Josh Stallings - Out There Bad

“Absolutely,” I said, without a doubt.

“No, if he knew, I mean really got the price these girls were paying for his fun, he wouldn’t do it. Not the sickos, they fuck for pain, but Johnny normal, he would stop.”

“If you say so.”

The Scout proved to be a grand road cruiser, smooth and responsive. After Peter had talked himself dry, he leaned back and was snoring. Around midnight we passed Camp Pendleton, the Marine Corps base where I had done basic before being shipped to that gang bang in the streets of Beirut. Unlike some Semper Fi freaks, it held no warm memories for me. The Marines had taught me to pull a trigger without thinking and not ever trust the old bastards who are giving orders. Fuck questioning authority, there was no question involved, if they asked you to do it, it was a bad idea. If it was a good idea, they’d do it themselves. If what we were doing in that mess was so noble and right, why hadn’t I met even one politician’s son on the firing line? And here we were stuck in the sand pile again, young men dying with no end in sight. Just thinking about it made my throat dry. It was nothing a good shot of scotch wouldn’t cure.

I almost pulled off in San Diego for a half pint, but I knew that would never be enough. Flipping the radio around the dial, I filled the car with classic rock, at least that’s what they called it. After sitting through some Foreigner 80s hair band bullshit, Elvis Costello started singing about Alison. By the time she was dragging her fingers through the wedding cake, my mind was filled with Anya. Why the fuck hadn’t I taken her to bed when she offered? Instead, I had stuffed my feelings for her down into my gut and pretended I didn’t care. I tossed her at Gregor. Were they fucking on his mother’s couch while I was on a suicide run south of the border? Bullshit. She was a good woman and he was a true friend. I needed a drink. I needed to get laid. I need the love of a strong woman. But none of that was in the cards I’d dealt myself. Instead, I was stuck on the road with a motormouth reporter looking for trouble that any sane man would run away from.

“What the hell is that?” Peter asked. We were pulled onto a dark street a few miles from the border and I was putting my snub nose into the hidden lockbox.

“A thirty-eight,” I said.

“I know that, the other stuff in there?” He was pointing at my Mossberg, a Ruger Mini-14, two Chinese grenades Gregor had found for me, and my 1911.

“You want me to drop you at the bus station?” I asked him.

“No,” he said, after thinking about it long enough for me to wonder if he was going to come after all. “You know the Mexican government treats firearms harsher than heroin? We get caught, it will be decades before either of us breathes free air.”

“That’s why it’s hidden.”

The pedestrian bridge crossing from Mexico into the States was awash in a flood of drunken college kids and service boys heading home after their night’s debauchery. Like smart little gringos they had all parked their cars in the States and taken cabs into Sin City. Apparently they weren’t afraid of the cartels, the clap or jail, but if they got a dent in the family car, their dads would kill them. We drove under the bridge and through the border without any trouble. Getting into Mexico had never been the trick, it was getting out that often led to ugly phrases like cavity search.

Skirting downtown and dodging whizzing taxis, I arced through a roundabout and headed toward Playa Tijuana and the Ensenada highway beyond. Tijuana is the sort of town you shouldn’t even slow down in unless you are on the bad side of a mean drunk and need to get your ass kicked. I had misspent too many lusty, lonely nights in La Zona Norte when I was stationed at Camp Pendleton. At sixteen, it looked like Oz the first time I crossed that bridge, but that dreamy view turned ugly when it was confronted with the reality of those streets. Woozy, blurred out visions of naked girls I humped and the sweaty pimps I paid are collected someplace in my memory, along with so many others I’m not proud of. These are the photos I pull out at four in the morning to remind myself I really am a sack of shit.

The moon brightly lit our path as we broke free of the city and onto the open coast highway. In the years since I had last traveled this road, it had transformed from a potholed two-lane mess into a modern highway with banked curves and tall cement tollbooths. Dropping a buck twenty into a sweet faced young guard’s hand, I accepted his “Buenas noches” and rolled on. Fifty feet from the shoulder, the earth fell away, down steep cliffs lay the restless sea. Waves smashed on the rocks. With the windows open, the air was fresh and salty, with a hint of wood smoke and the rich odor of decay that let me know I was in Mexico.

Rosarito came and went as we powered on. Peter asked if we could stop for dinner, but I wasn’t taking my foot off the pedal until we hit Ensenada. Only then, with sixty miles between me and TJ, would I feel safe from her moaning call.

“Ensenada was built in the twenties by Al Capone. Not actually built, but up until prohibition, it had been a sleepy fishing village.” Peter was chattering on as we drifted over the hills and down into the small valley that held the town. “He opened a hotel and gambling house, for a few years it was the place for Hollywood royalty.”

Ensenada sat at the center of a small bay dotted with fishing boats and pleasure yachts. On a small steep hill to the north of town, large homes perched looking down on the tawdry street life below. It took about twenty minutes of cruising to find the right neighborhood for my particular mission. Past the partying kids at Papas and Beer, past the tourists pressed into Husongs, past the spa resort hotels. On Calle Arande I spotted three strip clubs in a two-block stretch. I was home.

Any doubt was erased when I stepped into the office of Motel 49. The price list on the wall listed $10 for a half-hour, $20 for an hour and $27 for anyone foolish enough to want to spend the whole night. We got two rooms on the upper floor and paid the extra two bucks for a set of towels.

The first thing I noticed about the room was that the door had no deadbolt, not even a flimsy chain, and the doorknob lock could be popped with a butter knife or a good yank. The only window at the rear was a slit in the bathroom, too small for escape. Pushing the dresser against the door, I stripped down and took a shower. It was two AM and the day was starting to wear on me. I told Peter he was on his own finding food and we would hook up in the morning. If I had to listen to his endless patter one more minute, I might have to kill him.

“You want some bud? Crank? I got some pure fucking rock.” The kid’s accent and choice of dress was straight out of East LA: chinos, plaid shirt over a white tee and buttoned only at the top. He was maybe twenty, but a hard life had given him much older eyes. His hair was cut within a millimeter of bald. Dark prison ink letters S G V scrawled across the back of his skull.

“I don’t do that shit since I got out of the joint,” I lied, wanting to make it clear I wasn’t a tourist pussy he should even think about running his scams on.

“Cool, living above the influence, right? So what you want? You want a titty show? I can take you to the best in town, no bullshit, I’m a Christian so I can’t lie.” Three other young men his same age and type leaned against a closed taco stand, watching us and scanning for their next customer. These guys were the street version of a concierge. If you needed anything from heroin to a face lift, they could hook you up for a small tip.

“Not into tits? Want a little strange, I got this chick with a dick’ll blow your mind and everything else. What’d ya say, you ready to party, muchacho?”