Robert Browne - Down Among the Dead Men

He’d faked it all.

And was nominated for a Pulitzer in the process.

Not something he was proud of.

After the publicity started getting out of hand, he’d offered a drug-addled confession to his now ex-girlfriend-a fellow reporter-who was so appalled by his behavior that she went straight to his editor. Then the world Vargas once knew abruptly imploded, sucking him straight into its vortex.

It had taken him nearly two years and three stints in rehab to climb his way out. But the only publisher willing to risk an advance on anything other than a confessional memoir (which Vargas refused to write) was a small, regional house that thought the controversy surrounding his name might actually sell a few books and help push them into the mainstream. It had taken Vargas a considerable amount of salesmanship to convince them to let him pursue what appeared to be a routine story, but his enthusiasm-and notoriety-had finally won them over. Especially after he agreed to take a lowball advance.

He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to repair the damage to his reputation, but it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.

“I’ve met a lot of fellas gone to rehab,” Harmon said. “Doesn’t mean all that much.”

“Everything in my statement is true.”

“I’ll bet that’s what you told your editor, too.”

“Fuck you.”

Harmon frowned. “Is that kind of language really necessary? I’ve got conflicting stories here and I’m afraid right now you’re looking like a monkey up to his old tricks. I’ve seen a few attention whores in my time, and I know the lengths some people will go to to get it.”

This guy was a first-class asshole. But Vargas saw no point in antagonizing him any further.

“There’s one way to settle this,” he said.

Harmon raised his eyebrows. “And that is?”

“Look at the truck. Look at Ainsworth’s F-150. He did a job on the bumper when he rear-ended my car.”

Harmon thought about this a moment. “Doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Could be pre-existing damage for all I know.”

“You also know there are ways of proving it. Check for paint. Some of it may have rubbed off.”

Harmon looked at him. Seemed to be weighing the pros and cons of such an undertaking.

Mostly the cons, no doubt.

“Like I told you, CPB doesn’t really have jurisdiction. But I have to admit, I’m curious.” He paused, thinking it over. “So I’ll tell you what. I don’t expect Jim and Junior back until later tonight, but maybe I’ll stop by for a friendly chat before bedtime. Give his truck a little look-see.”

“And if it turns out I’m telling the truth?”

“I’ll personally call a friend of mine with the Mexican state police tomorrow morning. Make sure they take a look into the matter.”

“Doesn’t sound very promising,” Vargas said.

Harmon snorted. “Welcome to life in a border town. Nothing promising about it.”

They kicked him out of the clinic at about 9:00 P.M., telling him to make sure he got plenty of sleep, with a suggestion that he not be alone for the next twenty-four hours in case his symptoms worsened.

Vargas had been alone for much of his life, and didn’t expect that to change anytime soon. He’d always thought that victims of concussion were supposed to stay awake, but was assured by the doctor that this was a complete myth. Sleep, he was told, would help him mend.

Which was a relief. A nice, comfortable bed sounded awfully good to him right now.

His base of operations was a Western Suites Express about five miles north of the emergency clinic. He caught a cab, moving slowly as he climbed in, and for one brief, terrifying moment thought it was Sergio behind the wheel.

It wasn’t.

The driver, who remained mercifully quiet during the ride, dropped him off at the curb in front of the motel. The charge was six bucks-highway robbery-and as Vargas paid the fee, he worried that his advance was almost gone. He’d have to start dipping into his savings to fund this little outing and wondered if it was all worth it. The visit to the clinic alone was going to cost him a bundle, even with the emergency medical insurance he’d been paying every month. His deductible was high and would take a large, painful chunk out of his net worth.

In the movies, he would’ve walked away from this without spending a dime. He would also be driving a sleek Jaguar or a refurbished Mustang-something with a roomier trunk at least-and would have an annoying but affable sidekick, along with enough clues right now to know he’d just hit the jackpot with the story of the decade.

Oh, and a girl. There was always a beautiful girl in the movies and a nice semi-nude encounter on the motel room sheets, concussion be damned.

Maybe that’s where the American woman came in.

Whoever she might be.

Being the big spender he was, Vargas tipped the cabbie a buck, then headed around the corner past the lobby entrance until he was in the motel’s parking lot, where about a dozen cars were parked.

He stopped short when he saw it.

His Corolla.

He didn’t know how the hell they’d managed to get it across the border, but there it was, parked under a light in a slot close to the building, its busted trunk lid tied down with a bungee cord.

Vargas’s gut tightened. Quickly scanning the area, he searched for any sign of trouble in the darkest pockets of the building-Ainsworth or Junior or Sergio waiting for him to come home.

Except for a lone woman crossing to her car, the place seemed deserted. And there was no sign of Ainsworth’s F-150.

Which didn’t mean a damn thing.

Vargas’s car hadn’t gotten here on its own, and he didn’t imagine that anyone who was willing to set him up in the first place would be likely to back down easily.

They knew where he was staying. Worse yet, they might even be sitting in his room right now.

So, what, he wondered, was his next move?

Playa Azul. Baja Norte.

Just another harbor town full of bars and trinket shops, as far as Beth could tell. People and cars crowded the sidewalks and streets, competing for room among the vendors and open-air restaurants that dominated the place.

Small children hawked Chiclets to unsuspecting tourists as their mothers sat nearby, selling colorful bead necklaces. Curbside stands offered painted plates and jewelry and Mexican blankets and T-shirts and sunglasses and lighters and knives and ornately carved ivory figurines.

And horse shit cigarettes.

There were signs everywhere advertising them. GENUINE HORSE SHIT! they proclaimed. Beth was no smoker, but even if she were, she’d have no desire to find out if this proclamation was true.

The first thing they’d seen as they strolled off the ship was a red, white, and green flag flapping in the breeze above the harbor. It was massive. The size of a building-leaving no question that they were on Mexican soil.

They traveled on foot, navigating the few short blocks past the fish markets and taco stands to the center of town, Jen getting appreciative stares along the way, thanks largely to a pair of cutoff jeans and a halter top.

She was, of course, just another crazy americano turista, one of thousands who circulated through Playa Azul on a weekly basis. But Beth was pretty sure that this didn’t keep some of the locals-particularly the gangbangers who cruised the streets in souped-up import cars-from fantasizing about Jen.

Images of Jen cavorting with Rafael on a rumpled stateroom bed suddenly popped uninvited into Beth’s mind, and she reeled them back quickly, doing her best to ban them from her consciousness.

But setting aside the ick factor for just a moment, she had to wonder if Jen was right about her.