This was the very last straw. Beth had devoted too much of her life and energy to Jen, and when she got back to Los Angeles-which she hoped would be soon-her sister’s phone calls would no longer be returned, her e-mails deleted, the text messages ignored, just as Beth was being ignored right now.
She wondered why, at this point, she was even bothering with this little trek. So what if Jen and her friends had moved on to another bar? She obviously didn’t care about Beth, so why should Beth care about her?
But before Beth headed back to the ship to grab her suitcase, she wanted to see Jen, just to let her know exactly what she thought of her. Right now Beth was savoring-was fueled by-the thought of telling Jen off once and for all.
This was, of course, based on the assumption that she’d be able to find her. Jen’s crowd seemed to be migrating, and just because Meat Without Feet had overheard them talking about going to this Emilio’s place didn’t mean they were still there.
But one could hope.
When Beth reached the top of the second block, she turned right as instructed and found herself on a street that didn’t quite jibe with the Playa Azul the tourists usually see. A simple turn and she seemed to have stepped into another world. A world that was a shade or two dingier, more run-down. Like some of the side streets in downtown Los Angeles.
One of the gangbanger cars, a souped-up Civic, was parked at the right side of the road, a cluster of cigarette-smoking locals around it. Among them was a petulant-looking Mexican girl with bleached-blond hair and jeans pulled down so low that you could see the whale tail of her thong.
Beth crossed the street to avoid them, but she couldn’t help thinking that the girl reminded her of Jen.
The alley leading to Emilio’s was about half a block up, a faded hand-painted sign pointing the way.
Beth hesitated as she approached.
Was this somewhere she really wanted to go?
Reaching the mouth of the narrow alleyway, she peered inside. The sun was blocked by the buildings, the lighting dim. She saw the entrance to the place at the far end, past a row of battered aluminum trash cans.
The door was closed, with an unlit neon sign above it that read: EMILIO’S CANTINA.
Were they even open?
A muscular Mexican man in a white T-shirt-who looked as if he’d feel right at home with the gangbangers across the street-was leaning on the wall near the trash cans, a cell phone glued to his ear.
He looked up when Beth appeared, assessing her about the same way Peter used to look at her whenever she stepped out of the shower in the morning.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.
Stopping just inside the alley entrance, she pulled out her own cell phone and dialed Jen one last time. But again it went straight to voice mail, and Beth immediately hung up.
The guy near the trash cans was still staring at her. Smiling now as he continued to talk on the phone.
Beth quickly texted a message to Jen: FUCK YOU. I’M GONE.
Thinking that that pretty much summed it all up, she turned to leave but found Eric the fisherman standing directly behind her. He snapped his own cell phone shut and pocketed it.
“You find your sister?”
Startled, Beth stepped back. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Bad habit.”
She didn’t know what he meant by that but didn’t like the sound of it. “Were you following me?”
“Didn’t have to. I already knew where you were going.”
Beth studied him, suddenly realizing what this was about. “You never saw my sister at Armando’s. You made it all up.”
“A little bit of improv. I tend to go with what works.”
Frightened now, and feeling foolish for letting herself be duped-especially since she should know better-Beth tried to move around him, but he sidestepped and threw his hands out, blocking her way.
“What’s your hurry, sweet stuff? You don’t find me attractive?”
She glanced across the street at the gangbangers but knew they wouldn’t be any help. Without a word, she brought her knee up into the fisherman’s crotch.
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.
41
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: