“Yes,” I said. We both carried water bottles. The water bottles were Cindy’s idea. She also shoved two Luna bars in her fanny pack, should we get lost on the well-marked trail and end up in someone’s shaded backyard gazebo without a snack.
“To Ensenada to hunt shark hunters?”
“Hunting the hunters, yes.”
“How long do you expect to be gone?”
“However long it takes to find them.”
We broke through a tangle of trees and stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. By broke through, I meant we strolled forward on a dirt path wide enough to play a game of touch football on.
Vibrant and prickly cacti crowded the trail, a reminder that the deserts of California were never very far away.
“What are these cactus called again?” I asked.
“Beavertail,” said Cindy. She was sweating. Her shades had slipped down to the tip of her nose. She sort of looked like a petite Susan Sarandon.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Beaver—oh, shut up, Jim!” She slapped at me absently, apparently too exhausted from our nine-minute hike to put much effort into a full shoulder slap.
Soon, we fell into step next to each other. I noted that my shadow was a good deal taller and wider than hers. As it should be. My shoulders were easily twice as wide as hers. So was my head. Jesus, I had a big head.
She said after a few minutes, “The world is full of shark hunters, Jim.”
I nodded. My shadow nodded, too. My head looked like a big block of cement nodding. Holy hell.
She went on. “But I know you, Jim. I know those hunters made it personal.”
Nod. Shadow nod.
“It would have been better if they turned and split,” she said. “Rather than rubbing your face in it.”
I didn’t nod. Instead, I thought of the poor creature being hacked alive, and thought of the cages. I thought of hooks in muzzles and paws and necks. I thought of the terror, the blood, the pain, the inhumanity.
She looked at me and pushed up her glasses. They promptly slipped back down to the tip of her nose. She had a cute little upturned nose. Probably what kept the glasses from sliding all the way off.
We turned up a path that led through a tangle of beavertail cacti. Soon, we were following a high trail that gave us a spectacular view of the park. Lining the rim of the park were many dozen million-dollar homes with stately back yards. At least half the backyards had a gazebo in them. Cindy led the way along this narrow, upper path. I let her since she was wearing my second-favorite shorts.
“So what are you going to do if you find them?” she asked, glancing back.
“I don’t know.”
“Please don’t end up in a Mexican prison, Jim.”
“I’ll do my best not to.”
“Will Sanchez be going with you?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I think it’s funny that you call him Sanchez, too.”
“That’s what you call him.”
“That’s what most people call him.”
“So? Then why is it funny when I call him Sanchez?”
I grinned. “It just is.”
She might have rolled her eyes but from my position, all I could see were her snug-fitting shorts as we continued our climb up. “Anyway,” she said, stressing the word. “I feel better knowing he’ll be with you.”
“Most people would.”
When we had reached the shade of a rocky overhang, Cindy hugged me particularly tight, burying her face in my shoulder, and wouldn’t let go. I hugged her back and held her as long as she needed to be held. Her hair, I noted, smelled perfect. If perfect had a smell, it was her hair.
From over her head, I could see the many back yards. “So what’s the deal with all the gazebos?”
She laughed a little into my shoulder. “Oh, Jim.”
“Well?”
“Gazebos are pretty, Jim.”
“That’s it?”
She hugged me tighter. “It’s enough.”
Chapter Twenty-three
“So do we know these dudes’ names?” asked Sanchez.
I shook my head. We were in line at the Mexican border. I hadn’t been to Mexico in twelve years, back when I was in college. Back when getting drunk in foreign places sounded exotic. Now I prefer getting drunk alone, in my apartment. Just me and my alcohol and sometimes copious amounts of Oreos.
“So we’re going in there blind?”
“I have the name of their boat.”
“The La Bonita,” said Sanchez.
“Yes.”
“Any clue how many boats are fucking called La Bonita?”
“No clue.”
“Well, let me fill you in, kemosabe. Shitloads.”
“Shitloads, huh? You know this for a fact?”
“Supposition. Cops are good at supposition. Something you wouldn’t know.”
“Since I ain’t a cop?”
“Right.”
“We’re both detectives, Sanchez.”
“But only one of us has a real badge.”
“I have a private investigator’s license.”
Sanchez snorted and looked away. We were driving my crime-fighting van with its tinted windows and control station inside. By control station, I meant a desk with some electrical jacks, the world’s smallest bathroom, and a couple of comfortable chairs.
I showed the guard at the checkpoint my visa. He checked it out and let me pass. Soon, we were traveling through Tijuana. Tijuana has a lot of good people living in absolute poverty. We moved through it steadily, following a single-lane highway past billboard after billboard selling something called Corona Light. Interspersed with the Corona Light billboards were smaller billboards for Pacifico and Tecate. Beer was alive and well in Mexico.
The single-lane highway wound around Tijuana and soon followed the coast south. Here, we passed nicer homes with beautiful views of the Pacific Ocean and Corona Light billboards. Some of the homes even had graffiti on them.
“What are the chances,” I said, as we passed what appeared to be an auto mechanic whose entire facade was painted to look like a giant Corona beer bottle, “of finding some beer somewhere?”
“Pretty good, gringo.”
“You haven’t called me gringo in years.”
“When you’re in Mexico, you’re a gringo.”
“I think that might be racist.”
“Gringo is a term of endearment.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s a celebration of the lack of pigment in your skin.”