see tears in her eyes. “I know someone who might be able to help you, but…it might be dangerous.”
“I don’t care. Tell me.”
“His name is Carlos. He’s a hustler in Mexicali. Most nights he’s at a seedy little strip club called La Casa del Amor, off Boulevard Islas Agrarias.”
I pull out my cell phone, jotting down what she said, then cut my eyes up at her. “Seedy by American standards or Mexican standards?”
“Mexican.” She fans her face.
I slip my phone back into my pocket. “And if I want to talk to Carlos, I should…mention you?”
She nods. “Mention Priscilla sent you.”
“He’ll know where the church is?”
She nods. “It’s hardly a secret.”
I think this over. Figure it’s the best I’m going to get. “Thank you, Priscilla.”
I start walking to her door, and she grabs my arm. “You’re not going to tell, are you? You’re not going to share the e-mails? I’m repentant. I’m helping you.”
I nod. She is helping me. But I’m leaving the decision to Missy King.
CHAPTER NINE
I want to drive toward Mexico as soon as I leave Priscilla’s house, but that would put me crossing the border at night. And I know that’s not a good idea. I exit her neighborhood the back way and spend some time driving around the city, trying to be sure she didn’t put a tail on me. For all I know, my father warned her I might pay her a visit.
When I feel reassured that no one’s on me, I stop at a Target in the burbs and stock up on supplies. Some are for Meredith, some for me. Maybe I go a little overboard with the girl stuff, but if I find her, and I can get her to leave with me, I want to have everything she needs. Everything she hasn’t had this last year—or however long it’s been.
It seems possible to me that we might have to hide out for a little while, at the shop or maybe somewhere else when we get back to the States. I think I’ve got the essentials covered (I am NOT buying tampons or any of that other stuff), but I’m reminded again that I really don’t have a plan, and what little I’m going on comes from the mouth of deviant porn star.
I wonder, as I cross the parking lot to the Mach, if a year or a year and a half—I don’t know exactly when they sold her—is long enough to ruin someone for good. I hope not.
I check into the Hampton Inn and soak my shoulder in a hot shower. It’s stiff and sore from the way I’m riding the bike, but I don’t feel a pain attack coming on, so I’m fine.
The next morning I’m up before the sun is. Just can’t sleep. I pull on the jeans I wore yesterday, my scuffed up boots, and a long-sleeved ringer that's got a grease stain near the collar. I think of Suri as I clomp down the stairs. She still hasn't called me but I called her last night and left a message.
I use an old rag I grab out of a janitor’s cart on the first floor to scuff the Mach up some—more inconspicuous that way—and check my map again. Almost six hours to Mexicali, and La Casa del Amor.
Thoughts of the strip club bring up thoughts of Marchant Radcliffe and his whore house, the ridiculously named ‘Love Inc.’ I've gotten to know the guy, and he's decent, but I can’t get over 'Love Inc’. I think he should call it Blow Jobs for Big Money.
I only got to know of the place because Lizzy sold her virginity there. To pay my medical bills. She even opened a savings account for me, which I haven't been able to get her to close yet. I'm not touching the money, and I think she knows that. It’s not like I was penniless when I had my accident.
Sometimes, when I think about it too long, I hate her for it.
And the two million dollars—yeah, two million—just sits there. I thought about investing it and giving it back to her with gains, but realized the first time I tried to read the Wall Street Journal —even the front page—that I’m no investor.
Her groom to be, on the other hand, could probably double it before the
“I don’t care. Tell me.”
“His name is Carlos. He’s a hustler in Mexicali. Most nights he’s at a seedy little strip club called La Casa del Amor, off Boulevard Islas Agrarias.”
I pull out my cell phone, jotting down what she said, then cut my eyes up at her. “Seedy by American standards or Mexican standards?”
“Mexican.” She fans her face.
I slip my phone back into my pocket. “And if I want to talk to Carlos, I should…mention you?”
She nods. “Mention Priscilla sent you.”
“He’ll know where the church is?”
She nods. “It’s hardly a secret.”
I think this over. Figure it’s the best I’m going to get. “Thank you, Priscilla.”
I start walking to her door, and she grabs my arm. “You’re not going to tell, are you? You’re not going to share the e-mails? I’m repentant. I’m helping you.”
I nod. She is helping me. But I’m leaving the decision to Missy King.
CHAPTER NINE
I want to drive toward Mexico as soon as I leave Priscilla’s house, but that would put me crossing the border at night. And I know that’s not a good idea. I exit her neighborhood the back way and spend some time driving around the city, trying to be sure she didn’t put a tail on me. For all I know, my father warned her I might pay her a visit.
When I feel reassured that no one’s on me, I stop at a Target in the burbs and stock up on supplies. Some are for Meredith, some for me. Maybe I go a little overboard with the girl stuff, but if I find her, and I can get her to leave with me, I want to have everything she needs. Everything she hasn’t had this last year—or however long it’s been.
It seems possible to me that we might have to hide out for a little while, at the shop or maybe somewhere else when we get back to the States. I think I’ve got the essentials covered (I am NOT buying tampons or any of that other stuff), but I’m reminded again that I really don’t have a plan, and what little I’m going on comes from the mouth of deviant porn star.
I wonder, as I cross the parking lot to the Mach, if a year or a year and a half—I don’t know exactly when they sold her—is long enough to ruin someone for good. I hope not.
I check into the Hampton Inn and soak my shoulder in a hot shower. It’s stiff and sore from the way I’m riding the bike, but I don’t feel a pain attack coming on, so I’m fine.
The next morning I’m up before the sun is. Just can’t sleep. I pull on the jeans I wore yesterday, my scuffed up boots, and a long-sleeved ringer that's got a grease stain near the collar. I think of Suri as I clomp down the stairs. She still hasn't called me but I called her last night and left a message.
I use an old rag I grab out of a janitor’s cart on the first floor to scuff the Mach up some—more inconspicuous that way—and check my map again. Almost six hours to Mexicali, and La Casa del Amor.
Thoughts of the strip club bring up thoughts of Marchant Radcliffe and his whore house, the ridiculously named ‘Love Inc.’ I've gotten to know the guy, and he's decent, but I can’t get over 'Love Inc’. I think he should call it Blow Jobs for Big Money.
I only got to know of the place because Lizzy sold her virginity there. To pay my medical bills. She even opened a savings account for me, which I haven't been able to get her to close yet. I'm not touching the money, and I think she knows that. It’s not like I was penniless when I had my accident.
Sometimes, when I think about it too long, I hate her for it.
And the two million dollars—yeah, two million—just sits there. I thought about investing it and giving it back to her with gains, but realized the first time I tried to read the Wall Street Journal —even the front page—that I’m no investor.
Her groom to be, on the other hand, could probably double it before the
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