean the clean-up guys."

"Of course we have," Marvin said, wondering if there really were any.

Rocky, his foot on the couch, waved his pistol. "Bullshit," he said. "Probably one or two you save when the bad shit happens, so you can run 'em out for TV. There'd be no news on L.A. TV without Chicanos - car chases, gangbanging, trials, suing the city, protests, strikes. The only white people on TV are old guys explaining new laws."

"That right, gigante," Raoul said. "Only for the bad stuff?"

"Well, I don't know," Marvin said, pressing hard to divert them from thinking about Stan. "What about those Chicano broads with the great haircuts working as anchors on every TV news show? So many of them on TV news that somewhere in school they must get a choice, either be a maid or TV anchor. Most of 'em choose maid."

Carol spun around, startled at Marvin's remark, then guessed he was playing games – still no sign of the other guy.

"What the fuck, you some kind of comedian?" Raoul said. "We got nothing but comedians around here – like, shit, where the fuck is that idiot Carlos?"

Rocky stretched, shrugged.

Maybe it works for these guys that we remain alive, Marvin allowed himself to think. The cops would have their killers, and everybody else is off the hook.

Tires screeched outside, startling everyone in the apartment. Raoul ran to the window. A car with two young Americans tearing down the street.

"What the hell is going on?" he said, jerking around, looking left and right, down the street. "I can't see that asshole, that fucking Carlos."

His eye cut directly below, where he saw something – someone - sprawled across a fender. Carlos? No way. He couldn't make out the face. Who the fuck was sleeping it off on a Buick?

"Rocky, get your ass down there and see what the fuck is going on. Move it."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Stan had backed away from the front of the door, retreating a few cars while remaining on the same side of the street. _Maybe call Mariano – could he help here?_

His decision-making process ended quickly. The door to the apartment house was opening again. Slowly. A painful few seconds. Still on the same side of the street as the apartment house, he was now behind the rear fender of a late '90s vintage Oldsmobile, two cars away from the Buick that carried Carlos as the hood ornament about 40 feet from the front door. He held Carlos' pistol at his side.

A shout from inside, "Jesus, Rocky, move it, get your ass out there, see what the fuck is happening."

Rocky stepped out, stopping only to slip a piece of cardboard in the door to prevent it from locking. A postcard moment: a man holding a pistol, two-handed grip, straight out in front of him. Poised to fire.

Swinging his head, left to right, Rocky braked when he came to the body sprawled on the fender. Not sure who or what it was, he moved cautiously toward it, his eyes still cutting 180 degrees, while moving and stealing glances at the body.

Stan had the advantage, except that his stomach was swirling. Kill someone in cold blood? He wasn't sure. A second of paralysis, trying to remember those drills at the gun club: arms straight, squeeze it off, don't jerk it.

It never occurred to him to ask Rocky to drop his gun and surrender. Like he was supposed to take a prisoner? And then what? Build a compound?

Almost mechanically he brought the pistol up and squeezed the trigger. A flat sound, the pistol jerking in his hand. Then, a series of shots. All went wide, swatting into the concrete wall.

Rocky reacted quickly, swinging around firing, bullets thumping into a row of cars, firing blindly, having no idea where the shots had come from. A bullet hit the car window near Stan, smashing the glass.

Rocky, looking around , unsure where to go, sank to one knee. Stan fired again, bullets splattering against the concrete wall - he was sweeping right to left; one of the shots slamming into Rocky's shoulder. Rocky shuddered, falling back, knocked squatting against the wall, still trying to find the shooter. He guess at where the bullets had come from and blasted the battered Olds.

Anticipating his reaction, Stan had moved to the car parked behind the Olds. He peered over the side of the car, two hands overlapping, finger on the trigger – spraying bullets, this time in a smaller grouping, crunching into his target, six slugs into Rocky's chest before Rocky knew what hit him.

Some of the neighbors came to their windows, cautiously looking out. But the gunfire had stopped, and if they weren't at the right angle to see the body on the fender or Rocky on the sidewalk, there was nothing to see, and the heads disappeared.

Raoul had jumped at the sound of pistol fire, but the war was over by the time he ran to the window. Carol's window had a slight over-hang, an extended window sill with a thin rail around it to hold plants. Stan pressed his body against the wall of the apartment building, out of sight from above. He heard Raoul call for Carlos and Rocky and backed harder into the wall. Stan felt confident he was hidden from above.

Rocky was still breathing. In the dark and hard to see from above. He heard Raoul and managed, in a voice, not much above a whisper, "On your own, Raoul" that couldn't have traveled beyond Stan. On your own? Which meant what? Stan wondered. Only one left up there? Just Raoul? A chance to pull Marvin out of this – that is, if there still was a Marvin. Was it worth it? Going one on one with the thug? Marvin got him into this. But still... If it's possible.

Rocky had stopped breathing. No pulse. He was going to join Carlos, literally. Stan propped him next to Carlos on the fender, and turned Carlos over; both men were looking up to Carol's window, as if in reverence. Stan wanted to bring Raoul to the window and keep his attention there. He checked the front door – Rocky's cardboard door jamb was still in place.

Stan yelled, "Eh Raoul, hombre," and ran into the apartment house, tiptoeing up the stairs. The apartment door was slightly ajar, and he could hear who he assumed was Raoul, responding to the call, shouting down to the two men. Two guys on a fender had to be a confusing sight.

The door moved slowly to Stan's touch, and he peeked into the apartment. As he had hoped, Raoul was staring out the window trying to compute who had called him, and what the hell was that below? Two men draped over the Buick fender? What the fuck – maybe, two sacks of something? Maybe, Rocky and Carlos?

Marvin and Carol were both in chairs, hands tied behind their backs.

Raoul was talking out loud to himself, "Shit – no, couldn't be Rocky and Carlos. Just couldn't be. Why would they be looking at me like that? Dead? No way. The boys are too good for some office punk to nail them. But, what's with the fender? Where is Enrique? Shit, what's going on?"

Stan was in the room, facing Raoul's back - he aimed and shot.

Marvin's and Carol's heads spun around, startled, frightened. Marvin yelled at Carol, "Hit the floor," and toppled his chair.

All of Stan's shots went wild, missing Raoul, who turned around and returned the fire, bullets slamming off Carol's concrete walls.

Stan ran behind the kitchen island; Raoul blasted into it, bullets flying past him.

Raoul crouched behind Carol who was on the floor, in her chair, hands still tied behind her. Through a bullet hole in the island Stan saw him moving her chair upright, maneuvering her up out of the chair, wrists still bound; he had her standing in front of him as a shield.

"Shoot me, shoot the girl," Raoul said. "No loss to me." Which drew a gasp from Carol.

No answer from Stan.

"Give me the DVDs and you can walk."

As if, Stan thought. Like he can make that decision.

Stan shot at the light fixture, trying for the dark, with Raoul, near the window, spotlighted from the street. The bullets missed, but jarred Carol and Raoul, both of whom thought Stan was shooting at them. Holding Carol in front of him he backed even closer to the window, firing, peppering the island with bullets.

Marvin realized what Stan had in mind, righted himself and backed his chair toward the wall. His shoulder was near the light switch – he threw himself against the wall, his shoulder high enough to catch the switch. The lights went out.

A moment of silence in the darkness. Stan knew the advantage was his, if not the job at hand. The feeble outside light was framing Raoul at the window, while Stan was not only masked by the dark, but was still behind the counter. Raoul had his arm around Carol's neck, doing a minor sweep with his pistol, trying to adjust to the dark. Stan had his moment, and, anger and andrenalin driving him, sprung toward them, surprising Raoul and Carol, the impact slamming both against the wall, loosening Raoul's hold enough for Stan to pull her free. She flew to the side. The collision jarred Stan's pistol from his hand, falling to the floor. Raoul had lowered his pistol to offset Stan's rush and Stan, without weapon, jammed himself against Raoul's arm, preventing him from raising the pistol.

A car racing down the street, its sound and glare of headlights seeping into the apartment.

Stan and Raoul were locked in a wrestling match, Stan edging him from against the wall toward the open window, still pinning Raoul's pistol against his body.

Raoul laughed. "Too late, office boy. Enrique's here."

Still entangled, both pressing for an advantage, struggling near the window Stan could see below – it wasn't a Mustang. A red sports car slowing down, a woman's head, looking out the window at the bodies.

"Jesus," the girl screamed, "they're dead." The driver took his cue, gunning the motor, speeding away.

Raoul reacted to the scream, spinning to see the car tearing off. He pushed his body around, finally freeing his pistol hand, and tried to jerk it back up, but it was too late. Stan pounded into him. Raoul's trigger finger jerked reflexively, the small concrete room resounded like an echo chamber \- a massive roar as five shots poured into Carol's wall, smashing a vase and a framed photo. Trying to brace himself from falling out the window, the pistol fell to the floor.

Extending his arms like a defensive lineman lunging for the quarterback, Stan grasped Raoul, who fought to get away from the window. Stan held on, shoving and Raoul toppled backwards, bouncing on the window sill and then partially out the window. Marvin and Carol were silent, watching.

Raoul screamed, struggling to grasp an edge of the window frame that would save him, but he was toppling further out the window. Stan pounded him again, shoving Raoul backwards into the dark night, his heels pounding and digging into the inside ledge of the window.

Marvin, using his shoulder again, flipped the lights back on.

Stan tore Raoul's shoes away from the inside window sill, unleashing the scrambling legs to flail in the air. Stan gave them a final shove and they scissored out the window. Carol closed her eyes as the legs disappeared. There was a thump. Stan looked out the window. Raoul hit the concrete, head on. If he wasn't dead – he would be. If his head wasn't crushed, it sure as hell looked it.

# THIRTY TWO

Shock and joy - Marvin and Carol were shouting, nothing that Stan could understand, and was too stunned to respond. He found a knife and cut them free.

Carol apologized to Marvin, who said he understood. They had to move. The others were coming.

Running for the door Carol stopped them, pulling from the bookcase the thin, encoded DVD player that she had spoken of earlier at Geraldo's – the one Sandy had sent along to check out the DVDs.

"I'm gone, man," she said, handing over the machine. "Heading north. Thanks for saving my ass again. No way I'm here tonight."

They were down the staircase and outside, breathing in the joy of one more escape from the noose, something to savor even if hadn't advanced their cause. Nothing here was going to help them cross the border, but, at least, more of them were dead, and Stan and Marvin were still in motion. Stan raised his clenched fist – Marvin hit it. Carol ran to her BMW and was gone.

Stan ran across the street, picked up the shoulder bag and returned to where. Marvin was shoving Raoul's Tec-9 pistol under his belt, covered by his bloused sailing jacket. Stan lifted Raoul's body from the sidewalk, cracked head still intact, and threw it on top of the others. .

Then to the Mercedes. "You okay?" Marvin asked. "Want me to drive?"

"No, I want the feeling of driving away. Jesus, who can I tell that this is not my career path."

Stan drove away, headlights off, the trade secret of the night, turning slowly at the corner, making certain not to trigger the brake lights.

In the rear view mirror he could see headlights from a distance; a car turning onto Carol's street.

Street after street were behind them, turning at random, up this avenida, down this calle. Hopelessly lost. Intentionally lost. Happily lost.

They passed a store, the sign reading licores. Stan double parked, ran inside, pulled a bottle of tequila, Cuervo Especial, off the shelf, threw a $10 bill on the counter, where the young girl tore herself away from the TV set, as the emcee of the variety show introduced a chimp riding a bicycle. She punched her calculator, handing him his change, and he dashed back to the car.

They continued driving aimlessly, the area getting less and less populated, passing an occasional home built of concrete blocks, finally turning by chance onto a street with a surreal look: paved streets, curbs, driveways and street lights, which weren't working, but no homes: a housing development, where obviously finances must have given out.

Parking in between a pair of dormant street lights, Stan reached down to the floor-board for the tequila, unscrewed the top and offered it to Marvin, raising it as in a toast. "All my life a spectator – reporting. Tonight I shot somebody, saw a guy knifed in the stomach, tossed a guy out the window, and I don't feel bad."

Marvin gulping the tequila, handed it back. "Of course, you don't," he said. "You're now in marketing."

The bottle went back and forth.

"Big guy like you caught by a little prick like that – you should be embarrassed." Stan said, raising the bottle to his lips.

He handed the bottle to Marvin, who said, "Man, I had problems about my height till high school. My father told me it would work out - he'd played basketball for Michigan State and it helped him get into the management trainee program at G.M. He was right. High school baskets changed me. No way I could play at Michigan State – went to school there, graduated and worked as a cop for a year before going back, getting my M.S. in Computer Engineering."

"So, how'd you wind up in L.A.?"

Marvin took another massive gulp. "Interned with a software group in East Lansing. My boss got a job in San Francisco, asked me to come along, then came to L.A."

He handed Stan the bottle, and said, "Every year I get a birthday card from my father with the note, `I told you so.' He thought I was too bull-headed as a kid, that I wouldn't listen to him. But, I did, and I was doing okay, until this." Then thinking, continuing, "If I still wasn't so bull-headed, we wouldn't be so deep into this shit."

Stan stopped mid-drink, held the bottle, asking "What does that mean?" Marvin reached for the bottle without answering. Stan was staring at him. "That message on your machine – you heard it before we left?"

Marvin barely got the words out. "Well..."

The tension, the booze, the realization hit. Stan screamed, "You fucking heard it, didn't you? You big, dumb, sonuvabitch. He warned us. And you..." Stan leaped out of the car, and half out of his mind, grabbed the keys and the gun, and walked off. Marvin wasn't following him.

Stan walked into the phantom development, and sat down on a curb, looking at the driveways, the lamp-posts, the houses that weren't there. The tequila running through him, refining his thinking. So, who can he trust? Everyone lied this weekend. Make that the last couple of years. Well, everyone lied in Baghdad, someone lied to implicate him in the Warmweather bullshit, his life with his ex-wife was a lie, there wasn't a person that he spoke to in two days who hadn't lied. He fucking risked his life to save Marvin and his lie turned out to be the biggest of all.

Even cute, preppie, buttoned-up, Catlin Bradley, who worked for the Coalition Provisional Authority, and seemed like the smartest kid on the block when he arrived in Baghdad, ultimately was on a scam. United States currency was being flown into the Authority on storage pallets, shrink wrapped packets of hundred dollar bills in $100,000 bricks. All with no serious accountability. Which was all Bradley had to know. She stashed five bricks into her duffle bag, took R&R on a supply flight to Ramstein Air Force Base in Kaiserslautern, Germany, drove an hour and a half to Luxembourg where she opened a numbered account in a bank that issued her a credit card, checks and a letter of credit. Here was this-on-a mission-to-save-the-world, idealistic, perceptive, interesting, and very hot babe, with whom he had spent much time in Baghdad, who in the end turned out to be an embezzler, profiting like so many on all the misery and destruction of that screwed-up part of the world.

Hell, was he any better? He was even lying to himself. At least, Bradley hadn't killed anyone – he killed two men, high-fiving and exulting over it. And how much more before it was over. But, this weekend hadn't been his doing, and whatever it took to survive would be okay. And Marvin? He just didn't know - the trust was gone.

Marvin broke through the darkness and stopped a distance away.

"I feel like shit," he said. "You could have taken off on your own anytime. And didn't. Especially, earlier."

Stan stared at him. He was holding the gun; should he just shoot him?

"You're not going to shoot me, are you?"

Stan just stared at him. .

"Look, I'm sorry as shit I got you involved. Been on my mind since that fuck-up at the restaurant. But when this broke at the office with those lawyers you started acting like I leaked those stock deals, which made me think it was all an act, that you were the one."

Stan didn't say anything.

"So, when Raphael said he had something that would clear both of us it seemed best if we saw it together. I wanted to see this DVD bad. But who expected this? In my mind, we were dealing with some white collar bullshit crime. I was thinking Martha Stewart and it turned into 'Scarface.' We had a polite SEC violation. You don't actually kill people on Wall Street. What could happen? Well, it happened. Now, all these people killed. Because of me. I have to deal with it."

Stan was still trying not to go crazy, trying to deal with the fact that this weekend did not have to be. Screwed royally by Marvin.

He finally came to life. "What else haven't you told me?"

"Nothing left. I'm sorry as hell. For everything. For everybody. At least, the others knew what they were getting into. You didn't. No more bullshit, I swear."

Marvin reached down to where he had dropped the bottle of tequila, offered it to Stan, who reached for it, drank, and said, "Marvin, I'm really tired of being used. I just want to get even."

Marvin was relaxing. He asked, "We have any clients that could help us?"

Stan had thought about that, and there was a possibility. A long shot. Very long, but possible. But worth pursuing. In any case, fuck this, being a moving target – he had to start thinking offensively and Marvin had to go a long way to redeem himself. "Maybe so," Stan said, finishing the bottle, dropping it gently to the ground.

# THIRTY THREE

"This is the street," Enrique said, motioning for the driver to slow down. Chin, who lived briefly in Tijuana, was driving as replacement for Mariano, who was still trapped in the meeting with the government man. Chin along with Pablo, in the back seat, were among the new boys.

Enrique was looking at the house numbers, his eyes moving down the street. "Christ, what's that?" he said, pointing to the grouping on the Buick. "Bodies? What the fuck? Park here. Double park." Bodies piled on a fender? Maybe shadows playing games. The brakes squealed, and he leaped out.

"Jesus," he shouted, rushing to the pile, bending down to peer at the faces, recognizing them. "Who the hell could've done it – not those assholes. Looks like a drug gang message. Damn." He shoved the bodies around to get a better look at them, then turning to Chin: "Knives, bullets, what the fuck happened? Those two fuckers, unbelievable. Throw something over our license plates. We don't need anyone to I.D. us."

Talking to Chin, but really to himself, Enrique said, "They had the big guy in the apartment. They were picking up the other guy. Jesus, how could they fuck up like this?" He ran upstairs, checked out the wreckage of the apartment, and punched in Tom's number on his cell and told him what he had found.

"You said you had 'em," Tom snapped. "No," Enrique countered, "I told you the boys said they had 'em. I don't know what happened. All I know, the guys we're looking for are gone. The guys on our side are laying dead on a fender."

"Can't you..."

"Hold on man, I can only deal with what you give me. These guys weren't my choice."

"We've been through this," Tom said, annoyed. "Not many Special Forces vets looking for this sort of work. Dump the bodies someplace they won't be found. Last thing we need, the police wailing about more dead Americans. What do you think happened?"

Enrique, now back on the street, waved to Chin, pointing from the bodies to the trunk. Chin understood, opening the trunk. He and Pablo loaded the bodies, doing Jackie Chan moves in between stowing them.

"Can't even guess," he said. "Maybe they had help. If I didn't know better, a message from one of the drug gangs, but why would they get involved?"

"What are they driving?"

"Not sure – I heard one of the desk clerks tell Mariano that he saw the guys pick up a set of car keys from the bitch who got shot – name is Terry Scanlon, from L.A. Have your guys in L.A. check her plate numbers, I'll get our boys to screen hotel parking lots."

"Doesn't Mariano know what she's driving – they're old friends."

"He says no."

"I'll get back to you."

"Thought you were coming back down."

"I am. I'm 20 miles out of San Diego right now. Just get rid of those bodies, the desert, anywhere they can't be found. I don't want this thing enlarged." He cut off the call.

Depression hit Enrique - the hours, frustration, incompetence. And now he thought, teamed with more punks, these even more screwed than the dead ones; actually getting high on stowing bodies in the trunk. What kind of lunatic factory do they have in L.A.? He watched Chin close the trunk.

"Two fucking guys working in an office did this," Enrique said. "We look like shit."

Their voices carried through the darkness, heads appeared in windows. It had been a noisy night on the street. Enrique and Pablo hopped into the car and Enrique pulled out his cell and called Mariano.

"A disaster," Mariano responded, sitting in his office, hearing the news. Three more. He felt sick.

Enrique stared into the darkness. "What the hell could they be driving? Think they've got Terry Scanlon's car? That clerk told you they took her keys."

Mariano had to be careful. "Like I told you before I remember her saying she bought a new car – I don't remember what kind."

Mariano sat in his office, stunned. Three more deaths. Thank God, Escobar hadn't heard of them. Caldwell's money was tempting, but the government was nothing to fool with. How to satisfy both? Maybe, there was a way. If only the phone would ring. Why didn't they stay at the restaurant? Mariano continued sitting, looking at his phone, the only light in the office coming from his $250 pebbled black desk lamp.

Finally, standing, he checked his watch: midnight, and recorded a new message on his answering machine, saying he'd be checking for calls all night. As far as he was concerned if the boys did call forget Tom, Enrique and their stooges, he was flying solo. He thought about leaving his home number, decided against it, and sure as hell wasn't leaving the cell number - what if they were to call while he was with Enrique? He cut the lights off, locked up and stepped into his black Cadillac. Mariano lived in Chapultepec, in the hills above Agua Caliente Boulevard, the Fiesta Americana Hotel, Tijuana Country Club, and the U. S. Consulate. But, he had one stop first.

Making a left turn onto Madero, Mariano didn't notice the black Mercedes following a block behind him. The tourist traffic had begun to filter away, and the Mercedes was lost in the darkness in the distance. Mariano pulled up in front of the warehouse. The drabness of the whitewashed concrete exterior evoked a recurring regret that it didn't look much different inside. He loved the old English spy movies where the hero passed through a sleazy entrance into a wondrous high tech interior. Maybe he should start thinking about that again.

# THIRTY FOUR

Stan knew where to find Mariano. Carol had mentioned his shop, La Ventana, and it was how Mariano answered his phone earlier. Easy enough to find from the ad in the tourist brochure. Stan parked down the street from the shop and waited. A couple of young girls left, and then a man, locking the door. The same one who had given them directions to El Abajeno, and who earlier had been in the car looking for them. He walked around the corner to his Cadillac. Stan followed loosely for a few blocks until Mariano pulled up in front of what appeared to be a warehouse. Stan stopped half a block away, backing into an alley, only the front of the car protruding.

"Careful," Marvin said, looking at the glow of the street lights cutting through the dark. He ran his hand through his hair, "Getting nervous."

Mariano opened the door to the warehouse, and as he started to enter, another man came out to talk to him. The most professional looking of the thugs.

"Jesus, Where are we?" Stan asked.

"At their front door," Marvin said. "Aren't they supposed to be trying to find us?"

As if in answer, a hot light splashed over their car.

They froze.

The car behind them in the narrow alley blinked from low beam to high beam.

"Oh shit," Stan said, groping behind him for Terry's Glock.

Marvin laid a restraining hand. "I think someone just wants us to move."

"You know that?"

The lights blinked again.

"If it was them, it wouldn't be lights. Pull to the right."

The lights blinked again.

Stan flicked on the parking lights, drove to the right onto the street, half a block from the warehouse, facing away from it. The car behind them gunned out, swerving to the left, passing Mariano and the other man. Through the rear view mirror they could see Mariano ending his conversation. The man to whom he had been talking glanced at the speeding car and then re-entered the building. Mariano drove off slowly.

Stan made a U-turn, and took off after Mariano, catching up with him as he made a couple of right turns, leading to Agua Caliente.

They trailed him by half a block, watching as he turned off Agua Caliente onto Avenida Sonora, the start of the climb into the terraced hills of an upscale, quiet neighborhood.

There was no other traffic; Mariano would soon realize he was being followed, but the traffic bumps bulged so thickly in this part of the city Mariano would have an instant concussion if he attempted to speed off. Kidnapping was a growth industry in Tijuana, and Mariano had to be concerned with who was back there. They could see him looking into his rear view mirror, probably considering what to do.

Marvin solved the problem. "Stop the car," he said. He leaped out of the car, so that Mariano could see him in his rear view mirror.

When Mariano hit his brake lights Stan jumped out. "Marvin, you drive. Follow us."

Stan ran to the driver's side and a startled Mariano stared through his open window. "We should go somewhere safe, where we can talk," Stan said.

Mariano continued staring and finally said, "Okay, my house, up the hill. I live alone."

Stan opened the front door, hopped into the passenger seat, and said, "No games."

"No one's home - the maid spends Sundays with her mother - so I can't offer you too much."

"If we want to eat you can call a caterer."

"Your friend will follow?"

"Yes."

He started driving. "When we get there wave him into the garage, so there are no cars parked in front of the house."

Stan nodded.

"So you knew my store?"

"You're a famous man, Mariano."

"You were behind me just now when I stopped at the warehouse?"

"The warehouse?"

"Artisans working on some new designs for my shop."

"Jesus, Mariano, I thought this was going to be the start of a beautiful friendship."

Mariano looked at Stan and nodded, "You're right, you're right."

They passed a new 14 story building, all dark mirrored glass, with a sign reading Condominios Se Vende.

Very elegant.

Moving up the hill: another condo building, but more Mediterranean influenced, and behind it wood and stucco homes with a 1960s-70s Southern California tract appearance, followed by slightly larger homes in Southern California Mission style.

Mariano maneuvered over the speed bumps, which seemed to get larger the higher they drove. Apparently, there was no gentle method of riding over them, their size serving a dual purpose, not only invaluable in slowing traffic, but also in discouraging thieves any chance of a swift getaway.

Turning the corner, culture shock: slick villas out of Bel Air - sweeping contemporary homes, enormous ranch style, giant New England cottages, Tudors. A deluge of textures and influences: concrete, wood, brick, stucco, glass, tile. But without the sprawling Bel Air acreage. More like the McMansions being built on tight lots in Santa Monica. Tijuana? Who'd believe it?

"Drug money?" Stan asked.

"No, no. Lawyers, bankers, merchants," he said. "The drug people are simple – they live on ranches, compounds, away from the city. The drug bosses might hire these people, but they would never live here. They like the rustic world."

Down below city lights twinkled.

Mariano slowed and pointed toward a house - a startling contemporary home of natural concrete, given a nautical influence with sharp edges sweeping up from its base, its terraces lined with steel rails. It faced across the street to an empty lot and far below to the tiny lights of the Tijuana basin. There would never be a house on that lot to block Mariano's view. The garage doors raised, and Stan got out and waved Marvin inside.

Marvin parked and introduced himself to Mariano, who started toward a door and then thought better of it. "Leads to the kitchen," he said. "We should enter properly," and herded them to the front entrance, where they entered a reception area two stories high; the floor made of polished pink marble triangles fitted head to toe.

The three of them, at each other's throats, now staring at each other. A brief, awkward moment.

"Well, so here we are," Mariano said. He was wearing a double-breasted grey herringbone suit, dark grey shirt and light grey tie. He moved almost delicately.

"A quick tour, amigos, so you know no one else is here, and we can get down to business." He looked again at them, as if finding it hard to believe the two people he'd been chasing all weekend were in his home. "After this weekend I almost feel I know both of you." He nodded toward Marvin. "Yes, as massive as described."

"You're not exactly a bag of bones," Marvin countered.

The tour took them into the kitchen, so immaculate, that despite the dangling handsome, old copper pots, one would think no dinner had ever come from it. There was a Mexican cottage industry in aging pots to make them appear antique, the sort of industry in which Mariano would invest. Probably founded.

Very quickly through the rest of the house, three magazine cover bedrooms, in addition to the empty maid's room; an office/library with an Army regimental desk and a media room fed by an outside satellite dish.

There were a mass of home magazine features: enough closets to satisfy a sorority house; a jacuzzi in the master bath facing a screen with a reflected video image, and if thieves entered the house, a steel door that locked the master bathroom, which contained a charging cell phone to reach whatever security agency Mariano thought would have the courage to drive up his hill.

Mariano led them to the living room where its beige marble floor contrasted with a sweep of white walls, sofa and easy chairs. A massive glass coffee table rested on a circular school of foot-high concrete fish.

The fireplace on the right side of the room was framed by white tiles with a faint orange leaf design in them; a wet bar was faced with and topped by the same white tiles of the fireplace. The room's wall of windows over-looked the city, a panorama of flickering tiny lights.

Like much of Mexico, the elegant home had its contradictions. Above: a light fixture recess that lacked electrical elements; at one corner the walls failed to join precisely.

"Drinks?" Mariano asked, moving to the bar.

# THIRTY FIVE

Stan and Marvin sat on the large white sofa, facing the enemy, but lowering their defenses in what seemed like a time-out.

"Coke, Diet Coke," Stan said.

Marvin glared at Stan, then capitulating. "Make it two."

Mariano pulled out of his bar fridge two cans of Diet Coke and a bottle of Bohemia beer for himself.

"So, what's the deal?" Marvin asked, jumping right in. "We get you the DVDs – how do you get us out of here? We want to get home, line up some lawyers, let them deal with this Mexican legal shit."

Mariano held up his hands, slowing things down. "Some background first – Carol probably told you that Sandy and I were working together, old friends, but, Jesus, I had no idea, no choice and no chance in what happened," then turning around, assembling a tray of Coke cans, beer, glasses and a pair of bowls - shelled pistachio nuts, and tortilla chips.

"I didn't even know about the boys until Saturday morning when the L.A. cop, Ellison, Tom Ellison called out of the blue. Never spoke to him before. He said Sandy had told him that I was working with her. He was sending some backup, and they'd be checking in with me. He said he hadn't had a chance to tell her any of this."

Mariano placed the tray on the coffee table.

"Which was bullshit. He didn't want her to know his plans. He didn't think that I would call her, which I did – when she was riding in your car. I told her about the boys, and that their plan, like hers, was to get the DVDs while you were in the hotel. Actually, I thought that would be better for her – take her out of it. Not as much money, but safer. At least, I thought safer. I knew about the LAPD captain because Sandy had mentioned him, that they were both working for this guy in L.A., Everett Caldwell."

The name impressed Marvin. Stan didn't recognize it.

"Sandy was a good investigator, and had found out that Raphael had the DVDs, and that he had been talking you," Mariano said, nodding to Marvin. "So, that's when she zeroed in on you." Still looking at Marvin. "Originally, this was to be simple – she would steal the DVDs in the hotel room during the night, meet the girls at some hotel, and Terry would drive her back. In reality I would have almost no part. But she wanted to make this seem more complicated to raise her fee, so she told Caldwell that she had to work with me and it would involve lots of payoffs, etc."

Still looking at Marvin: "The cop pretty much guessed she was playing games. With him and Caldwell, just as she was with you."

Marvin looked around, as if for something stronger to drink, but all in all, Stan, who was watching him, thought Marvin took the remark pretty well.

Mariano stopped, thought for a moment, and continued.

"I figure the cop had her office bugged, and the boys on standby. He knew she was coming to Tijuana because she had told Caldwell that was the plan, but no date had been set. When Raphael called you," again nodding to Marvin, "to confirm this weekend she called her office to let Terry know. And, obviously, the cop's guys were listening."

Stan reached for his Coke, but didn't want to finish it and distract Mariano.

Waving his hand, Mariano continued, "So, because Sandy had given the cop - Ellison - my name I was now in the middle of something that I originally had almost no connection to. I believed him when he said he didn't want any violence, that is until I had a chance to meet with the boys. After that, I had to let Sandy know something was wrong, which is why I stopped to give you directions. She picked up on it, and called my cell from the ladies room in the restaurant, but I was with them and couldn't talk."

Standing and drinking his beer out of the bottle, he continued, "Damn it. I knew they were loose cannons, but kill her? No. Never even discussed. It was always the hotel. The guy in charge was trying to control them. I thought they could get rough at the hotel, which is why I was trying to warn her – don't press them. It was to be a simple robbery at the hotel. Everybody would get theirs. No mas. There had been no talk of making a move at the restaurant."

"You had no idea how insane these kids were?" Marvin asked.

"It was pretty obvious what they were capable of, but I told them we were working with Sandy. She was one of us. When they said they wanted to scout them at the restaurant, I thought okay, why not? It didn't seem important, so I took my time getting there – the less time with them the better. But they jumped the gun and decided to act on their own. It still might have worked, but everything went crazy – when Sandy came out they thought that was you with her. Raphael pulled a gun, and then she did. Why wouldn't she? They had guns. She probably wasn't sure who they were, thinking it was all going to come down later at the hotel. And then, disaster. Their excuse afterwards was that their orders were to get the DVDs no matter what."

Mariano watched Marvin and read his mind. "Let's have a real drink," he said, standing up and walking to the bar.

After all the earlier tequila, what could any more alcohol do to their reasoning powers, thought Stan.

"Tequila," Marvin said. And it sounded fine to Stan.

Mariano brought out a couple of bottles, Don Julio Silver Tequila for Stan and Marvin and Chivas Rigal for himself. Chivas, moderately expensive in the U.S., was enormously expensive in Mexico. Mariano brought the drinks to the coffee table, and holding his own aloft, said, "A toast. To the I-5." The highway running north from the border.

"And to Sandy and Terry," Marvin added, raising his glass. "Foolish women in the wrong business."

Glasses were raised, drinks were downed in one swallow.

"How'd you know Sandy?"" Marvin asked.

"From when she was in the Navy," Mariano said. "Lt. Commander, Naval Intelligence, in San Diego. Terry was there, reporting to her. We did a lot for each other. Drug suppliers to the troops - I could give them that information. Sandy turned her eyes away from the stolen cars I had coming in from the States. Not the Navy's business, anyway. Jeep Cherokees and Explorers are very big down here. Check out the cops."

"How did she get to L.A.?" Stan asked.

"They wanted to transfer her to the Pentagon, so she quit and opened an office in L.A. for private investigations. Later on Terry joined her. Sandy used her relationships with government suppliers, and she got the business, but she wanted one big killing. Caldwell hired her to find the DVDs \- a flat deal of $100,000. She knew what was on the DVDs and smelled millions. There was some cute stuff on them with some city officials."

"Why would Caldwell get involved, he's a big guy in L.A?" Marvin asked.

"Something about land. According to Sandy, the last remaining hillside area overlooking the whole city. Caldwell owned it for years, but couldn't do shit with it. He used to tell Sandy, `First it was land in L.A., then oil; now it's land again. You can import oil, but you can't import view properties.' But, it had to be re-zoned, the usual bullshit: endangering nearby houses, fire control, animal habitat. The problem was the land had faults."

Marvin was getting antsy. "Back to Question One - how do we get the hell out of here with our asses intact?"

The abruptness didn't startle Mariano.

"You still have the DVDs?" Mariano asked.

Marvin reached into the pocket of his jacket, where he still had his pistol.

Mariano held up his hand. "No guns, okay? I want to know exactly what you have." He walked over to the window, looked down to the city. "I'm like you. I want these people out of my life. I can bypass them and deal directly with Caldwell."

Stan said, "Get us out and you got 'em."

Mariano's cell rang, interrupting the silence. He picked it up.

"No. No word," he said.

Marvin and Stan listened intently.

"I understand," he said into the phone. "But, we have many people on the streets looking for them. Plus the coyotes. The state and federal police are curious about our interests, but they're okay, because they think we'll help smoke 'em out."

He looked up, shaking his head.

"First thing in the morning, 6 a.m." he said into the phone, cut it off.

Stan asked, "A problem?"

"The L.A. policeman. He's concerned because he senses I'm losing interest. He's nervous because I have no obligation to him."

"What about Caldwell?" Marvin asked.

"He cares only about one thing – the DVDs. He'd prefer you dead, but at this point he'll settle for the DVDs. One of them, anyway, the one concerning him. He doesn't give a shit about the other. The captain is different, he wants both."

"And if we're found dead?" Stan asked.

"Not important to either Caldwell or the police captain. But, not good for the Mexican government – it'll look like Third World justice and proves nothing to the citizens here. No. The government wants Americans alive for a trial, but, it may not have to be you. The question is, who?"

"The boys?" Marvin asked.

"Exactly. Not big fish, but good enough."

"So, how is this going to work?" asked Marvin.

"I provide passports, car and driver. Another car follows your car. When you cross the border, your car stops and you hand over the DVD, the driver gets out and you drive on home. I'll figure a way to give the boys up."

"If we agree," Stan asked, "what next?"

"Call me in the morning - at the office. If I'm not there, if someone else answers, hang up."

He led them to the Mercedes, where a turntable spun it around so it was facing the door. The garage door opened and Mariano, leaning on their car door, something on his mind, said, "About Carol's apartment. I gave her address away before we spoke – it was at the hotel scene, which was very upsetting, and I did it without thinking." Stan nodded, Mariano closed their door and waved goodnight.

Stan drove down the hill, trying to remember the way they came.

"You believe him about getting us out of here?" Marvin asked.

"Who knows? I'm sure even he doesn't know when he's lying. My feeling is, fuck them all - so far, we've beat them. This guy in L.A. wants everything and usually gets it. So, is getting the DVDs back good enough for him, or do we need to be dead too? Screw him." Stan glanced at the clock on the dash. "I'm tired as hell. Let's think about this. "It's after one – we've got to find some place to hunker down for a few hours."

Headlights interrupted the conversation, a car pulling in ahead of them from a side street; they followed from a distance, taking forever to head down the hill.

A loud bang tore through the silence. Hitting the brakes, Stan and Marvin instinctively ducked under the dashboard.

"Goddamn," Marvin said, pulling the pistol out.

No second or third shots, but another bang in the distance, as the car ahead backfired into the night, bouncing over the speed bumps.

There weren't half a dozen cars on Avenida Agua Caliente as they crossed it, thinking about a motel. The Fiesta Americana was behind them. Sounded good, but they didn't dare. Surely covered by the police. Ahead were the two motels from the previous night; not a chance they would try them again.

In the distance, a sign: El Conquistador. A possibility. Bobbing and weaving through the back streets, they pulled to the side of the motel, its front entrance facing Agua Caliente. Now what? Discretion – Marvin remained in the car, climbing into the back seat, sitting low, hidden in the darkness of the side street parking lot.

Stan walked around the corner and pulled at the front door: locked. He rang the bell, which roused a sleepy worker in white shirt and dark slacks, who, waving him in, explained through sign language and simple Spanish that the manager was coming.

The manager arrived through the back door buttoning his shirt, rubbing his eyes, not happy, but polite. He spoke English. Stan apologized for waking him, but his sign had still been on, and he said it was not a problem, quite all right.

"I'd like a room. Very quiet. Or, at this time of night, do I have a choice?"

The manager looked at his book, checked his keys, punched his computer, and nodded. "A very nice room - 126. In the wing off the parking lot." He pushed a card toward Stan.

He started to fill it out, and mentioned that it was just for one night, and that he would like to pay cash in advance.

"Cash, not a problem, but I must see identification - drivers license or passport," he said. "New regulations as of today. From the police."

Trapped, Stan looked at the card. Okay, major problem.

"Quite mad," the manager said. "We have to call to the police all new registrations every two hours." He looked at the wall clock. "This will have to wait till morning." He shook his head. "God knows who they're looking for. For me, not so bad. But what about the Fiesta Americana, with their 450 rooms."

He looked up, waiting for the identification.

"Driver's license, damn," Stan said. "In my luggage." He turned. "I guess I can go dig it out. Real sorry. I know you want to get back to sleep." He reached into his pocket, felt the papers he had shoved in there. "Or, I guess this might do," pulling out Terry Scanlon's auto registration and Mexican insurance that Marvin had given him earlier.

"My auto registration," Stan said. "We use these a lot in the States for money purposes. Shows you own the car, that sort of thing."

The manager looked at his watch, reached for the papers, reading them intently. Obviously, official. The registration meant Terry Scanlon owned the car. The Mexican auto insurance was issued only three days ago. Stan asked, "Good enough?"

The manager nodded. "For this time of night, bueno, Mr. Scanlon. Anything else?"

"There a TV in the room?"

"Of course."

# THIRTY SIX

The manager explained how to get to the room, and that the room key would also open the side door from the parking lot. Stan walked to the car replaying in his head the conversation about the hotel having to call in the names of hotel check-ins. Like the Tijuana Police Department was equipped to go over every name registered in every hotel in the city. Dream on, he thought. Just something to show they're on top of things.

Even if the manager called it in, chances are it wouldn't register with the police - they weren't looking for a Terry Scanlon. Reaching the car he told Marvin to remain low visibility and drove as close as possible to the motel's side door.

Opening the motel's side door Stan waved Marvin into the hallway, found their room. He returned to the car, pulling the shoulder pack and the encoded DVD player out of the trunk. And the Glock.

They stared at the TV monitor, almost as if it would soon reveal the secrets of life, or fuck up, as in the night before. Marvin walked over to pat it. The two double beds were calling, but they didn't stand a chance. Not yet. Marvin dumped the backpack and Tec-9 on one of them, and pulled out the two DVDs.

He disconnected the hotel's DVD player, connected theirs and were in business.

Still no conversation.

Marvin turned on the monitor, keeping the volume low, inserting the first disc. A leader came on, stating the material was property of Los Angles Police Department. It faded into black and then into a street scene, low grade surveillance quality tape. They stared at the monitor. They didn't have worry about the volume – there was no dialogue.

Onscreen a woman was standing on the corner, a car stopped, she got in. The camera, obviously in a following car, stayed on the first car: a close-up of the couple. The man was leaning back. The same scene from another angle: the woman going down on him. Then superimposed over the scene: NOV. 14, 2007/MARTIN BRODERICK/CHAIRMAN ZONING COMISSION. LOS ANGELES, CA./LAPD SURVEILLANCE.

The picture faded to black. And then back to a night scene. The same man opened a door to a condo. Two patrolmen enter. The camera followed them in. A woman, face battered, bleeding profusely, leaned against a wall. The man, obviously drunk, rested head down on kitchen table crying. Superimposed on the man: DEC. 3, 2007/MARTIN BRODERICK/CHAIRMAN ZONING COMMISSION, LOS ANGELES, CA/LAPD SURVEILLANCE.

The picture faded to black, then an insert of a Christmas card, a family photo. Same man with wife and children.

Stan grabbed the remote, put the picture on hold. "Obviously, not us," he said.

"Switch it. Who cares about this crap," Marvin said. "Raphael said this cop had something on anyone who mattered. Assholes taping assholes, and we're the ones everybody's trying to kill."

Stan inserted the second disc. The picture on the TV monitor started the same way, stating the material was property of the Los Angeles Police Department. It faded again to black. This time the camera was static – locked into one angle. Again, the film had the feel of a surveillance camera. A young Asian girl, actually almost a child, maybe 11 years old, naked and slender, crossed into a bedroom. An older male, back to camera, walked to a bed and waved the youngster over.

"This is supposed to get us off the hook?" asked Marvin, hitting the hold button.

"Let's see where it goes."

"We know where it's going. Raphael must have had some weird idea of insider trading."

He punched it back to play.

The youngster climbed into the bed, and the older man embraced her. The older man's head turned toward the camera. Stan hit the remote onto hold: full-face close-up of Warmweather Executive Vice President, Morgan Conway.

Stunned, and finally in unison, "That sonovabitch." Marvin fast-forwarded to the end for the superimposed legend over the faces of the girl and the man: AUG. 17, 2007/ PROPRIETARY SURVEILLANCE DOCUMENT, THE ROYAL THAI POLICE DEPARTMENT, SUAN PLU ROAD, THUNG MAHAMEK, BANGKOK. COPY ISSUED LAPD INTELLIGENCE, OCT. 9, 2007. SUBJECT OF INTEREST: MORGAN CONWAY, EXECUTIVE VICE PRESIDENT, WARMWEATHER INC. LOS ANGELES, CA.USA.

Stan clicked it off. "Fucking Morgan. How fucking low."

"How low is this cop, blackmailing a pedophile?"

"Those prissy bastards at the U.S. Attorney's office – wait till they find out who they've been listening to," Stan said. "This we have to get to L.A."

Marvin, staring at the frozen picture, said, "Well, it's ours if we work the Mariano deal. But, can Mariano get us out of here?"

"He's given us so much reason to believe in him."

Marvin stared at the blank monitor. "Okay, what then? You said, you thought you knew somebody who might help us - still think so?"

"A long shot.," Stan said, looking at his watch. "I'll try tomorrow."

"Too late now?"

"Jesus, it's Sunday, almost 2 o'clock in the fucking morning. Not really a good time, is it?"

"Well, since half the world wants to kill us... Hard to be cool."

Stan stood, thought for a minute. "Oh, what the hell, this would be as much for him..." He pulled out his cell, punched in the numbers.

A receptionist answered, "Channel 6, good evening."

"I need to talk to Mark Baron."

"Our offices are closed on Sunday, you might try..."

Stan interrupted her. "Just call him at home, tell him Stan Willis is calling. Believe me, you want to try this."

"Just a minute," she said, transferring. Another voice on the line, a man. "Channel 6 Newsroom, can I help you?"

"Newsroom, good. You'll get this. I need to talk to Mark Baron, this is Stan Willis – the Stan Willis, like on your newscasts all weekend. Mark knows me. Connect this to his home."

"Jesus it's two in the morning." Thinking. "Just a moment, please."

Another voice on the phone. "Mark Baron, here. Who is this?"

"Stan, Mark. Stan Willis."

"Okay, Morris, I'll take it. Hang up." Morris got off the phone. "Stan, the real Stan?" Mark asked.

"We had lunch a month ago – talking about what was happening in the software world. Proof enough?"

"What the hell's going on? Jesus, you can't believe the stories we've been running."

"You want a real story – L.A. politics, L.A. cop bullshit, yours exclusive? Plus, giving ourselves up to Channel 6. Do we have a partner here? We come in under your umbrella, you pick us up in your copter?"

"You got it. Where are you?"

"In Tijuana."

"Oh, shit, you know we can't cross the border. If we tried to pull you out they'd turn our license into confetti. Can't you get across?"

"That's the trick, isn't it?"

"Do that, and you're ours."

"I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Wait, don't go off. You okay?"

"Really great."

"Seriously.The reports we've been getting..."

"Getting by."

"Call the station whenever. I'm leaving word for you to be plugged straight into me. My cell's always on. The station will get to me night, day or mid-sex."

Stan closed the cell. "Same problem, Marvin. Getting through the fucking border. At least, if we can figure a way out – we've got some protection. The media loves this crap."

"Good that someone does," Marvin said, "Let's sleep on this - I'm absolutely fucking dead. I've got to grab a couple of hours. Tomorrow will be one rough day."

~ ~ ~ ~

Stan woke up blinds drawn, no idea of the time. He thought he was first up, but Marvin was sitting there, staring at the monitor nodding his head. Morgan and the child. He saw Stan was awake. "What we've gone through - oh, is he going to pay for this."

Stan looked at the ceiling, made it one more day.

His mind drifted, flashing back to his last visit to Mexico – Cabo San Lucas with Karen, and then back to L.A. and hasta la vista, packing for D.C. 0 for 2 down here. Mexico owed him one.

The sun was breaking through the clouds. New day, new week, and somehow it seemed a simple exercise to go home. Drive up to the border, flash a passport and be gone. That is, if you had a passport.

Marvin charged off to the bathroom. Stan looked around - no change of clothes - everything left behind in Rosarito. No toothbrush. No underwear.

Marvin had a towel wrapped around him when he came out of the shower, thinking the same thing, looking at his clothes and shook his head.

"We can buy some more today," Stan said. "Maybe disposable paper ones, since we're going through a new wardrobe every 24 hours."

Marvin stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head. "What are we doing today? We should talk."

"No. Not till we have breakfast," Stan said, standing up. "When did we eat last?" Actually, it hadn't been that long – lunch yesterday. It was the stress.

Stan left for the bathroom. "Room service?" Marvin shouted.

From inside the bathroom, "Not a good idea. We better be mobile – somebody might jump on the name Scanlon. Check the promotional crap on the desk, see if there's a restaurant here." Stan looked at the bathroom - the two thin white bath towels and two even thinner face towels. A bottle of water with the two clear plastic-wrapped plastic glasses. The shower curtain not quite long enough; Marvin's shower had spilled onto the bathroom floor. But, somehow, that was okay, since there was a drain in the bathroom floor. Wouldn't it have been wiser just to provide longer shower curtains?

The shower was a life-saver, water pounding him back to life. Toweling in front of the mirror, he made a pass at using his finger and soap to brush his teeth. Rinsing forever, his mouth actually felt fresher. He stumbled back into the room. Both shaved closely the day before and were passable.

There was a restaurant. Marvin was dressed, sitting on the side of the bed looking out the window. Stan leaped into his clothes and reached for the cell phone.

"I have to do this – and then breakfast," he told Marvin. His former secretary, Margaret, answered, "Warmweather, can I help you?"

"Margaret, Stan."

"Stan, like from here? Good God, where are you?"

"Margaret, what have you heard?"

"I don't know how to say this, but the TV thinks you were involved in some killings. People have been in and out of here all morning, taking files out, looking at your computer. I guess, cops, FBI, who knows?"

"You think I did all that stuff?"

"Well, I don't know. You think, if you don't come back they'll send me back to the temp pool?"

"Margaret, for Christ's sake."

"Well, I have to think ahead." Voices in the background, and she resumed, "Where can I reach you?"

"Who's there with you?"

A silence. Margaret was thinking, finally. "Well, Mr. Conway, Morgan Conway."

"Oh, great, put him on the phone. I was going to ask you to connect me with his office."

Morgan picked the phone. "Jesus, Stan, what's going on?"

Stan smiled at Marvin, and said, "Morgan, how does 20 years in Folsom sound."

"Well, we'll help you in any way we can."

"Not us, Morgan, you."

Stan could hear the phone fall to the desk. He clicked off.

Marvin, beside himself, shouted, "Yes," shooting his arm into the air. "Did he faint?"

"A very large silence."

"Damn, they'll have fun with him in Folsom."

# THIRTY SEVEN

"Breakfast, Marvin," Stan said, opening the door.

Entering the hallway, a man and woman came out of the room ahead of them and Stan held Marvin to let them get some distance. Voices were filtering from the room across the hall. A man's voice, "I'm ready for breakfast – why don't we order room service?" The other male voice answered, "Greg, whatever you say."

Stan and Marvin looked at each other, shrugged and followed the other couple, assuming they were headed for the restaurant. They entered off the small lobby. The Cortez Room was more than they had hoped for: sunlight filtering through the redwood awning over the street entrance, walls decorated with Tarascan indian blankets - expensive genuine ones roughly 100 times the cost of the tourist blankets on Avenida Revolucion. The room was three-quarters full, the staff moving about efficiently. They were seated near the couple from the hallway.

And soon lost in breakfast - the tension, the late hours, the exhaustion creating a volcano-like hunger, Stan eating an omelette with everything the kitchen could find, for the moment oblivious to Marvin. Marvin ordered as if facing the hangman's noose - huevos rancheros with carne asada and a side order of enchiladas with rice and beans. Both ate in silence, each slowly returning to life, vaguely aware of the nearby conversations. Most of the diners were American.

The couple from the hallway was nearly finished.

"I should have sent the toast back," she told her husband. Stan finally became aware of them. Her hair might have been grey, but it was dyed dark brown and cut short. A big woman - not fat, but built strongly around the shoulders, wearing a white blouse and her large breasts were surprisingly pointed and individual, not flowing together. Not quite sexy, but interesting.

"I told you to order the tortillas," her husband said.

"With breakfast?"

"They eat tortillas with breakfast down here."

She looked at him and didn't answer, swerving slightly in her seat, her large breasts moving like the cannons on a fighter plane responding to the pilot's targeting.

They were in their early 40s, her stomach jutting out slightly, a polo shirt tucked into jeans. His hair, thick. combed straight back, his face beefy, his features so ordinary they were almost indistinct.

"Are you all right?" the man asked.

"You know how I feel," his wife answered.

"Well, we'll be going home this afternoon. We can go to the pool till then."

"And the sun?"

"It'll be out. It's out now."

She dropped her fingers into the bowl of colored grain sugar, and sprinkled some into her coffee. "Not a great weekend."

"I'm sorry about your ankle." He placed his hand on hers.

"It's not your fault about the streets, the sidewalks being so uneven."

"Well, it's a different world," he said.

"You're being very kind. It's a wretched place, dangerous, uncomfortable. I'm ready to go home."

"Very soon."

Stan watched them get up and leave; the husband much taller than he appeared sitting down, maybe 6"4', being overly attentive, guiding his wife, who was favoring her left ankle. Well, maybe he cares, Stan thought, turning to Marvin, who was still absorbed in his breakfast.

"What a couple of assholes," Marvin said, cutting his eyes up from his plate. "They should know tough weekends."

Stan knew they were pushing it, registered as Terry Scanlon and the car for anyone to see in the parking lot. He deliberated about returning to the room but they had to have some sort of plan before rushing out into broad daylight.

What about Mariano? Or, had they ruled him out? Mark Baron at the TV station? For that to kick in they had to get across the border, and that's what they had to think about. The couple from breakfast was ahead of them in the hallway, and Stan pulled Marvin back, observing them entering their room. The thoughts rushing through his head. _Our turn to be assholes like everybody else this weekend. It could only save our lives_.

Stan nodded toward the room with the two men, whose voices they had heard earlier. "What do you think, Marvin?" Marvin stared at him, pretty sure he knew what Stan was thinking.

There was little hesitation. "Let's do it," he said.

"Not going to be nice."

"Nice?" Marvin repeated. "You know how many people have been fucking killed this weekend?"

They listened through the door to the conversation of the two men: "Greg, eating in was the best idea – our last few moments together. I hate to think I have to go back, our weekend over." The other man replied, "Duane, we're lucky to have this one, but there'll be others."

Stan hesitated. What the hell was he about to do?

Marvin whispered, "You really worried about ruining the weekend for two gay guys? Shit, it'll be dinner conversation for a year." He knocked on the door. One of the men answered from inside, "We'll be checking out soon – you can clean then."

Marvin knocked again, responding in his best halting Spanish, "Emergencia, por favor."

The door opened. Stan and Marvin looked on in shock. "Jesus," Marvin said, "he's fucking Chinese."

The Chinese man, equally in shock, raised his voice, "Are you out of your minds?" He tried to slam the door, but Marvin held his hand, palm up, and the door stopped. They were in the room, Marvin had his pistol out.

The Chinese man, rattled, said, "Who the hell are you?" He saw the pistol. "Okay, our money. No problem. Don't hurt us."

Marvin said. "Shut up and sit down."

The bathroom door opened and the other man stepped out. They were half in luck, Anglo, very Anglo, blond, mid-30s. "What's going on, babe?" he asked. And then he saw the pistol. "Oh, my God."

The two men sat on the bed. "We're not going to hurt you," Marvin said, "and we don't want your money." The two men looked at each other. "Then, what?" the Chinese man asked. "We're not bothering anyone. Private detectives – my wife?"

"Quiet," said Marvin. "Real quiet."

Marvin pulled the chord from the drapes and Stan shoved two chairs at the men and Marvin tied them back to back.. Wash cloths in their mouths, towels wrapped around their faces to keep the gags tight.

Marvin grabbed their passports from the dresser, and asked, "Which one of us is going to be Chinese?"

"Marvin, for Christ's sake." Stan pointed to the room across the hall.

The men tied up, the door closed, Stan and Marvin crossed the hallway and knocked on the couple's door. The husband asked who it was. Marvin went through the same routine. The man opened the door, and Marvin bounced into him, forcing him back, waving the pistol. The woman started to shout. "Quiet," Marvin whispered. "Very quiet."

The husband and wife looked at each other. "I told you," she said. "This country."

"Honey, they're Americans."

They repeated the procedure, leaving the couple tied to the chairs, and left the room, closing the doors. They now had two passports, and new I.D.s: Stan was Duane Miller, and Marvin, Louis Heywood. Walking into the hallway Stan hit his cell phone.

# THIRTY EIGHT

Developers may do horrible things, but at least they blend in, they don't give themselves away in public, Everett told himself, as he entered the Four Seasons Hotel on Doheny Drive, walking through the lounge into the restaurant, passing a group of movie executives whose look, he felt, was unmistakable. Too much effort in their appearance, undercut, after all, by a hawkish marketplace look. His own look this day was dark cashmere sport coat, military twill trousers, striped tie.

He wanted to think that the studio executives were much more rotten and conniving than developers, enjoying briefly the moral superiority, but he knew that was bullshit, conceding that developers, with their general irresponsibility to needs, design, safety and tradition were unfortunately a much greater detriment to society.

At least, he fell into that category, he thought, without any pride, or, for that matter, remorse. At least, for Christ's sake, he'd never done the truly wretched things, like being a slum landlord or saving a buck in changing beam specifications after having plans approved. He'd bought zoning changes, but only because he'd felt the original zoning was wrong in many of the cases. Some of his buildings may have created too much density for their neighborhoods, but that's an urban tradition \- the goddamn Arab souks, the great cities - Paris, Rome, London, New York. What? Was L.A. too good for density?

Everett recognized half a dozen people dining in the dining room and nodded to them - God knows how many more he knew and couldn't see on the outside terrace. Maybe he should have gone some place more private, but he wanted out of his house, didn't want to make conversation with any of the nitwits that he knew, certainly not with anyone who might be on the missing DVD.

Everett was led to a table and a waiter was on him instantly, asking about orange juice and coffee. He nodded and the waiter left. His cell phone rang, putting him in a difficult position, since he despised people who used their cells in restaurants. It was Tom, and Everett kept his voice very low.

"Nothing to report, I'm sure, or I would have heard from you earlier," Everett said.

It wasn't a tone that Tom liked. Tom didn't see himself as an employee of Everett's, more a collaborator. "We do have something," he said with no feeling. "I'll get to it in a moment, but let's say, you can proceed as planned with the zoning request."

"At this point, I don't care." Everett reached for the coffee cup, but realizing the coffee hadn't been poured yet, pulled his hand back.

The waiter returned with a pitcher of orange juice, pouring it into a wide-mouthed Burgundy glass, followed by a busboy with a coffee pot.

Everett reached first for the juice.

"What do you mean, proceed? How do I interpret that?"

"We know how they're moving around – we know the car and the plates. We know they picked up Terry Scanlon's car keys and we ran it through the DMV. It's something the Mexican cops don't know - our boys are covering the city, hotel parking lots, etc. It's just a matter of time."

"But we still don't have them."

Hoping to lighten the mood, Tom said, "Very nice party last night."

Everett finished his juice, and answered: "A foolish event. I didn't need to call attention to myself. I used to like these things - we threw wonderful parties, but people are different now. They don't have style anymore. Or, maybe they do, and I don't get it."

"Sharon seemed to enjoy it."

Everett thought of Tom thinking of Sharon."So, then, maybe it was worthwhile."

Sharon was much closer to Tom's age than his own. With all his religious crap, would he like to get in her pants? Doesn't matter. Sharon doesn't fuck guys who buy their clothes off the rack, which reminded Everett of the woes he'd been.having lately in the sex department, realizing how skilled Sharon was to get him going. The best thing about screwing her was that it was the only time she wasn't looking over his shoulder to see if anybody was around to say hello to. Okay, maybe the second best thing.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"What about breakfast?" Doggy asked, as his two police escorts rushed him from the Mexican Customs barracks, where he'd slept from 2 to 6 a.m., the least likely hours for anyone seeking anonymity to cross.

"It's coming," one of the men said, as they sat down at the same table where they'd spent 16 hours the day before, adjacent to the foot traffic tunnel to the United States.

"I was told I get breakfast."

The detective glared at him, said something into his headset and moments later a police car dropped off a plastic bag with scrambled egg tacos and a container of coffee.

Doggy drank his coffee, stretched, looking at the sparse traffic that was being monitored by a half dozen motorcycle police, whose numbers would grow as the day passed and traffic increased.

Not a bad life, he thought. Fortunately, the two Americans were still on the run. Fortunately for him, that is, since he didn't want this adventure to end too quickly, regardless of the bonus promised if he helped in finding them.

What the hell happened last night? He had heard reports of a hotel shooting, but the giant and his friend were not among those shot. He started to question the detective, when a motorcycle officer rode over, wanting Doggy to I.D. a man in a Honda. Even before he hopped on the bike, he could see he wasn't one of the Americans they were looking for. But let's get out there and have some fun.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"I have to tell you Mariano, your shop is too cute," said Emilio Escobar, sitting across the desk from a very stressed Mariano. "All these little animales inside others. You must get a lot of old ladies in here."

"I do okay. We are well-known. The store has a following. Americans who shop here think this is some form of Mexican folk art. It's good for the country."

The girls knocked on the door waving a coffee pot. Mariano started to shoo them off, then stopped, looking inquiringly at Escobar. "No thanks, Mariano. This is my third meeting this morning. Too much coffee."

The girls, of course, understood that Escobar was from the government. With all their giggling, Mariano could have killed them. Trying to meet an important man, waving the coffee pot around. Mariano waved them away, closed the door.

"So, Mariano have you made any progress?"

"We only spoke yesterday."

"And by today they could be gone. Moments after we talked there was the blood bath in Rosarito – three more Americans killed. And rumors about more bodies being discovered in some deserted area. I am under pressure. Put aside the drug problem – not mine to fix - everybody understands drugs are as much America's problem as ours. Corruption on both sides. But, in Mexico City, I am seen as Senor Baja Border; I don't want that changed to Senor Loco Frontier. I am not looking so good."

Escobar stood and said, "Mariano, I have an odd affection for the foolish things in your shop. Very eccentric. Very sweet."

He walked through the store, shouting at the girls, "Adios, muchachas," and was joined outside by his two assistants.

Mariano had to put a plan in motion. How to make a peso and at the same time throw a bone to Escobar? The idea came to him last night, but it required much nerve.

# THIRTY NINE

Holding his cell, as they walked down the motel corridor, away from the rooms with the chair-bound tourists, Stan heard the receptionist get on the line and he fired quickly at her, "Get Mark Baron, Stan Willis calling."

"Oh, my God, hold on, he's been checking with me every five minutes."

Baron picked up. "So, we're ready? Can I send the copter. Where are you?"

"Still Tijuana, but if we get to L.A. on our own, we have a deal?" Marvin was holding the shoulder pack.

"Absolutely. In concrete. The brass is so hot for it."

"We need an attorney, maybe Carl Lewin – call him up, bring him into this."

"Lewin's a good idea. I know him. I'll call him. His kind of thing, but forget coming to L.A. on your own," Baron said.

"Why?

His voice rising, "Why? We just confirmed an ex-cop and two ex-Navy Intelligence officers murdered. Which now has Homeland Security interested. Now, we hear there's even more victims. It's boiling over here. The cops are all over bus stations and rental cars. Use your credit card, you're dead. What the hell are you in the middle of? Just go to Brown Field, right across the border. An old Navy Air base. We use it a lot for border stories. We'll get you back here less than two hours."

Still walking down the corridor, Stan said, "I get back, I can lay it out for you. But, Brown Field, why there?"

"I'm telling you, it's just down the road from the border crossing. A place we use. Get a map; no, just get a cab."

"You alerting the cops?"

"I have to check with legal."

They reached the side exit to the motel parking lot, looked out the window. Four young men, unmistakable in their looks, were standing around, trying to appear disinterested. Marvin pointed on the window at each. Stan, cell to his ear, nodded.

"Hello, Stan, you there?" Baron reacting to the silence.

"Yeah, here." As Stan and Marvin passed the door, walking down the hallway. Another car gone. "Look, about the cops, promise, and I mean this for fucking absolutely real, if legal says you have to alert LAPD, only talk to LAPD Internal Affairs. Tell them I have my reasons to keep it in their ballpark. They'll get it."

"I know we can do that and be okay with our legal guys. Now get to Brown Field, and we'll get you home."

"I'm moving as we're talking."

"Okay, then stay on the line," Baron said, "I'm going to patch you through to our copter gal, Helene Stratton. You and me been up with her a couple of times – checking that building we were thinking of taking over for the station. I talked to her earlier, somehow, she knows the guy with you. Don't ask."

Reaching the hallway entrance to the dining room, Marvin waved Stan through the restaurant to the exit onto the street. Still on the cell, on hold for Helene, a passing cab slowed; Marvin flagged him down. They leaped into the cab, and Marvin told the driver, "Avenida Revolucion."

A new voice on the phone. "Hey, Stan, Helene. This is what I get for complaining about doing nothing but traffic."

"You're sounding good, Helene, how long till you get here?"

"No more than a couple of hours."

"Just get your ass down here. This is a big story."

"These days, a big story for me," she said, "is two Chinese guys driving side by side fucking up the freeway for ten miles. Marvin with you?"

"Right next to me."

"He's kinda cute."

"Helene, I thought you were rushing down here. And cute, he isn't. Besides I thought you were married."

"They're pulling the copter out now, so be cool," she said. "About married, kinda. Ewell couldn't get any work here so he went back to Lordsburg. Look, you're not going to pull any shit on me, like make me take you to some out of the way location, so you can escape?"

"You're really in tune, Helene. Marvin's cute, and we're thinking of escaping into the desert so we can fry to death. Just get down here, for Christ's sake. This'll be a big story for you. The boys in the bar will be hanging onto your every word when you go through your flying cowboy shit."

Stan closed the phone.

The cab was closing in on downtown. It was 12:35. Marvin grabbed Stan's arm, "Hardware?" Stan nodded, checking the Glock in his pocket. Marvin slapped his stomach; his jacket bloused to cover Raoul's Tec-9.

"One last thing," Marvin said, reaching for his cell.

Mariano answered and Marvin said, "Let's do it. New passports and a car to L.A., right?"

"You've got it." Across the seat Stan could hear the excitement in Mariano's voice. "Call in an hour. We'll go over where and when."

"What about the boys?" Marvin asked.

"Under control."

"They're not on the street?"

"They've been called in."

"All? You sure?"

"There are a few at some motel – I'm sure a waste of time. It's the last of them, the rest are in the warehouse." It was true. A handful were still chasing license plates, but the rest were in the warehouse because Mariano had convinced Enrique that the police were getting suspicious of his boys.

Maybe this is going to be a good day after all, Mariano thought. Maybe today he'll become both a millionaire, American dollars - not what they used to be worth, but good enough - and also a hero to the grand Senor Escobar. Escobar wouldn't have to know all the details. The girls are too quiet in the other room. Either they are against the door listening or someone they want to impress had entered the shop.

"And we only deal with you?" Marvin said, snapping Mariano back to the moment.

"Of course, only me. Who else?"

"How long?"

"Maybe 4 o'clock. How do I reach you?"

"We'll call you," Marvin said, cutting off his phone.

# FORTY

The overpass leading into downtown Tijuana was almost always clear in the morning, and Enrique was taking advantage of it with angry stabs at the accelerator. His Mustang sped away from the border where he had posted himself earlier.

Nothing pointed to it, but his feeling was they were going to make their run this morning. For the moment he was wrong, but not as wrong as those fools working for him, checking parking lots.

Their phone call had reached him moments earlier that they had discovered the Mercedes. But, for Christ's sake, they had discovered it 30 minutes ago. They'd gone to the desk, but no one was registered under Willis or Rowan, the two names they had, so instead of calling him they wasted a half hour outside the building hoping the two men to come out to their car.

They thought they could handle it.

He went through a red light.

Of course, they weren't registered under Willis and Rowan. Why would they be? They were told to look for the license plate – find it, call him or Mariano, not sit around to catch the guys. At this point, who knows whose name they were using, maybe the broad who owned the car. That'd be pretty nervy, but why not? He knew that Tijuana cops had put hotels on notice, nobody checks in without I.D., even if paying cash. But, this is Mexico, who knows? He hit his cell and dialed the war room, asking "Those assholes at the El Conquistador – any more word?"

"No."

"Call 'em, check if anybody's registered under Terry Scanlon. Have 'em call me direct." He cut off the phone.

This job had seemed so easy, should've been. Why did Tom recruit him? Knew nothing about him. No one did. He was strictly cash and carry. Drug money movements. Kill the dealer, take the money. Stealth and surveillance – military planning. No trace, no fuss. Not big money: $5,000 to $10,000 a pop. Sometimes more. His bank account was growing. The story on him was rare gems. It kept him under the radar of the drug bosses. Enrique swerved to miss a truck, pulling to a stop in front of the Moderna, where Tom was waiting for him before they drove on to El Conquistador.

Tom leaped into the car as his cell rang. Enrique had barely slowed for him. Tom picked up his cell. Everett? No, it was the last voice he had expected, Morgan Conway. The voice was weak, interrupted by sobs. "They saw it," Conway said. "They called me. All your fucking talk. I did my share, you said this would never happen."

Tom stared at the traffic they were passing, trying to understand: how could they have seen anything – the tape was encoded. They would need a machine. If they had really looked at the DVDs – which didn't seem possible – but obviously they had, they could never return to Los Angeles. Not alive, anyhow. Enrique was approaching the motel. Tom answered, "I have to get off now. I'm taking care of it," clicking off.

The white Mustang screeched to a stop in the El Conquistador parking lot. Enrique and Tom leaped out. Roberto, who was in charge of the boys, ran over, nodding to the Mercedes. "That's it, over there," he said. "There is a Terry Scanlon registered, and he must have pulled some shit - the whole lobby's in an uproar, looking for him."

What the hell, now? wondered Enrique. He and Tom entered the motel, with Roberto behind them. Enrique told Roberto to get the boys back to the war room.

Roberto was right: confusion and anger in the small lobby near the reception desk. From a distance they could see the distraught manager nervously trying to sort it out. Two maids, one in tears sitting down, the other trying to comfort her. An older American man and his wife, both angry, two gay men in near hysteria. Both couples shouting. What the hell did Willis and Rowan do?

Enrique moved closer, Tom standing back. The manager, trying to talk over the sobs and the shouting, said, "The police should be here momentarily. I can assure you, Senor Heywood, Senor Chin, we've never had such an experience before. Little Esmeralda is as disturbed as we all are in discovering this terrible scene. For what purpose? They stole no money, no credit cards. Just two passports – for what? Pervertidos." Then, realizing he was dealing with two suspect males, he grinned, shrugged. "I mean, unusual behavior."

Chin whispered to his partner. "We shouldn't carry this too far – I'm worried, you know, my wife." His partner turned to the manager, "Have you checked the rest of the rooms – for all we know the whole hotel may be tied up."

Tom, getting a sense of what happened, backed away. His cell rang, and he picked up. It was L.A., the department. "Captain, Max Thomas here. About that stuff coming down in Tijuana – Channel 6 just called, wanting a file photo of Raphael Ramirez, the retired cop that was killed. I know the reporter – he owes us, we've done favors for him. So, I ask, why now? This happened two days ago. He hints something's breaking, and they're dispatching that dizzy traffic copter babe."

A silence, then Max Thomas again. "Hello, captain, you there?"

"Very good, Max," said Tom. "Check Van Nuys Airport – where the TV copters base. Find out Channel 6's flight plan. ETA and destination. E-Mail me the data, and plug in Mapquest with the directions."

"Got it, captain."

Tom motioned Enrique back. "We're going to the border." He explained, it was obvious – the stolen passports, the copter flying in – they're making their move, and, damn it, tying in with the media.

He and Enrique ran to the car. Starting the motor, Enrique said, "The hardware - what if they check us there?"

"LAPD business. I'll handle it. "Let's stop at the warehouse, pick up a couple of backups."

Tom checked his laptop as Enrique tore down Agua Caliente. The Email he was waiting for came in: "TV copter heading for Brown Field, near San Diego. Details to follow." Tom got on his cell to Willie Mason, a former LAPD Air Support pilot, who now flew his own helicopter as an independent contractor, mostly aerial photography for TV commercials and movies.

Tom didn't have to remind Willie that anyone doing helicopter movie work flying around L.A. was much beholden to the LAPD. In talking to Willie, Tom was cautious, telling him he'd need a ride home, that he might also have the two Americans in Tijuana who had been all over the TV news. He didn't mention, almost surely, they'd be dead.

The trip didn't make sense to Willie, who, being deferential, said, "Jesus, Tom, this sounds like something for the department. An LAPD Air Support chopper. I don't want to step on anyone's toes. Those guys would love a trip like this. I remember."

"I don't want to tip anything by having a department chopper land here," Tom responded. "I'm personally handling this. A Homeland Security thing, outside the LAPD. I do have a governmental discretionary fund and we'll run your flight on a charter basis."

"I've sort of been confining myself to movie shoots the past few years. Can't the San Diego police cut this one for you?"

"We're not looking for a freebie. You know the routine, you're an ex-cop and you can tool up quickly. I don't want this going over a San Diego Police radio."

"Is this San Diego or Tijuana? You know I can't cross the border."

"U.S. soil, . Brown Field. I got the info coming in – let you know where Brown Field is."

"I know where it is. Used it for stunt stuff in a couple of films. I use the Flying J facility there. How many am I hauling back? You say, three?"

"I told you – just me and those guys in the news. Meet me there, soon as you crank up." He gave him his cell number and returned to his laptop – another E-mail had arrived, the data on Brown Field. He turned to Enrique, "Pick up a couple of boys, get us across the border and I'll guide you there. Their ETA is 2:30. Might be close, but we'll make it. Fortunately, our guy will have the jump, he parks his copter in Fontana, halfway here from L.A."

~ ~ ~ ~

Doggy hopped off the back of the bike, waved a two-finger salute to the cop and sauntered back to table where the two detectives sat, near the line of men and women waiting to show I.D.s at the three departure desks. He scanned the line of foot traffic. No giants in sight. He sat down.

"These guys were in the middle of some crazy shit yesterday," the detective on the left told him, reciting details of the hotel shootout, the mariachi singer and the rumors of three dead pochos, whose bodies had been found in a field.

"The mariachi - is he able to identify them?" Doggy asked, uneasy at the prospect of losing his uniqueness.

"The feeling is yes, but he says no, but doesn't matter, since the doctor won't let him out of the hospital in Ensenada."

Doggy relaxed, which made him hungry again. A couple of tacos de carnitas sounded good. He looked at the two detectives, and then dismissed the idea.

The detective on the left unbuckled his belt, laid his holster and pistol on the table, and said, "I have a feeling about today. It's been two days - they're anxious to get out of here. Today makes sense." He looked at Doggy and continued, "We get these two it will mean good things for all of us." He paused for a moment, asking, "You hungry?"

# FORTY ONE

Marvin checked his watch. "The way I figure, we arrive at this Brown Field, 2:30, and if life is good, get on the copter before 3 o'clock, landing safely in L.A. while Mariano looks at his phone, waiting for our call."

The taxi approached Avenida Revolucion. Street life was increasing; the driver asked where they wanted out, stopping in front of a Tijuana landmark, a burro painted to resemble a zebra, moored to a stationary buggy. Tourists for decades had put on sombreros and climbed onto the buggy to have their pictures taken.

They declined the photographer's invitation and mingled with the few tourists in front of the open shops and arcades. Older tourists had replaced the weekend of families and servicemen. How much time did they have before the people they tied up would be discovered?

"We need a handful of crap to look like, you know, tourists," Stan said. "And then we're gone."

Marvin bought a wallet, a passport holder and a plaster of paris burro. "How can I go home without this little fucker?" he said, waiting for Stan to pay. Noticing Stan's annoyance, Marvin said, "Remember, I lost my wallet." Stan threw a $20 bill down, got change. Marvin reached for the burro. "Damn," he said to the shop-keeper, "this thing must weigh as much as a real one."

"Hey, you big hombre," the man said. "No problem for you."

Marvin wrapped his arm around the plaster burro, slipped his new passport with the name of Louis Heywood, into his new passport holder. Stan did the same with the one issued to Duane Miller of Los Angeles.

The sun was still out. Hesitant, but hanging in there, the chill burnt off for the moment. They walked to the corner where the cab drivers were huddling. One asked if they wanted a cab. They stopped in front of him.

"What do you think, Marvin, ready?" _What a charade_.

"Hate to leave, but sure..."

Stan turned to the driver. "The border, please"

Damn, he thought, the most dramatic words of the past two days, tossed away like an afterthought. Really, had it only been two days?

~ ~ ~ ~

Racing toward the border, the cab weaved through the streets, sliding around trucks, facing off cars at a cross-street, dodging pot-holes that could hide a school bus. Neither Marvin or Stan spoke. It was too heavy a moment. Was it going to work?

From the highway overpass approaching the border they could see brief snatches of activity below: Mexican police - state or federal, still going up and down the traffic lines on their motorcycles, checking I.D.s on likely prospects. Civilians wandering with no official purpose being shooed away.

At a fork on the overpass, the cab veered from the highway carrying border traffic, taking instead a road to the left that swooped down onto Calle Federal, running parallel to the arriving border traffic, separated from it by barriers and low buildings. The cab pulled onto the rear of a narrow traffic island, housing a sea of similar yellow cabs neatly waiting; when the cab next in line had its fare of arriving tourists it would slide from the front of the island, and merge into the lanes of traffic headed into downtown.

Tourists on foot may only enter Mexico on the west side of the border crossing area and only depart on the east side. They arrive at the American side of the border either on the Tijuana Trolley from San Diego, or by car to a massive parking lot. Walk a few steps and enter Mexico through a semi-revolving barred door. Pipes, cleverly positioned, prevented revolving out. To leave Tijuana on foot one walked from the taxi island on the west side across an overpass above the auto traffic, to the east side where a tunnel led to the United States.

Emerging from the cab onto the taxi island they now stood about 40 feet south of the border, and it hit home, as they looked through the 20 foot high chain link fence onto American soil.

Marvin packed the heavy plaster of paris burro under his arm and Stan paid the driver who pointed to the ramp. The walkway leading to the overpass was cut stone leading to heavily grooved concrete. Not an easy path for someone with a peg leg. Two policemen stood at the front of the ramp, advising that identification would be required at the final walkway before leaving Mexico.

It was 1:35 p.m. An hour before Helene's arrival. "Slow, man," Marvin said. "Easy now, don't call attention to us." They joined the continuous stream of tourists and Mexicans onto the outdoor ramp that soared over rows of cars flowing into Mexico, above a panorama of vendors, beggars, autos and law enforcement. The tension built as they hit the halfway point, now above the 32 lanes, long lines of slowly moving traffic bound for the U.S. From up high it was easy to believe that this was the busiest border crossing in the world.

Not far ahead the overpass ended, and the ramp dipped down into the traffic clutter below, leading to desks guarding the passageway to the United States. The line to the desks was moving slowly; each passport carefully examined. Two men were walking up down the waiting line.

Walking, Stan looked at Marvin, mulling the idea that three days ago he was barely aware of him, and now someone with whom he was gambling his life once again. Not that he felt any closer toward him.

"Nearly there," Stan said. "Fingers crossed."

Marvin, glancing below at the long lines of cars, saw Doggy first. Stan noticed Marvin's reaction, and started to say something, but Marvin gestured with his head. Doggy riding on the back seat of a police motorcycle peering into car windows. Another Mexican contradiction – the proud, stylish motorcycle cop – dragging Doggy's sorry ass behind him.

# FORTY TWO

Enrique drove to the warehouse under protest. Why stop for backup – not as if the boys have done anything right so far. Why not straight to the border? But Tom prevailed: they had time, and may need the bodies. Willis and Rowan weren't going anywhere until that copter arrived.

The Mustang approached the street with Mariano's warehouse as police sirens blared around them. .

A policeman stood in front of a police barrier sealing off Hidalgo. "Christ, what next?" Enrique said, pulling up to a side of the barrier, looking down the street leading to the warehouse. It was blocked with state motorcycle cops, city police cars, unmarked Jeeps and Ford Explorers.

Police, with guns drawn, were running toward Mariano's warehouse, shouting into bullhorns, with more police cars arriving. Sirens faded as they pulled up, with the patrolman moving the barrier to admit the police cars onto the street.

"What do you think," asked Tom, "Mariano saving his ass, giving up our boys?"

"Could be picking up Mariano too," Enrique said.

"Anybody smart enough to con the government with that ridiculous curio shop isn't getting trapped in this raid."

"So?" Enrique asked, looking at Tom.

"So, you're right - Tijuana's over. Let's move," Tom answered.

Backing the car away, Enrique took one last look at the chaos and hoped that the L.A. barrio thugs had the good sense to wash their drugs down the drain, then realizing, with the cops anxious to hang this weekend on someone, drugs would be the least of their problems. If those amateurs from the barrio have the sense to lay down their guns, and not admit a thing, they might have a chance.

Then they heard the flat dead sounds of gunfire over the shouts.

"You believe those fools in there, taking on the cops" Tom said. "The Tijuana police will take out this weekend on them. After the narco gun fights this is kid stuff for them - they finally win one."

Enrique wondered if the big pay-off was disappearing, maybe not. It was now down to him, the way it should have been.

At the opposite end of the street sat Mariano and Bernardo Escobar in an unmarked car. Mariano looked on with regrets.

"Don't worry about your cousin's building," Escobar said. "This will bring you a lot of good will from the government."

Hopefully, more than good will, thought Mariano. Hopefully, the million dollars from Los Angeles. That is, if only he could get back to his office and wait for the million dollar call. Willis and Rowan will think he gave up the warehouse for them and Escobar thinks it's for him. Is it worth a million dollars? Does Pinocchio have wooden balls? Escobar will look good in Mexico City, things will quiet down. Well, maybe not – there's always the cartels.

His eyes wandered to the end of the street. _My God, was that Enrique? He's not inside with the others?_ Before Mariano could look again, Enrique was gone. Would Enrique suspect his involvement in the raid? It was a guess.

# FORTY THREE

Stan and Marvin were looking at a new Doggy, with his newly trimmed hair, civilized clothes, but the face \- that was hammered into their heads..

"This is what I get for not being a bloody, fucking killer," Marvin said.

The bike rode past the line of walkers waiting to show I.D.s. Doggy was checking the men out. And then the bike scooted back into the lanes of cars.

"Fuck. We'll never get past him," Stan said, watching the bike speeding in their direction, 25 feet below. It made a left turn, stopping in between two of the many lines of cars, stretching back into town. Doggy looked into the window of one of the cars, and shook his head. The motorcycle cop paused to adjust his gloves and preen for the moment and Doggy spun around to survey his arena, both drinking in what they assumed was a sea of admiring eyes.

"So what now?" Stan asked.

"Back to a cab, and cross at Otay Mesa. What do you think?"

"Then, move it before he sees us."

Too late.

Doggy spotted them. He had been looking up, scanning the area, and his head stopped, locking in on Marvin. Doggy was trying hard to make the adjustment to Marvin's new look.

He and Marvin stared at each other for seconds, both re-invented.

"He got us, the little sunuvabitch," Marvin said. "Better up here than on the line. We'd be trapped."

"We have time to make it to a cab?"

"Maybe I can distract him. He'll duck and we're out of here," Marvin said, raising his heavy plaster of paris burro. Hurling it down, he said, "Walk back fast, don't run."

As Doggy turned to tap the cop on the shoulder he sensed something flying toward him.

The burro weaved its way down. Doggy ducked. The policeman responding to the tap on the shoulder turned around as the burro smashed down, slamming him on the side of his motorcycle helmet. The impact knocked him against the car they'd checked moments earlier. He slid out of his seat dazed, reaching for the handlebars, his front wheel turning sideways.

The bike toppled, spilling the crouching Doggy, whose leg was caught under the rear wheel of the bike, breaking his ankle. Doggy, not one to withstand a lot of pain, screamed and passed out. Stan heard a scream from below. Looking down - hunks of plaster of paris surrounded both the dazed cop and the passed-out Doggy.

There was a brief silence, and then shouts from down below, horns honking, walkie talkies blaring.

"Goddamit, Marvin, bulls-eye," Stan said, stunned, "absolute fucking bulls-eye," trying not to raise his voice. He looked at the furor below – people pouring out of cars, on cell phones, police bikes coming through, using sirens. "Let's hope it's bad."

"Stay here and go for it, or cab to Otay Mesa?" Marvin asked.

They were surrounded by border-bound pedestrians stopping to watch the excitement below, no one certain what was happening. They tried to extricate themselves. Backing up Stan felt a poke on the shoulder. His stomach dropped; what now? He spun around. A woman, about 35, with a young boy. "What's happening?" she asked. "We all right here?"

His mind was entangled in the decision of whether to stay or bolt for Otay Mesa, but what was this? Trying to be matter of fact, he said, "An accident - cop bumped into a car." _Can we use her?_

"So much confusion over here," she said. "Thank God, I didn't bring my car."

Marvin turned to join the conversation.

"You alone with your boy here?" Stan asked.

"Yeah, why?"

_Camouflage._ "Well, come on with us. Marvin, big as he is, can help in this mess."

Below, the scene was getting more complex. The occupants of the car that had been bumped into by the bike were now outside of it, leaning against it: a tall man and two women, confused, concerned. Three motorcycle police screeching up to the scene, shouting for them to remain where they were. A number of plainclothes police running up shouting.

The police had the tall man separated from the women, doing a body search as the two woman screamed at the police. More sirens blared in the distance. Police closed off a lane of the adjoining incoming traffic, allowing Tijuana police to race to the scene. The police leaped out of the cars, running through the stalled states-bound traffic.

"Follow us," Stan said to the woman. "I'm Stan and this is Marvin," wishing he could remember the names on their new passports. He turned to Marvin. "Why don't you carry..." pointing to the boy.

"Ben," said the woman. "Ben's his name. Hi, I'm Susan."

Stan took a longer look at Susan - 35 was about right. Slim, blond bangs, good cheekbones, nice smile, pretty in a bland way, wearing pleated tan slacks and a blue wool sweater.

Marvin scooped Ben into his arms as the chaos below churned more vigorously. "How old are you, son?"

"Four," Ben said, showing four fingers.

"Lucky you," said Marvin. The new foursome stepped out.

Looking back, they could see more police arriving. Autos crossing into the U.S. were being held up until the police could sort out what had happened. As far as Stan could tell Doggy was still out.

"You okay, baby?" Susan asked Ben.

"Like flying, mommy."

The ramp which carried the departing visitors above the traffic for most of the walk dipped abruptly, depositing the foursome between lanes of cars waiting to return to the United States. This drop-off point had been the edge of the border's east side until the street was widened a few years earlier. Which meant they had to cut through eight lanes of virtually halted traffic to pick up the walkway to the United States. Since traffic always moved slowly, it was never a harrowing walk. Today, even slower with the police running about.

Reaching the sidewalk on the east side they joined the chaos of vendors and beggars having their final attack at the departing tourists. Policemen were stationed there, radios to their ears, keeping departing tourists in line. A police contingent of a car and two motorcycles were pulled up alongside the curb. Two detectives and two motorcycle police scanned the foot traffic.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

At the fallen motorcycle, an ambulance attendant, whose vehicle had raced against incoming traffic, examined the two men. The motorcycle policeman, who was only dazed, looked up into a sea of faces. The police lieutenant, who had recruited Doggy, stepped in, but before he could ask anything, the downed policeman said, "I think it was from one of these cars – hit me before I saw it, then this piece of shit jerks the bike over." He looked down at Doggy, still out of it with the pain of the broken ankle.

While it didn't make sense that someone in a car had tossed the plaster of paris burro the lieutenant waved an eight man team to check out the nearest, most likely cars,. "I.D.'s and check for weapons, drugs." Turning to the policeman, he said, "Hard to believe it came from a car. What about the ramp?"

"Sure, could be. Maybe fuckhead knows," said the cop.

The lieutenant looked at fuckhead, and said, "They're working on him – all he knows is his Goddammed ankle, and then he fades on them."

The lieutenant waved away the crowd closing in on the ambulance attendant, who was working on Doggy. "These guys doctors?" Doggy shouted his question at the lieutenant. "I need a doctor, I need a shot, some kind of shot."

"He's on his way. Did you see who threw it?"

Doggy nodded, tears pouring from his eyes. "Get me a doctor."

"I said, he's coming." But Doggy never heard it, fainting again. "Jesus," shouted the lieutenant. "It's only a goddamned ankle." He turned to a sergeant. "I want a team on the ramp checking faces, I.D.s, asking questions and a couple more men working the walk-out line." The sergeant spoke quietly into his radio.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Marvin held on to Ben, talking to him, laughing. Stan looked at the threesome, a family out on a holiday. Could pass. The line was moving slowly, passing the last gasp sale of plaster art: white leopards, cactus, dogs baying at the moon, a variety of burros, the Virgin Mary, bulldogs, roosters, pigs, bears, Nazi helmets, hookers, and a new favorite, frogs in bikinis. A blind woman seated on a chair was singing into a microphone attached to a vintage speaker. Stan dropped a couple of bucks into her hat, figuring he needed all the positive karma he could get.

The crowd slowed. Ahead at the three desks officials were carefully checking I.D.s. "Don't worry about being nervous," Marvin said to Susan. "Everybody's nervous going through customs. Too much or too little sets off bells."

"Why would I be nervous?" Susan asked.

"Just that most people are," Marvin said, trying to recoup. "Where you from Susan?"

"San Diego. Ben sees so much of Mexico on the news - he was pestering me to come here. Bought more junk. Would you believe a bust of Bart Simpson - he's Bart Sanchez down here." She waved a plastic bag.

The line moved in spurts; ahead there were two men at each of three desks checking identification; two policemen behind each desk; a couple of soldiers with rifles nearby. Police were running back and forth, barking into radios. Sirens still blaring behind them.

Two detectives were working the line, working as a team, slowly checking those waiting, walking slowly up and down, examining faces. They stopped upon reaching Marvin, who obviously fit the profile - they looked at the child, and back to Marvin. One asked, "You have identification, senor?"

Stan gave the threesome a little room and watched. Marvin acted like he was confused. "Well, I sure do." struggling to reach for his billfold while carrying Ben. "You want to see it? I mean, now, or at the desk?"

"Please."

Marvin nodded toward Susan. "Hers too?"

"Yours will be fine."

Stan backed away even further, hoping the threesome created a more familial look.

Still holding Ben, Marvin pulled out his new passport holder, offered them the passport.

The policemen looked at the picture, and then back to Marvin.

"Oh, the picture?" Marvin asked. "Had a little surgery done since then." He tugged at his neck to illustrate where. Ben shifted in Marvin's arms, getting restless at the conversation. Marvin said to him, "Maybe I should put you down."

"No," screamed Ben. "I want to go home. Mommy said we're going home."

Marvin pulled Susan closer to his armload of Ben. She looked at the two detectives. "Something wrong?" she asked.

Ignoring her, they stayed with Marvin. The first one said, "Your height – how tall are you?"

"About six-five. Why. What does it say, there?"

"It doesn't say there. You look more."

"Six-five is tall enough."

Ben interrupted, talking to the men, "We want to go home."

The detectives looked again, from the passport to Marvin, glanced at Ben and Susan, shrugged and handed the wallet back. "Thank you," one of them said, neither completely sure.

Marvin tried not to exhale greatly, turning to Susan. "You believe that?"

Stan glanced at Marvin, slowly shaking his head and looking forward again.

Ben squirmed slightly in Marvin's arms and Susan said, "I really appreciate your carrying him, but he can walk. We're okay here. Probably do him some good."

"No," said Ben, clinging to Marvin, taking a small airplane from his pocket and waving it over Marvin's head. "My airplane is almost on the moon."

The line moved up a few feet.

# FORTY FOUR

Finally, they were at the desks. Stan dropped his - that is - Duane's passport on the desk. At the adjoining table Marvin waited for Susan to come alongside, and again he showed his passport. Susan dropped hers down.

"You together?"

"Yes."

In each case, the first officer examined the passports carefully, handing it to an assistant, who wrote the names down on a ledger.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One hundred yards away, at the accident scene, a doctor had joined the ambulance attendant, injecting Doggy with a painkiller. Doggy slowly returned to the real world.

The lieutenant, crouching, looked down, "What happened, Doggy, you fucking pendejo, talk to us – somebody threw this?"

"It was them." The words came out slowly. "On the ramp."

"Them? The two gringos? You fucking idiot?"

Doggy nodded.

The lieutenant shouted at his sergeant, "Damn it, they're walking. "The exit lines -radio them. Cut off foot traffic. Now. Immediately."

The sergeant spoke excitedly into the radio.

The lieutenant looked down again to Doggy, "Imbecile. You couldn't tell us this sooner? You and your fucking pansy ankle. We lose them, I'll have the doctor amputate it." He turned back to the sergeant. "They understand – no foot traffic? Make sure. Nobody walks through till I get there."

The sergeant shouted again into the radio.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Mexican inspector, in front of the passageway to the U.S., pushed Stan's passport back across the desk. "Okay, senor Miller," he said, waving him on my way. He moved to the side, bent down to tie his shoelace, waiting to see what was happening with Marvin.

At Marvin's table the assistant handed Marvin's passport to the examining officer.

Looking up from his laces Stan saw one of the detectives, about 20 feet away, who had been working the line, listening intently to his walkie talkie, and snapping up. Something was happening. He started running toward the desk. Marvin was still standing there, steps away from the mouth of the tunnel. Stan stood up, hesitating about moving forward, waiting to see what was happening with Marvin. What would he do if they pulled Marvin away? He wasn't sure. The inspector examined the length of Marvin, looked at Ben and Susan. "Where were you born, Senor Heywood?"

"California, Placentia," Marvin said. "You know the town?" "No," said the inspector, handing Marvin his passport, and then giving Susan hers. Spinning around Marvin exhaled. He, Ben and Susan took two steps to join Stan behind the desks into the tunnel. Waiting for the hook to pull them back.

They were ten feet into the tunnel, legally separated from Mexican jurisdiction, and the shouting at the desk behind them had become louder, more strident and serious. The detective on the walkie talkie had reached the desk, hands raised, cutting off all inspections and entries, handing the radio to the inspector at the middle desk.

The inspector, walkie talkie to his ear, stood up, flustered, and announced, "There will be a brief delay for those in line. No further crossing until our lieutenant arrives."

They were now 30 feet into the tunnel; Stan and Marvin exchanged looks and nodded to the sign above: Welcome to the United States of America, San Ysidro Port of Entry. Walking past it, still staring at the sign, soaking in its implications, neither saying anything. Breathing easy for the first time in two days.

Susan was the first to talk. "Back in America, hon," she said to Ben, who looked around the tunnel. "Doesn't look like America," he said.

It was apocryphal. It was literal – the light at the end of the tunnel.

Stan and Marvin walked quickly through the tunnel, Susan trying to keep up with them, bumping their way through the meandering crowd ahead, moving along the ramp, finally bursting into a large lobby-like area, the Customs Building, and out of the tunnel

"Like walking into a bank," Marvin said.

The entry area had been recently renovated, a series of teller-like windows along the wall, all closed. Standing like concierges, at the top of the ramp, were a line of American Customs Agents in dark slacks and white shirts, all with radios, checking passports, questioning some people, sending a few to a desk at the side.

The agents checked Stan and Marvin's passports, studied their faces and waved them on. The names on the stolen passports hadn't made its way through the Mexican and American bureaucracies.

A curved wall of glass doors led to the street. They walked through slowly, savoring each step, emerging into the sunshine, the hum of American tourists coming and going, and a cluster of buildings with little relation to the terrain - like a western town that suddenly drops off into the desert. The San Ysidro version of the Statue of Liberty: a Payless Shoe Store, Greyhound Bus terminal and a Gateway Inn standing in to ask for your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free.

It sunk in. They made it.

That is, this far.

They didn't want to seem too obvious to Susan, but it was hard to hold back.

"Boy, you fellas must've had a hard time over there." Susan said, as she watched them erupt, and slam fists together. "But, I don't blame you, not after the way that border cop treated you on the line."

She waved at a man in the parking lot closest to them, leaning against a car, hair neatly trimmed, hands jammed into the pockets of a sport coat cut with the style and fabric of one of the better Italians.

She reached for Ben. "Thanks for carrying him, Marvin, which I guess is your name, even though it doesn't match the one on your passport."

"Marvin is just a knickname," he managed to get out before she cut him off.

"You don't have to explain. I've really enjoyed it." She turned to Ben, "Say goodbye to the fellas." Ben hugged Marvin around the knees.

Stan and Marvin said goodbye, and crossed the street toward the Gateway Inn. Hidden by a parked car, both turned almost simultaneously to watch Susan greet the man. He held the car door open, and without stopping she tossed onto the front seat the plastic bag with Bart Sanchez and continued walking to a car parked in the next row. She unlocked the door, got in with Ben, and drove off.

"What the hell do you think was in Bart Sanchez?" asked Marvin.

"My guess, it wasn't pistachio nuts."

They walked to the shops, looked in the windows, and burrowed into the feeling of freedom. Kids let loose in a candy store.

The six red cars of the Tijuana Trolley, which runs back and forth from San Diego, dominated the center of San Ysidro Avenue, the main street leading to the border. On the east side of the street was a small string of cabs: Red Cabs and City Cabs.

Marvin walked to a waist-high stone marker and read the inscription: "Boundary of the United States, Treaty of 1853 re-established by treaties of 1882-89. Destruction or defacement of this monument is a misdemeanor punishable by the United States or Mexico."

"Like there's not enough tension around here," Marvin said. "They put up a marker threatening to hang your ass in two countries."

# FORTY FIVE

Mariano needed a drink, maybe a couple of beers; Bohemia would be a blessing. If only he could get back to his office and wait for the phone call from Willis and the giant.

Escobar's phone rang, interrupting Mariano's reverie. Escobar grunted, "Bueno," into the receiver, listening and nodding. Mariano picked up pieces of the conversation: some Americans had their passports stolen at El Conquistador. El Conquistador, of all hotels. Much too close to his home.

He looked out the window as he heard Escobar. "Of course, it's them. Who else would steal passports and not bother with the money?"

Mariano snapped to attention – Willis and Rowan. So, they stole passports. Mariano tried to contain himself. They're gone. He was screwed.

"The Border – has it been notified?" Escobar spoke into the phone. "About the passports, yes, what do you think I mean? Yes, get them the names." His hand over the mouthpiece, "Goddamned fools, I'm saddled with."

Mariano was thinking, assholes, his stomach turning. He could have provided some wonderful passports, with names that would have raised no suspicions. A million dollars in his hands and gone. He should never have trusted them. Probably make the sale themselves. He should have guessed that. They were working him to find out what he knew. Common thieves.

Escobar cut off his phone, lowered his window as a police lieutenant approached. The lieutenant whispered to him and left.

"It's all over here," Escobar said, turning to Mariano. "Not too bad. Only a few boys decided Mexican lead was preferable to Mexican jails: two dead, the others in custody. You all right? You look a little pale."

"I'm fine."

"Don't feel guilty. Taking these boys from the L.A. barrio is good for us – with them in our hands we can ask why is their American violence spreading down here. Gives us a position. This is not a drug thing, not a Mexican thing. American men, women, military, LAPD – what is going on here on our soil? We have endless meetings with the Americans about the border. This will work for us, not in a big way, but it gives pause."

Escobar seemed genuinely pleased, Mariano thought. Or was he preparing his position for some face-saving scenario in case the two Americans actually got away?

"If we get the two gringos that's a bonus," Escobar said, "But, in my heart, I almost hope we don't get them. These two Americans are corporate people – I could see media problems over here and in the U.S. Lawyers, trials, political reaction. Who knows, maybe they're innocent. But with the barrio gangs; case closed; guilty. This is what they do – shoot people at parties, weddings, highways, now hotel lobbies, etc. A way of life."

A politician, he can put a good face on anything, Mariano thought.

"This America business is not easy," Escobar said. "We have writers in Mexico City still angry about, you remember Fernando Valenzuela, from Sonora? A pitcher for Guanajuato before the Dodgers brought him to L.A. and made him a big star. But somebody writes in a Mexico City newspaper last week that the Dodgers worked him like a field hand, used him up and threw him away, tossing him some job doing broadcasts in Spanish radio. Not only did this happen 20 years ago, but Fernando made millions of dollars. And they're still writing this as another example of American disrespect for Mexico."

"But, that's crazy..."

"True. But these writers blame the U.S. if the sun doesn't come out. The government has to balance this - you know how important the Free Trade Agreement is to Mexico? Seventy different American companies were registered as being lobbyists for Mexico. But the joke is the jobs Mexico got from America it lost to Sri Lanka, so who did the free trade thing help?"

The phone rang. Escobar listened and sat up sharply. The weak smile faded. "Some trouble at the border," he said. "Two people hurt." He shouted orders to his driver.

They arrived at the street running parallel to the border, swinging onto the taxi island. Escobar waved his credentials at the cab supervisor. Mariano looked beyond the maze of cars to the pedestrian ramp. Did Willis and Rowan make it? He looked down the lines of cars. Was that a Mustang convertible; reaching into the door pocket he pulled out a pair of binoculars.

"What's that, Mariano?"

"Nothing really," he said. Mariano eyed the Mustang. The driver's face, blocked before, came into view: Enrique. A good half hour back on the line.

Willis and Rowan must have made it. Otherwise, Enrique wouldn't be leaving. Mariano dropped the binoculars as Escobar lowered the window to greet the two men running toward them.

# FORTY SIX

The Gateway Inn's reception area had a crispness and efficiency behind the desk that almost seemed like a statement. Stan sat in a chair against the wall, thumbed through a phone book, and used his cell to call Brown Field. A man answered, a voice hinting of watching too many late night westerns, "Brown Field, Operations."

Stan asked about the ETA for the Channel 6 copter.

"Well, checking the computer, sure don't read nothing that reads Channel 6, L.A.Van Nuys."

"Maybe, it flies under its corporate name."

"What would that be?"

"Good question." Trying to remember the TV news sign-offs he'd heard over the years. This is Channel 6, Blank Blank Communications. You are listening to Channel 6, a service of Blank Blank. "I got it. Coastal. Try Coastal Communications."

"Roger. Coastal Communications scheduled arrival at 14:30 hours. Flying Aerospatiale. Still on schedule. Hell, I should have this one down by now. This is the third call I've had on it. That name, Channel 6, threw me, I guess. We don't have a Channel 6 down here."

"Third call?"

"Confirmed."

Jesus. Three calls. Mine plus two. What's going on? "See you," Stan said.

"You know where we are?" the man asked.

"Kind of, I'll take a cab."

It was 1:30 p.m. They had an hour. At the reception desk he got two envelopes, wrote the names from the passports on the outside of each, slipped each passport in its corresponding envelope, and told the clerk someone would be calling for them Stan then called the El Conquistador, and passed on the information to the woman answering the phone. She took the information like this happened every day. Maybe it did.

He tossed his Tijuana belt and bottle of tequila into the trash and walked outside, where Marvin was still inhaling the United States.

"You think Mariano is still waiting for our call?" Marvin asked.

"Gloat when we get to L.A."

In one of the waiting cabs Stan told the driver, "Brown Field. You know where it is?"

"Of course," the driver answered, a Mexican American, with no accent. He drove on San Ysidro Avenue, leading to Otay Mesa Road where he turned right. The most telling change after you crossed the border was the highway: broad, smooth, black asphalt, well-marked, no clutter along the sides.

The ride to Brown Field was along empty fields, close-cut to prevent illegals from hiding among the vegetation. The joy of being home even silenced Marvin.

They sucked in the American signs - Mobil gas, Edward's Cafe, Hank's Bar-B-Q, Non-fat Yogurt, and finally the cab pulled into the driveway leading to the aging Brown Field: a sprawling, one-story faded mustard yellow series of buildings that had seen better days, and had faded into the desert. The terminal was surrounded on the left by a number of small, wooden buildings. A parking lot fronted the airport. At the right end of the building was Argus 2 Restaurant. At the left end, Wild Horse Aviation. Atop the building in the center was a wooden control tower. Not a soul up there, probably no one in the last 30 years.

The terminal building was long and narrow, about 40 feet deep, a few hundred feet east to west: a wooden barracks-like building, with reception area in the middle. From the parking lot, you could see through the reception area to the tarmac on the other side.

Stan paid the driver, checked his watch: 1:40 p.m. They passed two outdoor phone booths, the same size, but mismatched styles as they walked into the building. A building fighting like hell to hang on, and barely doing so.

What passed for the waiting room was a square open area facing the tarmac, with hallways feeding left and right. Framed photos of airplanes, mostly military, covered the waiting room's two side walls: Thunderbirds in formation, F-16 Falcon, Harrier, a signed picture of Pappy Boyington and his Black Sheep Squadron, a plaque reading: World's First Vertical Takeoff - Nov. 1954. Initial Transition Flight, Convair XFY-1, Brown Field Naval Air Station.

Not a room that gets much of a crowd; two older women talking quietly, sitting in two of the four chairs, and from their conversation a plane belonging to one of their husbands was due momentarily.

A low wall on the west side of the room had desks behind it and a Dutch door with a sign above it reading, Operations Center. The two desks faced onto the tarmac and a row of six Bell Ranger Helicopters, all the same color, a hideous lime green, marked on their sides with maps of the United States, circled by the words, Department of Justice Immigration and Naturalization Service. The Border Patrol. Surrounding them were a number of modest private aircraft. No sleek corporate jobs in sight.

A voice cut through, "Yeah, help you?"

A tall, thin man in his 40s stood at the Dutch window counter of the Operations Center, an egg salad sandwich in one hand.

"Checking Coastal Communications helicopter - still due at 2:30?"

The man took a bite of his sandwich, walked toward the right front desk, picking up a clip-board, which he brought to the counter and set the board down. "Pretty close," he said. "Running about 15 minutes late, according to this."

He looked at Marvin reading the plaque about the First Vertical Takeoff. "First time here?" he asked.

Stan nodded yes.

"This was a Naval Air Station training base. Navy built it in '42, moved out in '64. More like a local sport airport since. 'Cept, of course, for the government. Border Patrol all over this place like fly specks. Like over there," he said, nodding to the green copters. A piece of egg sandwich hit his clipboard.

Marvin walked outside, looking at the planes on the tarmac.

A private jet roared in, an aircraft strongly out of character for the neighborhood - a sleek Falcon 900 \- whistling down the runway and coming to a stop far to the right.

"He's in the Blue Box," the man said, as an open jeep roared up to its side. "Coming in from Mexico, clearing customs here, and then going home. That blue square out there on the apron - against the law to walk in or out of the box until the customs boys clear the plane." He nodded toward the Jeep. "Watch your boy get chased off."

Wandering outside, on the tarmac, Marvin approached the Falcon; one of the men from the Jeep waved Marvin away. Stan opened the door to the tarmac, looked up at the wooden tower that rose out of the middle of the building; paint peeling, it reading Elevation 524 feet.

Stan turned back to the clerk, "How did the plane signal it was coming in - there's no one in that old tower, is there?"

The man laughed. "Not this tower. Real tower's out there," pointing 200 yards to the right where the airport moved instantly into the New World. Far removed, almost as if not to associate itself with the fading wooden terminal building, was a tower of sleek grey concrete with black windows that carried the promise that no aircraft could elude its communications and radar range. A very heavy government statement.

"Interesting place," Stan said.

"There'd been talk about building a major international airport out here that would reach into Tijuana."

"What happened?"

"Well, that was before 9/11. In any case, they'd have to kill a lot of people in San Diego first."

It was now 1:50 p.m. Another 45 minutes or so.

"You expecting anyone else?" the man asked.

"No, why?"

"Had more calls checking on this one flight."

Stan tried to sound mildly interested. "Any idea who was calling – like the TV station?"

"Didn't ask."

"Good talking to you," Stan said.

"Enjoyed it."

Stan waved at Marvin, beckoning him in, and then inspected the two hallways, off the reception area. The east side led to two bathrooms, restaurant and bar. The bar was closed, but through the glass doors he could see a large primitive mural of someone in an Orville Wright flying device, its walls covered in cheap wooden veneer paneling; a sign listed the specials: chips and salsa, $2 and house tequila, $2.

"Too bad it's closed, we could celebrate." Marvin said.

"A couple of shots of two dollar house tequila and you may never walk again." Thinking. "Doesn't sound good, all this checking on our copter."

"What do you think it is"?

"Could be nothing more than the station double-checking."

"And maybe not?" Marvin said. "Why wait?" He moved toward the terminal entrance area. "I'm getting a weird feeling about this place, anyway."

"So, what do you think?"

"Use your plastic. Rent a car.What's the worst? The San Diego police pick us up."

"And just leave the helicopter?"

"Well, yeah. Like a decoy."

"If so, no turning back," Stan said. "Let's think about it. In the meantime we need a place to hide."

They walked to the west side of the building, past two doors that had Border Patrol signs above them, one of them designated Sector Pilots. Both offices were empty.

A faded map of the United States, maybe 20 feet long was strung along on the wall, still there from WWII, with strings pulled across it, denoting certain specific defense areas. The next door was locked. The hallway made a dead-end at Wild Horse Aviation, which, like the waiting room, faced both the runway as well as the parking lot out front. Wild Horse had two gas trucks on the tarmac, both '90s vintage.

Stan returned to the locked door, trying it again. "Too bad."

"Just an office. Nobody in it."

"You know that?"

"I was outside - its sliding glass door faces the runway."

"Nobody inside?"

"Follow me." Marvin led Stan through the waiting room, turning left on the tarmac, past the Border Patrol windows to the office space just before White Horse Aviation. He tried the glass sliding door. It didn't budge. Stan looked to see if there was a broom stick in the door tracks to prevent it from opening. None there.

Remembering the Mercedes key in his pocket, he slipped it under the three inch wide aluminum strip, which covered the lock area. It ran like a lip from top to bottom of the door, and using the key he wrenched it away to get at the lock, a simplistic device, more to keep the kids in the house; he worked the key under the catch, raising it to unlock the door. Apparently, no great need for high security here.

It wasn't an office to wow clients - a huge desk covered with papers, a leather couch with a coffee table loaded with airplane magazines. Framed photos of aircraft lined the walls. Marvin picked through the pile of mail on the desk, addressed to Stephen Block, General Manager, Wild Horse Aviation. The radio next door was blaring 80s oldies.

Using the phone number on the Wild Horse Aviation Service stationary Stan hit his cell, and heard the phone ringing next door over the radio. "Harrison," came the voice on the phone and could be heard in a muffled version through the walls. Someone lowered the radio. "Stephen Block, please," Stan said, almost whispering.

"Not here. His day at our operation in Carlsbad." Carlsbad was the flip side of Brown Field, an airport just north of San Diego catering to the upscale corporate aircraft missing from Brown Field. "Any messages?"

"No thanks," Stan said, hanging up. The radio volume was cranked back up.

"Guess we're okay here as long as we keep it down," he said to Marvin who was moving around the office, checking it out – the hallway door was locked by a bolt from the inside. A second door on the east wall that looked to be a closet interested Marvin, who pulled on it, but it wasn't giving up easily. Wrapping two hands around the knob, he yanked it forward, opening quietly in a spray of dust and sand: inside was a wooden circular staircase. Marvin climbed up into a dead end: a piece of plywood nailed over the top of the staircase. Marvin crouched, pounding his back against the plywood - the panel cracked in the center and the nails tore loose. From below Stan could see the splintered wood opening into daylight.

Marvin had broken through into the old control tower. He waved Stan up.

Fighting through the swirling dust Stan ran up the stairs into the sunlight of the tower – which stood about 12 feet high, ten feet square, mostly wooden framed windows with chipped yellow paint, looking onto both sides of the terminal, the tarmac and the parking lot.

"We get a cab we're out of here," Stan said. "Either Amtrac or the bus station."

Climbing down, Stan dialed information for a cab company, called and ordered one under the name, Carlson, then called Amtrak - two departures this afternoon, at 4 and 6. He looked at Marvin. "That's it, unless the copter comes first." He made another call, this one down the hall to operations.

"We checked in with you earlier waiting for the Coastal Communications helicopter."

"And?"

"We're over at a barbecue joint on Otay Mesa Road. If the copter gets in before we get back tell the pilot we're on our way."

"Eat around here, you might not make it back. But, I'll pass it on."

It was 2:10 p.m.

# FORTY SEVEN

Tom looked up from his laptop – the Mexican motorcycle cops were swarming the area. Man, these people were jumpy.. What looked like a minor motorcycle accident and they were losing it, jumping on Enrique who had to show his passport and Marine discharge I. D. And they were still in Mexico. The line was moving slowly. Tom poured over Mapquest when his cell rang – Morgan Conway again. "You were going to call back," Conway said. "What are we going to do? They know what's on the tape."

"But, if they're dead, so what?" Tom said.

"They are?" Some life returned to his voice.

"They will be." He clicked off the phone, wondering again how they found a way to decode the DVDs. Doesn't matter – they were going to be dead.

Enrique switched lanes, cutting through the border backup that was beginning to resemble a tailgate party. Finally, the gate. The American border guards weren't any easier - Enrique again had to show his papers, passport and discharge. Tom flashed his passport and LAPD badge and they were through into the United States.

Tom, guiding Enrique onto Otay Mesa Road, called Brown Field again, "Coastal Communications copter still on schedule?"

"About 20 minutes away."

"We're supposed to connect with a couple of fellas waiting for that flight – they check in yet?"

"Went to get something to eat. Said to pass that on to the pilot." Tom thanked the operations clerk, looked back to the road, checking the fast food outlets.

Racing down the road, Tom raised his hand. "Damn, we passed it," he said, looking back at the decrepit terminal.

"Who'd have guessed." Enrique said, spinning the car around. "Looks more like a fucking junk yard." He pulled into the entrance area.

Tom leaped out, cautiously entering the terminal. He checked the waiting area, looked at the two older women, walked the length of the hallways with its little sign of life. Maybe they were out there getting something to eat.

He returned to the Mustang, his eyes sweeping across the aged military buildings. He saw the sign pointing to Flying J Aviation, and directed Enrique to the road past the terminal that skirted the runway, passing a number of small barracks that had been converted into civilian use, with signs reading, "Machine shop, FAA Written and Flight Exams, Professional Flying Course Instruccion en Espanol." On the right were the aircraft service facilities built for the Navy, now converted to private use.

Small, private, mostly tired looking planes were on the tarmac clustered in front of the facilities. They passed Brown Field Aviation, Paladin Service, and Tom told Enrique to stop when they reached Flying J Aviation. "Where our guy will be coming in," Tom said. "From the TV station?" asked Enrique? "No, our support from L.A. – guy I called."

Enrique pointed to a speck in the distance. Too far to tell. Tom hoped it was his. His watch read 2:20 p.m.

From inside the Mustang Enrique and Tom watched the helicopter settle down in front of the Flying J. Tom swept through the swirling dust to greet the pilot. A Flying J mechanic had come out of the service area and was watching the rotor blades slowing.

Willie Mason, looking out from the copter and dreading what lay ahead, saw Tom approaching. _If this was legitimate police business, why not a police copter? Shit, who was this clown with Tom?_ Willie wondered the hell he'd gotten himself into?

But he put on a happy face leaping out of the cockpit, to be greeted by Tom, who shook his hand and said, "Glad you're here." And nodding toward Enrique, "Undercover. One of ours." He waved Enrique over, "Enrique meet Willie."

They appraised each other and shook hands.

"The guys we're picking up aren't here yet," Tom said. "Let's wait in the terminal."

"One minute," Willie said. He spoke briefly to the Flying J mechanic about refueling, joining Enrique and Tom, squeezing into the back seat of the Mustang. Willie didn't want to hear their conversation, the less he knew.

They drove the few hundred feet to the parking area in front of the terminal, where a red taxi was pulling in. Tom approached the driver and asked who he was waiting for. The driver said, Carlson. He checked his watch and walked inside the terminal.

Enrique said he'd join them in a minute. "They know this car. I'll pull around the corner."

"Before you do, open the trunk," Tom said. They pulled two sports bags out, unzipped them, looked inside and nodded. Enrique got back into the car.

Tom, with Willie at his side, walked through the waiting room and rapped on the Dutch door shelf at Operations..

The clerk entered from the back room. "Help you fellas?"

"The Coastal Communications copter - still on schedule?" asked Tom

The man reached for his clip board, scanned it, and said, "Due anytime now."

He looked at the cab driver, who said, "Got a call for a pickup – someone named Carlson. Know where he might be?"

"Couple of women here earlier, but they left when one of their husbands came in. Two fellas were here, but they're waiting on a copter." He looked at Willie, in his flight suit. "You just come in with that Sikorsky?"

Willie nodded. "He's flying with me," gesturing to Tom.

The driver walked toward the door, saying, "Anybody looking for me, I'll be outside."

Enrique entered and Tom told him to keep an eye on the cab. Tom turned back to the operations clerk, "These guys waiting on that copter - one real big?"

"Oh, yeah. They just called from some barbecue joint, said they'd be along pretty soon."

"We need to talk to them," Tom said, producing his wallet with his shield.

"Well, sure," the clerk said. "They come in, feel free." And then thinking, "We going to have some trouble here?"

"No, just have some questions they need to help with."

Enrique stood at the door and watched as the driver checked his watch, walked around the area, returned to his cab and gave it up, finally getting into the cab and pulling away.

Enrique returned to the waiting room where Tom waved him to a corner and handed him one of the bags they had taken from the trunk. "Think we have what we need?" Tom asked. Tom, wearing his Glock, had another in the bag, plus a dozen magazines. Enrique peered into his bag to see the Tec-9 Semi-automatic, with four magazines of 32 rounds each. Looked okay to him.

Tom took off on a tour past the bathrooms, peering into the bar which was closed, then through a door on the right, leading to the Argus 2 Restaurant, open, but not doing much business. Enrique and Willie were following, giving Tom room.

They entered the west wing. "Maybe they're in that barbecue joint, maybe not," Tom said, passing the Border Patrol offices on the right. Tom turned back to the Border Patrol offices, opening the door with the Sector Pilots sign: a Telex machine whirring, a Fax machine, walls with flight maps of the area, three desks with computers, but nobody home. He opened the facing door. Also empty.

They continued down the hallway past the giant map of the United States, coming to the locked door. He rattled it, nothing happened. Walking to the end of the hallway he looked into Wild Horse Aviation, radio blaring; nodding to the attendant, and walking back into the hallway. Again Tom tried the knob on the locked door, slamming his shoulder against it. It wouldn't give. The attendant at Wild Horse came to his door watching. "Hey, what do you need?" he shouted. "You looking for Stephen Block?"

Tom glanced at the man. "No, thought a friend of mine ducked in here. Guess not." He waved at the man and led Willie and Enrique back to the waiting area. "Let's sit and see what happens," he said.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Marvin and Stan, still in the tower, alternately searching the skies for the copter and then the parking lot for the cab. Marvin tapped Stan on the arm, pointing to a dot in the sky coming into view. "That ours?"

A blue and white copter swooped down, dipping sharply to their left.

"Don't think so," Stan said, "TV helicopters are flying billboards. Howard Hughes could have arrived on this one.

"Damn, where's the cab – that it?" Marvin pointed below to a car moving slowly around the air field. A white Mustang.

"No cabbie drives a Mustang," Stan said, and then realizing. "No, couldn't be."

Marvin saw it. "Has to be a different white Mustang. This is America – half the kids own one. How could they have found us?"

"I don't know, but there have been a helluva lot of phone calls about our ride."

Their eyes followed the car, hoping for a hint that it wasn't what they feared..

A red car swung in from the highway, pulling next to the Mustang. "Looks like that's our cab," Marvin said. "So, what about the Mustang?"

Two Anglos and a Hispanic got out of the Mustang. One of them talked briefly to the cab driver who went inside the terminal. The other went to the Mustang's trunk, and he and the Hispanic extracted two small bags. "So, what now?" Marvin asked.

Moments later the cab driver returned to his cab and pulled away.

Moments later there was a rattling down below - someone banging against the office's hallway door, ending with a final thump.

"Think it's them?" Marvin whispered.

"Who else?"

They had their moment of freedom and blew it, Stan thought. Maybe they should have gone straight to the San Diego police, seduced instead by the promise of Channel 6's muscle, telecasting the story of the DVDs, the promise of getting their side of the story out and on record.

"How the fuck did they know where to find us?" Marvin asked. "Christ, who the hell's ever heard of Brown Field?"

"Somebody at the TV station. Secretary, reporter, who knows? I'll fucking kill Mark Baron."

Stan looked at his watch: 2:40 p.m. "Damn, Helene should be here by now."

Then, both heard the sound at the same time.

So did the men below.

The red ball in the sky came into view, circling the air field, swooping down.

Stan and Marvin came down the stairs into the office, watching from inside the office's sliding glass door as Helene lowered her copter in front of the terminal, the machine a splashy dark red, with black lettering on the side: Channel 6. The Sky Report.

The French - made Aerospatiale helicopter eased onto the apron, the whine of its motor gradually replaced by the sound of rotor blades slowing but continuing to roll. The blades lifted the dust from the concrete tarmac, swirling it into a circle, finally coming to a halt. It looked so close, thought Stan. If only she or the cab had gotten here 20 minutes earlier.

The manic weekend, with its ups and downs was wearing on Stan and Marvin, and the feeling of despair in watching the driver pull away moments earlier, heightened by the teasing closeness of the Channel 6 helicopter was slowly being replaced by anger. These people – who were they? Stan thought, stewing in his impotence. _How, how the fuck can we retaliate? So far, rate our defense brilliant, offense zero, always playing the victim. Even now. But, we are going to have our moment._

# FORTY EIGHT

Helene leaped out onto the tarmac and walked into the terminal. She nodded to the three men in the waiting area, walked to the Operations Center, their eyes following her.

Helene knew she wasn't that good looking: in her late 30s, hair pulled back, no makeup; at best, a pleasant face with high cheekbones and lined forehead, her skinny body lost in her jeans and a Houston Rockets sweat shirt. So, it wasn't sex appeal that was drawing this Victoria's Secret concentration, realizing, damn, this wasn't going to be a simple delivery run, after all. She thought she recognized one of the dudes. Willie Mason? She looked at him again.

Willie nodded in recognition.

"Damn, is that you, Willie?" Helene asked, staring at him. "You coming in from Mexico? I mean, what else would bring your ass down here?"

Willie, improvising, waved at her. "No, I had to run these boys down here on business. Almost ready to go back. What are you up to?"

"Shit, you won't believe it. Supposed to pick up a couple of fellas who've been killing people all over Tijuana. They want to tell their story." Play it straight, she figured. They knew why she was at Brown Field. She looked around. "Sure as hell ain't here. Maybe they thought better."

A phone rang in Operations and the clerk poked his head through the Dutch door, looking around, "Helene Stratton?"

"Right here," Helene said, nodding to Willie and picking up the phone.

She put the phone to her ear: "Helene, act like this is Mark Baron. Be cool."

"Well, yeah, Mark, I just got here. No. No sign of 'em."

Tom stood where he was, shifting slightly to hear Helene.

"They out there?" Stan asked.

"Well, hell yes." Helene answered.

"And they have a helicopter?"

"I guess. I haven't exactly seen it."

"I'm going to give you a number on how to reach me. 690-3447. Can you remember that?"

"Sure can."

"We're here in the building. Hiding. Have to figure some way to get past them. Maybe you leave and come back. Right now, act like I'm Mark Baron telling you that we heard from Willis - they've gotten nervous and decided to go back on their own."

"Let's see how it goes, Mark. You really think that's what they did? Jesus Christ. A long way for a goddamn wild goose chase. Tell you what, let me check this place out and I'll get back."

Helene hung up, shaking her head. "Damn."

Willie asked, "Problems?"

"L.A. says the boys've chickened out and decided to drive back. Damn trip for nothing. For this, they drag me in on my day off."

Tom turned to Enrique, whispering, "Make sure nobody gets near her helicopter."

Enrique wandered outside, heading toward the sleek red copter as Helene watched. "Where's that boy going, Willie? He gets within 20 feet of that copter and I'm calling the tower and have his ass hauled."

"It's okay, he's a cop. Undercover."

"He's a cop, then I'm a fucking attorney general. I don't give a fuck who he is - he doesn't get near my big red. Let him explain that undercover shit to the local cops."

"He's not going near your copter," Tom said. "Why are you so upset?"

"Are you looking for the same two guys I was supposed to pick up? I love this secret bullshit. In the pictures it used to be CIA, now it's undercover cops. Bullshit then, bullshit now. I'm gonna take a leak. I see that fucker near my chopper, let him explain it to the local overcover guys."

Helene walked to the women's room, took care of business and returned to the waiting room. Satisfied that Enrique wasn't playing it too close to the helicopter, she walked outside to the front of the building facing the parking lot, took out her cell and hit 690-3447.

Stan had it on vibrate, so there would be no ring. He picked up.

"Boys, these fuckers look mean as hell," Helene said.

"Are they barrio guys?"

"Only one, the other has to be a cop. I know the pilot – he's just along for the ride – there's a crunch I don't see him getting involved."

"What next?"

"I told 'em the story. That I'm leaving soon. What I'll do is take off, maybe, set down at Lindbergh - you know, over at San Diego - and come back, see if they buy it. I'll call when I'm close."

Helene returned to the waiting area. Tom was standing against the wall, hand in his jacket pocket, holding the Glock he'd taken out of his holster. He'd been on the pistol range with this one, but he hadn't fired at anyone since he drove a black and white 20 years earlier. He could very easily take it out now, and pump a row of bullets into this yokel pilot. Willie, picking up on Tom's feelings, wondered again what the hell he had walked into.

"Well, boys, I've got my marching orders," Helene said. "Heading home. Guess the boys decided to try it on their own. Sure as hell ain't around here."

"The fella in the other room told us they were in a barbecue joint," Tom said. "That they'd be right back."

"According to the TV station, looks like they changed their minds."

"You wouldn't be looking for them somewhere else, would you? Like you know something we don't?"

Helene stood in the center of the room, thumbs in her front pockets. "Look, fella, I don't know who you are \- and I don't see that I have to report anything to you. I was nice enough to tell you what my bosses said, and I'm going home."

Tom reached into his back pocket, took out his billfold and waved the badge at Helene. "You do anything to help those people - talk to them on the phone or whatever, you are aiding and abetting. Your butt has had it. You figure how far you want to go on this."

Helene walked toward the door, turned to look at Willie and said, "This is bullshit. And Willie, I expected more from you."

The sun was hovering hesitantly, its boldest move in three days, and Helene blinked as her eyes adjusted to it, hitting the tarmac walking to her helicopter.

Enrique watched as Helene gave her credit card to the man from Wild Horse, who had filled the gas tank, and was running the card through the machine that rested on the front seat of the gas truck. She signed it and climbed into her bubble,

Inside, she pulled the door shut, flicked the battery switch, pressed the start button, the engine rumbled and the Aerospatiale's three rotor blades revolved. She pulled the wheel back and the helicopter rose from the tarmac.

Enrique and Willie gathered around Tom, who stared at the swiftly rising helicopter. "I could kill that foul-mouthed slut very easily," Tom said. "Playing the rube with me."

"So, what do you think?" Willie asked, hoping the answer would be, return home, but knowing it wouldn't.

"I've been wearing the badge too long – she's lying. They're here. Lots of places for them to hide around this field," Tom said. "We can play the same game."

Moments later the Mustang sped toward Flying J Aviation; Willie hopped out and in moments the blue and white helicopter, rotors blowing dust into swirls, was in the air, flying due north, away from the west-bound Channel 6 aircraft.

Tom, still in the waiting room, waiting for Enrique to return from driving Willie to his copter, was on his cell having his office check Van Nuys Airport to see if they had a return ETA on Helene's plane. There was none. As he had expected. He then told them to check with Rolly Martin, the cop who moonlighted at the TV station on traffic reports - maybe he could find out what the hell was going on. What the hell was Channel 6 up to?

Tom's aide called Rolly, who wasn't happy with the call. Tom calling him was one thing. It was between them. But, this bozo from Tom's office? And if word got to the news department that he was leaking one of their hot stories, look for Channel 6 to make the switch in traffic reporters fast as a station break, dropping their LAPD connection. Anybody can do traffic - shit, they didn't need a uniform guy. The other stations didn't have one. Rolly liked being recognized, making the few extra bucks, almost as much as his police salary. Maybe one day parlay this into more TV work. Put this at risk? No way he'd be calling the station to find out what the hell was going on.

# FORTY NINE

Stan felt like a child watching his toy balloon escape into the clouds. Helene soaring up and away. She said she'd return, but... And moments later the blue and white helicopter took off with no apparent intent in following. Had they bought the ruse? Or, were they too playing games?

It was less than five minutes to San Diego's Lindbergh Field. And then what? Helene might have second thoughts about jousting with the LAPD. And what about the other copter? She must have seen it take off without trying to track her. Would she think the cops were going home? She couldn't play the game too long; she wouldn't want to burn too much gas. If it did work out and they were going to make a run for it, she sure as hell wouldn't want to stop to refuel.

Stan's cell vibrated. Helene. "That's me directly to the west," she said. "You ready?"

"Looks okay. The other copter's gone. But I don't know who was on it."

"You sure you want to do this?" she asked. "We can call the local cops and sort this crap out later. This guy has a serious agenda."

"No, we want to go home. And not with these guys."

"Roger, then," she said. "I'll land as close to the office as possible. You may know this, but the cop's name is Tom Ellison – showed me his badge, called his sidekick, Enrique. Mean anything to you?'"

"No, but thanks." If Tom was outside waiting, he and Marvin would be ready to swim among the sharks; this time they had weapons.

Helene sat her copter down amid the swirling dust; Stan and Marvin ran down the stairs into the office, looking at her from behind the sliding doors. Stan reminded Marvin of the swirling blades. "Heads down for everybody, but in your case, on your knees."

Stan slid the glass door open, checked the Glock's magazine: 15 rounds. The tarmac was deserted. Were they in the waiting room? If so, there was a Cessna off to the side. Could be useful as a shield. And ran out the door.

The first shots tore at him as he neared the Cessna, the bullets sounding flat and distant, but still too damn close, taking chunks off the Cessna. Enrique had burst through the waiting room doors onto the tarmac firing. Tom stood at the entrance to the waiting room. Enrique was leading Stan with his shots, anticipating his moves. The bullets were pinging off the Cessna.

Running to hide behind the Cessna Stan's shoe hit a loose bolt on the tarmac. His lucky bolt. He tumbled to the tarmac, avoiding the wave of bullets that slammed instead over his head into the Cessna. Falling, the Glock slipped out of his hand. Enrique had moved behind one of the Border Patrol's green Bell Ranger helicopters, and had zeroed in on the pistol, waiting. From behind the Cessna Stan made a move for it and the rounds pinged near the pistol, tearing into the tarmac. Stan pulled his hand back in a hurry.

Helene raised her copter, swinging toward Enrique, raising and lowering, remaining elevated outside pistol range as Enrique and Tom fired at her, bullets bouncing off the blades and landing rail. Tom was braced against the waiting room door safe from Helene's buzzing. He held his fire, waiting for her cockpit to drop within range.

But she hovered too high and instead Tom snapped back to join fire with Enrique to box in Stan, bullets from both guns piercing the plane shielding him, tearing into its door, smashing the pilot's window.

What the hell happened to Marvin? Stan wondered. The Cessna reverberated with the stream of bullets that Tom and Enrique were peppering his way. And then it let up briefly. Stan turned and saw the reason - Marvin had come to life, on his stomach at the office door pouring a line of bullets toward Enrique jammed behind the Border Patrol helicopter. Marvin was alternately firing at Tom, a tough target, pressed flat against the entrance to Marvin's right.

Marvin's barrage had diverted both men, allowing Stan to slip out from under the Cessna, exposing himself only long enough to retrieve the pistol. Stan snapped back behind the Cessna. Enrique was still distracted by Marvin, and Stan had an opening. He squeezed off a pair of shots, nicking Enrique in the arm. It looked like a flesh wound, but serious enough for him to tear part of his shirt and wrap it around his arm. A small victory. More than that, Enrique seemed rattled. Not the way this was supposed to be going.

Stan couldn't believe he actually hit that bastard. Now, Enrique was the one doing the defensive ducking, sliding back under the Bell Ranger of the Border Patrol.

Stan lost sight of Tom, guessing, because of Enrique's injury, Tom was trying a more aggressive position. Helene was now swooping down on something – alerting Stan and Marvin that Tom was moving from parked plane to parked plane.

Tom squeezed against a Piper Club and Helene hovered over him. Stan had a shot at him and fired. Tom hit the ground, rolling under a fairly new Beech King 200, a bullet hitting its For Sale sign on its side. Tom returned the fire, far off the mark. There was another lull. Enrique was still wrapping his left arm, and Tom had a bad angle on Stan. It gave Stan the moment he needed and he ran zig zagging back to the office, bullets skidding into the tarmac around him.

Marvin was at the door, catching him as he flung himself back into the room. Stan fell onto the couch breathing heavily.

"You okay?" Marvin asked. Stan nodded and stood up, sliding the glass door shut, without realizing what he was doing. It was a matter of time; they'd be coming. Maybe they should try the hallway door and run for it. Call the police. Hopefully, Helene was doing that now.

A bullet came through the glass door, shattering it. Christ, he thought, did he really close that door? Amid the sound of falling glass and the sucking thuds of bullets biting into cheap wall paneling was a piercing ring. It took seconds to sink in: the office phone. Who the hell?

Bending low, working his way to the desk, clearing the shards of glass to a side. Someone calling that help was on the way? He picked up the phone and answered with a guarded, "Hello".

The voice answered: "Hello, Mr. Block, this is Bloom Electronics. We can deliver your new Apple Computer tomorrow. Will someone be there to accept it?"

"That's fine," Stan said, hanging up. "Shit. Of all the Goddamned things."

Crouching, he made it through the mound of shattered glass near the door. No one coming toward them. He picked up a shiny silver faced paper weight from Shell Oil and took it to the door, using it as a mirror, holding it so that he could see if anyone was approaching from the right side and then the left side. For the moment, nothing.

Helene, remaining out of pistol range, was hovering over the office. Stan grabbed a sport coat that was hanging against the wall, draped it over a broom and dangled it outside the open door. A stream of bullets tore it apart. They had come from behind the Bell Ranger. Enrique was back in action.

A moment of silence broken again by the ringing of Stan's cell. He answered it: "This is fucking Helene."

"I'm here," he said. "Still here."

"Somebody must've called. There's a stream of cop cars about 10 or 12 miles from here coming this way," she said.

Stan passed the news on to Marvin, who raised his fist.

"This is good, right?" he told Helene.

"Well, maybe. That other copter is back and holding. He must have seen them too. As soon as Willie gives them the word they're going to come after you for real. That little Mexican boy you shot has the firepower to turn your office into sawdust."

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, the tarmac's out. Maybe I can trick them into thinking I'm going to pick you off the roof."

"Sounds pretty risky."

"Well, the thing is, you wouldn't be doing it. Oh, damn, hold on. They must've got the word about the cops; they're beginning to move."

"Any idea how bad that guy was hit? Like maybe he can't do anything?"

"Well, with that thing around his arm he seems okay. Get ready. They're on their way."

A volley of bullets poured into the room. Slivers of fake wall paneling flew through the air.

Stan's first thought, how to hold them off till the cops come? But, the exchange of gunfire, his lucky hit on Enrique had set his adrenalin going – hitting Enrique had made him delusionary: Enrique and Tom were not supermen, and they didn't have to defer to them.

Marvin had shoved the couch to face the window, creating a make-shift shield. "Maybe, it'll hold till the cops come."

Stan was at the hallway door.

"Where you going?" Marvin asked.

"Depends if I can open this fucking door," he said, shoving the bolt to the side and firing a shot into the belly of the lock. The door swung open and he ran into the hallway. Nobody there. Quiet as hell. He yelled back at Marvin. "If it gets too crazy, just come out this way and run for it. Hide somewhere."

Stan ran next door into the Wild Horse office, the last office at east end of the building. No one there – the gas attendant must have bolted when the shooting started. Probably called the cops, either him or the new control tower. Where the hell was the Border Patrol? Maybe, they called the cops. There were three doors in the Wild Horse office – one to the front parking area, one to the tarmac and one to the side of the building, which led around to the tarmac. Stan hit the side door, which couldn't be seen by Tom and Enrique. He slowly circled the exterior of the tarmac, watching the two men firing into the office.

The two helicopters were still above. At the far side of the area, beyond the Blue Box, a third helicopter was landing.

In an attempt to divert Tom and Enrique, Helene dropped her helicopter just above the roof, near the tower, as if waiting for Stan and Marvin to step out of a tower window.

The response was immediate: the half-century old tower almost disappeared from sight, Enrique pouring a magazine of bullets into the aged structure, virtually leveling it., Helene had raised high enough to be out of their range.

Stan took advantage of the distraction. The pilot in Tom's helicopter, watching the tower go up in shreds, hadn't seen him moving between the planes, hadn't alerted Tom and Enrique, both of whom had resumed shooting into the office, changing positions slightly, trying for a better angle. At the moment, they were about 50 feet from each other. Despite the temperature being in the low 70s both men were sweating heavily; both fixed on the office, each almost unaware of the other, only occasionally exchanging glances. Stan knew it was a no way out situation for the cop – he truly had license to kill, since to the outside world Stan and Marvin had been the ones who shot up Mexico. That was the good part for him. The bad was, that if he didn't kill them they had the DVDs, the evidence to put him away. He had to kill them.

Marvin was firing sporadically, lending Tom and Enrique to believe the boys were running low on ammo. They sent a stream of firepower into the office, ready to storm the room.

Moving carefully, Stan circled behind Tom, who was fixed on the office. Stan's guess was, either their copter pilot still hadn't seen him, or couldn't reach his buddies on the phone. Or, maybe he decided it wasn't his war and was staying out of it.

Stan had circled between the parked planes to get behind Tom, who was about 20 feet in front of him. Enrique was at an angle about 100 feet away. Now that he was there, Stan realized, he actually had to shoot. Tom was in his range. What would Enrique do with his boss nullified? It never occurred to Stan that he could miss and become fodder for both.

Tom stopped shooting to change magazines. Stan aimed at his back and hit him in the leg. Tom was stunned. The blood poured out. Enrique fired at Stan, but was distracted by Tom's injury and a new volley of bullets from Marvin. Tom tried to turn in Stan's direction, put one elbow down, looked at his leg and then Enrique. He moved his pistol away from where Stan had been firing and fired at Enrique, hitting him in the same arm that Stan had. Outraged, Enrique started to return the fire, but he was hurt badly, and ran off, pressing against the blood streaming from his flapping arm. What the hell was going on?

Tom had dropped his pistol and was holding his leg, which was bleeding badly. He pulled his belt out of his pants, adapting it as a tourniquet.

Stan walked over to him. This was going to be pure pleasure. "Don't bother about the blood, Tom," he said, holding the pistol in front of him. "You're dead."

He never pulled the trigger. Once again, feeling a pistol at his back.

"Don't," said the voice behind him. "Just drop it."

Two men in dark suits pistols in their hands, had come out of nowhere.

Stunned, Stan dropped the gun, turned around. What now?

They reached into their pockets and pulled out badges.

The first man said. "Calvin Sampson, LAPD, Internal Affairs."

Stan leaned against a plane that rocked slightly. Was this weekend really over?

There was a brief political sorting out of affairs between Capt. Sampson and the San Diego Police, who were not happy about LAPD's dirty laundry being dropped into their backyard, along with the fireworks. There were some heavy radio conversations with headquarters, but in the end, the details were so messy that the San Diego cops were delighted to have it all taken away from them and returned to Los Angeles. There was a brief search for Enrique, but only half-heartedly. Tom was the prize for Internal Affairs.

Capt. Sampson had his explanation of why Tom had shot at Enrique – he had recognized Internal Affairs and realized he had to rewrite his role, get rid of his accomplice and claim that he was pursuing a couple of wanted killers and trying to recover some stolen police file DVDs. About his use of the DVDs? Something to haggle over in court, but easier to defend than murder charges. Actually, who knew what was going through his mind? Maybe, just frustration.

Capt. Sampson flew with Marvin and Stan in the Channel 6 helicopter. Lt. Steve Morrison had Tom, bandaged and handcuffed, in the LAPD helicopter and Willie returned solo. Sampson explained that when Mark Baron had called to alert them they decided to fly down.

Marvin sat up front with Helene, and Capt. Sampson rode with Stan in the rear seats. Marvin and Stan stared out the windows as the helicopter lifted off, each in his own reverie, savoring the feeling of knowing it was over, the brutality, tension, exhaustion, and fear behind them, the reassuring hum of the helicopter, the security of going home and the look of the U. S. below. The silence was broken as the helicopter, heading north, moved out of San Diego County.

"Why don't we start at the beginning?" Capt. Sampson said. "No sense letting this time go to waste - it's such a damn boring ride back."

# TWO MONTHS LATER

It was during one of those chilling March rains when Tom Ellison, out on bail, pulled up at a stoplight on Ash Street. The windshield wipers were battling the pouring rain and Tom felt comfortable only three blocks from home. Everett had been helping with attorneys and bail money and Tom was thinking about his morning's meeting with the attorneys, when his car door opened. He turned from the steamed windshield to face a pistol, a Glock, very similar to the one he turned in with his badge two months earlier. He never had a chance to see who was holding it. The man pressed it against Tom's temple and blew a nasty hole through skin and bone. Twenty minutes later, after a number of calls about a car stalled in traffic, police found him with the gun near his hand, his fingerprints on it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Everett heard the news the next morning and called Tom's home, talking briefly to Tom's brother, who found it hard to believe that Tom would actually kill himself. Maybe it's for the best, Everett thought. Trying to close the book on the whole nasty business, he had donated the land in question to the Conservancy, and contributed $10 million to help turn the area into a park. He was assured by his attorney that there was enough distance between him and what happened in Mexico - and with Tom dead no way to link him to the DVDs - to allow him to plea bargain for probation and a few million dollars fine. In fact, maybe no case at all. He was starting to spend a few hours each day in his office, enjoying the solitary drive, rather than using his driver. It was a few days after Tom's death when Everett pulled into his office building's parking garage. Before he could get out of the car, the door on the passenger side opened. Everett had no time to try to bargain his way out. The good life slipped away from him as a 9mm bullet pierced his brain; the gun pressed into his hand and left dangling next to his body.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The white Mustang convertible slipped around the curves of Big Sur on US 101. Enrique, who still had his left arm in a sling, was enjoying the long route north. It was hard driving with one hand, but he was in no hurry, reflecting on the failed enterprise that would have liberated him financially for life. But it wasn't all bad; he had his freedom and a future, some savings, but most important, he had been able to balance the books before leaving.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mariano hated to give up his little shop of wonders, but it was inevitable, since the new Mariano was socially responsible and accountable. And who to thank, but the government itself and Bernardo Escobar. Mariano had loved his old ways, but it was over. So what if he lost out on the million dollars? It was nothing. No, he still had to work that out in his head. But, now he was the industrial representative for the government in Tijuana. The new Tijuana, Escobar said, and Mariano should be part of it. And just when he thought everyone had crossed the border and was out of his life, Enrique wound up at his door in that same white Mustang, and Mariano had to play nursemaid. Mariano found a discreet doctor for him and then one day Enrique said he needed a couple of small pistols, he had work to do, thanked Mariano, and left.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Warmweather was ready to cut its losses when Marvin and Stan returned – not the sort of publicity any company would want - senior executive involved in child abuse, extortion, accomplice to murder, and stock manipulation. And in his capacity, as a major executive, trying desperately to have two other senior executives killed. They knew Stan and Marvin had a case and came to them with the deal – stock options, raise in salary, and new titles. It worked for Marvin, since he could return to his computer research, but Stan had decided marketing wasn't for him, worked out a settlement with the company and a departure date. They also made a settlement with Louis Heywood and his wife to resolve any problems over having been bound and robbed. No need with Duane Miller, who just wanted to forget that weekend.

Marvin liked his new look, and remained blond and clean-shaven. The company was having a major presentation at the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas, and hoped that Marvin and Stan would be there, Stan's final project with the company. He agreed to go, but he and Marvin traveled there separately.

THE END

Three random killings – Stan Willis posts on his blog his theory that they are linked. And the killer calls to confirm The murders of high visibility personalities continue as do the conversations on the untraceable phone calls. As the killer's personal life starts to deteriorate, Stan's postings start to grate on the troubled man.

For an excerpt of TURNABOUT, the new Stan Willis thriller turn the page

# ONE

The crack of a rifle....

...Echoing in the street, silencing the sweating mass of believers who looked on with a mixture of guilt and thrill. God spoke in many ways.

The mood of the waiting crowd had soured long before the rifle shot. It was 96 degrees and not easy breathing through the decaying city's permanent layer of dust Those in the rear had shoved those up front, and the crowd spilled beyond the legal guidelines that the police had laid down for them; they were not to go beyond the sidewalk opposite the one-story red brick building in this small, financially battered town of Kimberly, Iowa.

There were maybe 200 hundred of them, men mostly in jeans, women in thin dresses, shouting when the blue Toyota turned onto the street, stopping in front of the G. Ellison Clinic. What the mob had been waiting for. The afternoon exploded with passages from the bible and the screams of "Baby Killers" swelling into a chant. Home made signs of graphic fetal photos waved in the air, alongside those inward souls who fell into near- trance and prayed over candles.

The car's passenger side opened onto the clinic's entrance. The chanting and praying turned into a roar. A woman in her early 20s stepped out cautiously. A man, hair flying, waving one of the enlarged photos, ran toward her, shouting as the young woman walked briskly toward the clinic, the driver behind her. The man followed, warning of God's wrath, while trying to confront the women with his photos. A TV cameraman trailed him.

That was when the rifle fire tore through the street.

The two women, steps from entering the clinic froze; the roar of the crowd silenced instantly. The two women dropped to the ground, untouched.

Instead the bullet tore into the head of the man following the women, exiting with a bloody stream of brain matter. The crowd was stunned, silence punctuated with gasps, turning into shrieks.

The two women ran into the clinic, fleeing from the screams of the crowd, which cut through the otherwise quiet, little town. The cameraman fell to the ground, back against the car, rose to one knee and filmed the dead man.

The shouts intensified, many first thinking the shot came from the clinic. A thin, red-faced man pulled a pistol out of a side holster and ran toward the building, making it halfway across the street. Another rifle shot cracked through the din, and he went down, the side of his head torn open. The cameraman, still crouching behind the car, focused on the new victim and then turned his camera to the crowd that was scrambling back. These were people who poured through forests during hunting seasons and most of them now realized the general direction from where the rifle had been fired. Not from the clinic. They looked to the roof of a three story building, a few hundred yards away, and pointed. No one to be seen.

The crowd retreated into a tighter group, whispering to each other, almost as if another shout would draw a bullet their way. Anger saturated with heat and fear.

The two city policemen, who had been parked around the corner, hoping their low visibility would avoid generating a crowd reaction, were on alert if trouble were to materialize. Hearing the rifle shots they sped around the corner, screeching to a stop on the street behind the two dead men. Responding to the crowd's shouts, they ran to the building from where the shots had come, up to the roof, but there was no one there, and no evidence anyone had been there, no cigarette butts, no shell casings to be found. That is, except for one item the police wouldn't reveal, a Sympathy Card, with the printed sentiment, Sorry For Your Loss, signed simply with a black Sharpie, "Turnabout."

# TWO

An aberration, man bites dog – a reversal of the occasional violence found at abortion protests, where it's frequently the protestors who crossed the line, and it blazed across local and national news and, of course, the internet, which is where I, Stan Willis, came in, as editor of the blog, Crime.as.it.happens.com., a division, of the Radial Media Group. The Iowa shooting was hot, our lead story of the day, and we were all over it. From Los Angeles I was on the phone with a reporter, Guy Martin, with the Des Moines Register with whom we had worked some months back on the murder of a city councilman in a nearby town. The man's wife had her fill of abuse and shot her husband so many times they had to load him on the gurney in sections. Since Guy wasn't working the abortion clinic story for the Register he was able to file for us as a stringer, loading us with some of the details the Register had either passed on or missed. Taste is not a factor in our coverage, as long as the details, shocking as they may be, are accurate.

The Iowa story, however, was not one that would produce new elements – the shooter hit his targets and was off without a trace. No note – as far as we knew - no social diatribe. The police, I would find out later, held tight to that calling card. Left to us was reflection, speculation and background on the victims. Someone on the staff tossed out the possibility that the abortion angle might be a red herring, a clever way for an angry wife or girlfriend to frame the murder within a dramatic setting. But that didn't go very far – apparently both victims had decent family lives, and were devoted to their church.

It was the type of story we wanted to ride as long as possible and, apart from the news stories, I wrote a number of columns from varying angles – was this a local retaliation? The start of a movement? Who could shoot that accurately – a military sniper? What sort of rifle? The two spent bullets were recovered 20 feet from the victims, .308 Winchester ammo. The guess was a very expensive set-up, a high quality rifle and scope. A serious shooter. The authorities reported many taking credit for the killing, but no person or group with any credibility.

The story was a natural for our blog, drawing more hits than any previous story. And we're not suffering for choices, certainly not within our painfully bloody society. Los Angeles alone reports over 30,000 violent crimes in an average year. What began two years ago as my small Los Angeles crime blog had mushroomed nationally into something larger, much more than I could handle by myself, and when I was approached by Radial last year with an embarrassingly healthy buyout figure there was little reason not to throw in with them. I would stay on as occasional columnist and managing editor.

I brought in a couple of ambitious young reporter assistants, Emily Warden, a recent graduate of U. of Cal at Northridge and its newspaper, the Daily Sundial; Marty Wenner, on his first job after the UCLA newspaper and website, the Daily Bruin, and an editor to oversee the copy, Marge Olway, a brooding, displaced longtime employee of the Los Angeles Times. Backing us up was one of the company's technical aides. We were expected to originate stories and go beyond what we found on media sites, either use stringers in those areas or send out one of our group. The travel budget was within reason. But for the most part, we lived on the phone. We had to put our spin on all major stories. .

Our technical guy created the blog layout: teasers of new breaking stories at top of page. Below would be a continuously updated main blog of headlined short pieces. A long story would start with a short segment, its extended details accessed with a "Read More" Jump Line. A side bar would guide to an archive of recent stories divided into departments with taglines of crime genres: Gang Violence, Drug Trade, Mafia Gangster Stars, America's Russian Mob, Missing Wives, hateful areas like Abused Children and Wives, Mothers Who Killed Their Children, ( more than we ever suspected), along with Trusted Employee Embezzlement, and, among others, one of the most popular, Female Teachers and Young Male Students, which, apparently, plugged into every male fantasy.

Our offices were in a new complex in Hollywood, on Wilshire Blvd., west of LaBrea, along with Radial Group's other internet interests: very hefty business coverage, politics, celebrity gossip and a serious entertainment blog in which no deal, no promotion, no casting, no matter how insignificant, went uncovered.

The staffs in the other divisions might as well have been ghosts for as much as we saw of them, which was perhaps once a year at company meetings, working instead from their homes, offices, bars, who knows where, and posting their material into the main office. Their business was one of contacts and speculation, ours was breaking news and analysis. There were a line of cubicles on our floor, almost all empty except for the various editors of the other blogs and my people. I wanted my crime people at hand.

Also, I had my own unofficial consultant, Lyle Sloan, a former Army intelligence officer, who I knew from back in the day in Iraq when I was an honest to goodness newspaperman covering the war. Since he was an intelligent man in Army Intelligence, his days were numbered. There were just so many ways of spinning a foolish war while maintaining one's sanity, and he had been happy to resign and return to Los Angeles to open a prospering security firm. He worked with us from time to time because, and while we may be vulgar and sensational, we pursued the facts as best we knew how. That was my rule, more so than Radial's, which, given their way, would have had a much more elastic approach to facts.

When I signed on with Radial I had to agree to report to a General Manager, never anticipating that Radial would appoint a veteran, Gilbert Morrow, of one of their fading print magazines, whose primary asset to corporate was his loyalty to them, and basically ill-prepared to cope with digital media, more specifically the breaking news of the internet. Not to mention his indifference to the facts.

# THREE

Carl Evans was at a corner table at the Starbucks in the Old Town section of Temecula, California, some 60 miles north of San Diego, his favorite because it was the most tourist driven Starbucks in a wine country tourist town, assuring him no chance of running into anyone he might know. Drinking a grande straight, and taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi, he pulled up on his laptop Stan Willis' website, Crime.as.it.happens.com, to see if he was still the lead story, and what more nutty speculations there were concerning his actions in Iowa. Amazing the amount of copy that had been generated by his one act, and the wide spread of federal agencies that were in motion to track him down. Well, here he was in Temecula, and all he could see were lots of old ladies and their bored husbands carrying bags of endlessly recycled junk from the local antique shops. These people would die in a few years and the heavy lead pussycat doorstops and the toy soldiers would be recycled back into the shops before morning.

And it was far enough away, well 35 minutes anyway, from his parents' home in Rancho Santa Fe, in northern San Diego County, an area so posh, so conservative, it made the retired admirals in Coronado Bay look like charter members of MoveOn.Org. Stan Willis was okay, he thought, reading the blog. Always a new angle, but in the ballpark, such as being positive that law enforcement was holding something back, perhaps some message or clue that had been found on the rooftop, but was being shielded from the media. Maybe he should call him. No. Let him figure it out. His next one will be a test – see if it sends Stan in the right direction.

He checked his watch, a wavy little thing from Cartier's, almost time for dinner at the house, and more pronouncements from dad about needing to put a stronger brew in the Tea Party and wondering how someone who wasn't even born here could be president of the United States. And his latest, and closest to home - how the hell did that fool miss those damn women and kill those two honorable protesters? At least he's given up on early years of pestering Carl about going to work in one of the family's six auto agencies. How it drove the father crazy that granny Selma had left her lettuce farm in Salinas to Carl, who promptly sold it when property still had value eight years back and banked a few million.

Carl had driven down earlier from Los Angeles where he had a small house in the Hollywood Hills overlooking the valley. He had left his rifle, a Parker-Hale M85 10 shot in its guitar case, actually a refitted **Mono Electric Bass case, which** served its purpose, since he didn't want to be seen carrying a rifle case from his car to his Public Storage unit on Ventura Blvd opposite Ralphs. The conversion had been a tight fit, since the rifle was 45 inches long and the case 48 inches. Plenty of room on the sides though for the Swarovski scope and the detachable bi-pod.. Want to remain invisible in Los Angeles? Carry a guitar case into a storage unit. His unit was filling up and while there was little possibility anyone would be looking into it, for security's sake he had rented it under the name of Barry Seltzer.

So, what next? A plethora, a deluge, a swarm of choices. Something to think about. Oh, well, let's go to the house and bait dad for an hour, he thought. Poor suffering mother, how she pleads not to get him started on his politics, vintage Orange County. For some, just an affable old guy. That is, if he hadn't been your dad.

TURNABOUT now at Amazon, B&N and Smashwords

# About the Author

Don Safran was a journalist for the Dallas Times Herald before going to Los Angeles, where he worked on a number of films as screenwriter, marketing executive and producer. He is a member of Writers Guild of America and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. As Executive Vice President at Rastar Productions he oversaw such films as "Steel Magnolias," "Revenge," "Peggy Sue Got Married," "The Electric Horseman," among others. A former Marine he is married, with three daughters, and currently lives in Washington State. In addition to the Stan Willis novels, "The Lies That Kill You" and "Turnabout," he is also the author of "The Tenth Day" and a book of short stories, "Four Play, and Other Stories."

To learn more about Don Safran and his current projects, go to www.donsafran.com

