Josh Stallings - Out There Bad

Alone in the dark, Nika realized her hunger had faded and was replaced by a deep emptiness. Her strength was all but gone, she could feel herself growing lighter as every moment passed. Soon she would float up off the bed and drift past this hell into the clouds above.

Sunlight was burning through the thin stained curtain when I woke. It was early, too early. I had only been asleep for four hours. Morning wood was creating a tent out of my sheets. Anya’s face rolled across my mind. When this was over and I had returned her sister to her waiting arms, then, then I would take her someplace nice, quiet, away from the city. There I would tell her all I was and all I could be with a good woman. What was Anya doing at that moment… still sleeping? Was she alone or had Gregor joined her in the night? I got up quickly and took a cold shower before I let my mind turn me against my young Armenian friend.

Pounding my fist on the door, I roused Peter. He was groggy, and tattered like he had gotten less sleep than me. “Moses, what time is it?” He was holding the door open only a small crack.

“Time to rock-n-roll, let me in,” I said, pushing on the door, but he held it fast, “What, you got a woman in there?” His sheepish grin told me I had stumbled onto the truth. I pushed past him easily. On the bed, a naked young woman was deep in slumberland. I looked from Peter’s dipshit grin to the girl and shook my head sadly.

“What the fuck, huh?” he said.

“I’m going for some huevos rancheros. When I get back, have her gone and be ready to work.” It was then that I noticed the mirror with telltale white dust and a credit card. “How fucking stupid are you, huh, Pete? Tell me.”

“What? So I did a little blow, big deal.”

I walked out before I did something irreversible. I wasn’t his father or his priest or even his friend. He was a tool and if he didn’t work out, I’d drop him in a second.

At a small family restaurant, I got a steaming pile of eggs, pinto beans and fresh salsa served on top of fried homemade tortillas. It filled the hole in my gut and only cost three bucks. Two strong cups of rich black coffee later, I was calm enough to face Peter.

“This is the only way I know to get a story, total immersion.” Peter was drinking the cup of coffee I brought him. He was dressed and the girl had vanished.

“Total immersion? Is that what we’re calling it now? How old was she? I’m guessing sixteen.”

“Fuck off, she was nineteen.”

“And you’re what, forty?”

“Thirty-eight. What’s your point?”

“If you don’t get it, I can’t explain it.”

“You sanctimonious son of a bitch, I bet you’re just pissed that I got laid and you didn’t.” He shot me a smug little smile.

“Did this deep research uncover any news?” I asked, not expecting much.

“I found out Anthony’s is a legal brothel slash dance club. You buy a drink, pick a girl, and if you want to take her out, you pay the house a twenty dollar bar fine,” he rattled off like a Dictaphone spitting back the facts. “Most of the working girls in town either work out of there or have in the past. None that I talked to have seen any Russian girls working. But after a few lines and half a bottle of Herradura Anejo, the girl you found in my bed let slip that she had heard of a house on the other side of Gringo Hills that is owned by a group of Russians. She didn’t know what they do, but the rumor is they’re criminally connected to the Santiago family, Baja Cali’s numero uno pimp crew. That’s about it, but then again, I started late. What did you find out?”

Damn, he was good. I was glad I’d decided not to kill him earlier.

We spent the day driving around Ensenada, getting a feel for the neighborhoods. Gringo Hills was set into the steep mountains to the north of town. Large homes dotted the cliff line, with panoramic views of the bay and the city below. On the flat top of the mountain was a gated community, complete with razor wire-lined eight-foot walls and armed guards to keep out the riffraff. It was the perfect getaway for gringos who wanted a Mexican experience without all those damn Mexicans ruining it. A paunch-bellied uniform watched me roll past the main gate, behind his mirrored glasses, I’m sure he was thinking a truck like mine shouldn’t even think of entering unless it was by the service gate. The whole deal reminded me of our compound in the Root. Up until that truck crashed our gate and blew up the barracks, we thought barbed wire and a few guys with M16s could keep us safe. We learned a hard lesson that day: no wall is big enough to protect you from the man who doesn’t give a fuck about the outcome.

“Hitler, si, verdad. My mother named me Hitler.”

“Your mother didn’t name you Hitler.” I was leaning against the wall in front of Anthony’s, talking to the door man. He was about my age, not as big, but still I doubted many men didn’t listen when he talked. He was built solid, his worn suit coat bulged tightly against his muscular forearms. A small pot belly hung over his silver cowboy belt, but that just meant he liked his burritos or maybe cerveza.

“She did. Adolpho,” he said.

“That’s a good name.”

“Si, but to you, Ingles, it is?”

“Adolph, I guess.”

“Si, Hitler, no? Adolpho, Jose. Asesino on this shoulder, santo on the other. All night they fight for my soul.”

It was mid-afternoon, Peter had gone back to his room to catch a few winks before our nocturnal hunting. I decided to blow off my meeting with the tip boy. Ensenada was small enough, or at least the tourist area was, if I needed him again it wouldn’t be hard to find the little scammer. Anthony’s opened at four and stayed that way until four AM or the last of the gringo dollars stopped flowing.

I passed Adolpho a pint of brandy from my jacket pocket. After checking to be sure his boss wasn’t in sight, he took a long pull and passed it back. Using my tongue to close off the flow, I mimicked drinking. It would have been so easy to let the warm liquor pour in, who would know? Who, except me and maybe the girl I was looking for, if I got back in the jug and fucked this gig up.

Playing it casual, I chatted Adolpho up, told him I was a bouncer in the States. We shared stories of our lives babysitting beautiful women. He told me he drove a cab when he wasn’t at Anthony’s. Like most honest working men, it took two and three jobs to keep a roof over his family. He didn’t share with his wife the nature of the club’s real business. “Wives, they don’t understand a man getting paid to watch pretty women all night,” he told me.

“I wouldn’t know, I was only married for a short time. And she never understood anything about me.”

“They are not in la vida to understand us. They are here to give reason for working and a safe place to retirada when the war gets too malo.”

“I wish someone had told her or me that, would have saved a lot of cash.” Truth was, my home with Jen was a battlefield, not a sanctuary. She had married me to piss off her blue blood father, but when the reality of living with a drunk hood got too real, she checked out and ran back to the Westside. Last I heard she was engaged to an agent at ICM, and more power to her. I wished the gold plated bitch all the happiness she deserved.

I stood back while Adolpho hurried to the curb to help a stunning woman in a scoop-necked evening gown out of a car. He bent his head, watching her fine ass wiggle into the club, “Calabazo, mango de manila.”

“Forget about it,” I let out a long sigh. “You ever get to sample the produce?”

“Once, when it was muy lento, storm kept the gringos away, they had a fiesta. Puta on the house. Oye, but only that once.”

We watched a silver haired American go in and ten minutes later walk out with a lovely Lola on his arm. They went around the corner and into Motel 49. “Bit long in the tooth to be getting his diver dunked, isn’t he?”