Josh Stallings - Out There Bad

“No, senor, see?” He pointed across the street to a farmacia, in its window was a large bright sign happily advertising Viagra and US made condoms.

“Viagra has been good for business?”

“Chingalo! Best invention since pussy, no? One old hombre, he fuck five girls one night, verdad, by the end he no could walk so good, but his miembrillo is muy fuerte.” He pumped his fist in the universal sign for a woody.

Tipping the pint up, he drained the last of my hooch. “You ever see any Russians around here?”

“Si, Russians, Germans, a few French, come from the cruise ships. Mostly Americanos. Why you want to know?”

“Truth?”

“Si, truth.”

“I’m looking for a girl.” I knew he might sell me to the Russians. I had no reason to trust he wouldn’t, but I did. “A Russian girl, thirteen.”

Adolpho shook his head sadly, “Is no good, nina, she is in Ensenada?”

“I think so,” I said. He struck a match and flamed a cigarette. Looking past me to the traffic rolling by, he mulled over this news.

“Ok,” he turned his tired eyes on me, “these Russian cabrones, you don’t want to fuck with them, but you must, si?”

“Looks like it.”

“You know they probably cut out your guts, feed them to the pigs?”

“I think they’ll try.”

“They don’t try. They do. This girl, she is tu familia?”

“No.”

“And still?”

“She’s in trouble.”

“Si, big trouble,” he wiped his brow with a white handkerchief. He didn’t know exactly where they lived but he had seen them driving around town in big black cars. Once or twice they had come to the club to drink and fuck. Whenever they came, they brought young strapped men who stood by the door and watched them. One of the girls told Adolpho that the older man had his bodyguard in the room while he was getting laid. When he was spent, he gave the girl to the guard. She said they were both rough riders and paid her an extra fifty not to wear condoms. They had laughed saying that they were stronger than any disease.

“I will ask, quietly, see if anyone knows how to find them,” he said, “but you be careful. They have eyes on the street.” He shook my hand strongly as we parted.

The wings of the pelican burned orange and golden in the dying rays of the sun as it descended into the Pacific. Fishing boats and pleasure crafts bobbed at their moorings in the calm bay. Hard to believe two hundred feet away, some geezer was getting his dick sucked by a chica who was just trying to knock out the rent with the only swag she had to barter.

I walked through the lengthening shadows toward Motel 49. Pushing the dresser against the door, I dropped onto the bed. Closing my eyes, I tried to figure my next move. Somewhere, not far from where I lay, a baby girl was in desperate straits and I didn’t feel any closer to finding her. Maybe I had been looking at the problem from the wrong side. I was acting like a John, looking for tail, but these cats had their own supply of gash. If I was them, what would I need?

In the gentle dusk light, a dust crusted Toyota Land Cruiser sat hidden amongst a bramble of manzanitas and scrub oak. Xlmen powered down the windows so that he could better hear the world around. Reclining the truck’s seat all the way back, he stretched out. He was a small man even by Mexican standards, but had none of the twitchiness that accompanied so many wiry men. He was at peace in his sinewy body. Tilting his sweat stained fedora down over his eyes, he let his lids drift shut. Waiting was never difficult for the killer. Either in a four by six foot cell or hunting in the mountains of Sonora, waiting was not different. When there was no action to take, he took no action. It was that simple.

Xlmen was Santiago’s finest hunter. Sure, he was a sadist and crude in his personal habits, but when it came to making problems disappear, he had no equal. He would have Xlmen watch the hacienda.

Earlier in the day, Santiago dropped a burlap sack on the table between them. Lifting the cloth he exposed the decaying severed head of Gaspar, Xlmen’s cousin. Xlmen didn’t blink. He looked from the head up to Santiago’s eyes. “Who?”

Santiago lay the blood stained tarot card on the table.

“Gaspar was family. I want the kill.”

“You have earned that right.”

Xlmen killed his first human when he was ten years old. The boy was much bigger than Xlmen’s stunted size, he was also richer. Xlmen knew this because the boy had new boots, a backpack and Levi jeans. With a primitive garrote made from baling wire and two short pieces of a broomstick, Xlmen had strangled the boy. His only feeling at the time was disgust that the boy had soiled himself and rendered the jeans unwearable. A mountain lion felt no guilt when a goat stumbled across his path, why should Xlmen? Life was an endless food chain, and Xlmen stood at the top. Who knew how many men or beasts he had dropped in the fifty years after that first boy, who cared? He took no pride nor had shame in any of it. It just was. And now the tarot killer had entered his sights. It would only end one way.

From where he was hidden, he could see up the slope to the Russian’s hacienda, he could also watch the only road leading in or out. He was comfortable in the deep leather seat of the luxury SUV Santiago had bought him. He respected Santiago, he was a man of his word, and he understood how life worked. The strong fed off the weak. Xlmen had no illusions about his patron, if Xlmen grew soft or failed, Santiago would have him killed. And Xlmen would kill Santiago if he failed to keep his word, or grew ineffectual.

On the passenger seat sat a satellite phone. If it rang it would be Santiago, no others had the number. Beside the phone was a Ruger Redhawk.44 Magnum with a six-inch barrel. Years in a holster had worn some of the blueing off, but it shot true. In the cargo compartment was his scoped Remington 700 hunting rifle and a cut down 12 gauge. Xlmen had no worry about being arrested on weapons charges, Santiago owned policemen, judges and even one mayor. He had procured Xlmen a license as a guide and professional hunter, even the army would let him pass without trouble.

Through his network of pimps and putos, street kids and business men, Santiago had Baja wired up tight. Sooner or later, the tarot killer would surface. Then the satellite phone would ring and Xlmen would go to work.

Gregor’s mother spoke very little English. After lots of stumbling, she finally handed the phone to my friend. He told me Uncle Manny had left several messages on his cell asking Gregor to call the club.

“Manny’s just sweating because he’s down two bouncers,” I told him. Doc, the third bouncer, had an expensive girl and two kids with an ex so I knew he could always use the extra shifts. Truth was, Manny was probably worried about us and wanted an update.

“I rolled past my crib,” Gregor said. “That King Kong jumbo Ruski had the place staked out.”

“He spot you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re a fucking ghost when you want to be.” I filled him in on what little I had found out south of the border and then had him put Anya on.

“Have you found Nika?” Anya asked as soon as she picked up the phone.

“No, but I’m close.” I couldn’t stand to tell her the truth, I was miles from anything that looked like close.

“You will find her, you are my strong good man.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“You make fun of me?”

“No.”

“Yes, but I’m serious. You are a good man.”

“If you say so.” Getting my mind back on track, I asked her about the Russians who had held her. What did they like, what were their particular vices? I was looking for any handle I could get a grip on.