Robert Browne - Down Among the Dead Men

He grunted and doubled over and Beth started around him again, but before she could clear the alleyway, hands grabbed her from behind and swung her around, slamming her against the wall.

The impact knocked the wind out of her, and standing in front of her now was the Mexican man with the cell phone.

Without a word, he brought a fist up and smashed it against the side of her head.

She felt as if she’d been hit with a club.

Pain blossomed in her skull and her legs buckled. She sank to the alley floor as a whirlwind of darkness swirled inside her.

And although she fought as hard as she could to keep it at bay…

…a moment later, the darkness won.

For the next several minutes (hours?), she drifted in and out of consciousness, voices hovering somewhere above her.

Jesus, you really smacked the hell out of the bitch

You still got your pelotas, white boy?

Fuck you.

She felt hands on her body, patting her down, checking the pockets of her jeans, and she tried to resist, but the darkness was pulling at her again.

She was gone for a while, then:

How much?

Hundred twenty bucks

Shit

Better than the last one. At least she’s got some credit cards, too

Then she was gone again, only to be awakened by hot breath in her face, a hand squeezing her right breast, finger flicking the nipple.

Looks like we’ll have to take a rain check, sweet stuff

She wanted to scream, but then the darkness came again and she floated there for a very long time.

T HE SUN WAS down when she awoke.

Her head was pounding.

She lay there a moment, trying to get her bearings, not sure where she was, then suddenly remembered the alleyway and Emilio’s Cantina and the two men who had attacked her.

Meat Without Feet.

Bringing her hand to her chest, she discovered that her blouse had been ripped open and her bra was askew.

Oh, Jesus.

She patted the rest of her body and found that her jeans were still fastened, which meant (at least she hoped it did) that she hadn’t been raped. She also didn’t seem to be leaking anywhere. No blood or other fluids.

Another good sign.

But none of this kept her from feeling violated, and she started to cry.

How could she be so fucking stupid?

She dealt with victims of violent crime every day of her life and she couldn’t believe she’d let herself fall prey to these bastards.

Wiping her face on her sleeve, she pulled herself upright and looked around, half-afraid they might still be nearby.

But they were long gone.

She was alone in the alley, the sounds of the city like some distant familiar tune filtered through a throbbing membrane.

She slowly got to her feet, wobbling slightly. Straightened her bra, buttoned her blouse.

She looked around at the grimy alley floor. It was dark in there, but there was enough light from the adjacent street that she could see that her purse was gone, along with her money and credit cards. The only thing they’d left behind was Jen’s passport, which lay near the trash cans.

She crossed to them, bent down, and picked it up, then opened it to the photo page and stared at Jen’s smiling face.

Had they gotten to her, too?

Was that why she had disappeared?

Was she lying in an alleyway like this one, unconscious or worse, unable to call for help?

The police.

Beth had no choice but to go to the police.

Head still pounding, she moved out of the alleyway and searched the street, seeing nothing but parked cars.

The gangbangers were gone.

She headed toward the lights of the main drag, its sidewalks teeming with tourists. And when she reached the top of the block she saw one:

A blue and white police car, parked near a taco stand.

She moved toward it, waving her hands, signaling to the officer for help.

“Cuales tu nombre?”

“What is your name?”

The cop behind the desk didn’t speak English, so he had pulled over a bilingual secretary to translate.

“Elizabeth Crawford,” Beth said. Her head was pounding worse than ever and she was convinced that she was on the verge of a full-fledged migraine.

The officer nodded and scribbled on the piece of paper in front of him. “?De donde eres?”

“Where are you from?”

Beth was no stranger to police stations. Her job required her to work closely with the Los Angeles police, and a week didn’t go by without a visit to one of the substations located throughout the city.

But this was her first experience with a Mexican station. And so far, it hadn’t been good.

When she’d flagged the cop near the taco stand, his first reaction had been to tell her to move along. She was just another in a string of drunken American turistas who had interrupted his dinner.

It took her a while to convince him that she’d been attacked, and after a medic had been called and she’d been cleared of any major physical damage, the cop finally drove her to a nearby station.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, she heard the distant blast of the cruise ship’s horn, and she knew it was leaving port, taking her suitcase and Jen’s belongings with it.

She wondered for a moment if Jen was back on board, partying with Rafael and Marta, but that didn’t seem likely. After hours of battling her fluctuating emotions, she was convinced now that something terrible had happened. That, for once, Jen was in trouble not of her own making. She was also convinced that Rafael and Marta were behind it.

Beth had spent a good twenty minutes sitting on a bench in the police station next to a pair of hookers in handcuffs who had rattled on endlessly. Despite the language barrier, she figured they were complaining about what every hooker in the known universe complained about: asshole johns and abusive pimps.

Every once in a while, they’d glance in her direction and laugh, and she could only be thankful that at least somebody had something to laugh about on this godforsaken day.

She, on the other hand, just wanted to cry, her face already streaked with dried tears.

But she hadn’t let herself. It was time to be strong. Assertive. She might not have been in LA, but that was no reason to play the submissive victim.

Unable to take the wait any longer, she had gotten to her feet, gone over to the reception desk, and demanded that she be seen immediately.

After being passed through three or four different people-most of whom spoke only broken English and had no idea what she was ranting about-she had finally landed at this desk, sitting across from an overweight man in a tight blue uniform.

“?De donde eres?” the cop asked again.

Before the translator could speak, Beth held a hand up. She was tired and cranky and her vision was starting to double. She suddenly felt detached from the world, as if she were observing this moment through a dream of some kind.

“Is there any way we can get past all this and concentrate on finding my sister?”

The translator, a cute twentysomething with bloodred nails that were long enough to give Fu Manchu a run for his money, smiled politely, then did her job and came back with: “Your sister was also attacked?”

Beth was at her wit’s end. Tried to remain calm.

“How many times do I have to say this? She’s been missing since just before noon. She went into a leather-goods store and never came out. I think I may know who’s behind it, and if you can just contact the cruise company, I’m sure we can get the information we need.”

After the translation, the cop nodded, then tapped the paper in front of him, as if it were the most important document in the world. “?De donde eres?”

This was going nowhere fast.