The boy’s blue jeans were slick with dirt. His gray shirt was torn at the neck and stained all over. The boy kept looking at her and away again, as if he were trying to get up the courage to talk to her. She had read about the cartels’ use of homeless boys. There were supposedly many of them in Tijuana—addicts and dropouts—to sell drugs, run errands, and at times, to even murder for their adopted families, these powerful criminal organizations that controlled the city and half the country.
This boy could very well be one of those bad kids. Then again, he looked more sad than criminal. Ann wondered if maybe he could help her get to Max Ruiz. Jamming her fists into her pockets to steady her nerves, she approached the boy. The closer she got to the child, the more he kicked at the garbage. Ten feet away, she stopped. She remembered that boys were always hungry. This one certainly looked like he could use some food.
“You know where I can get some food around here?” she called out in English, signaling with her hands what she meant.
When the boy turned to look at her, Ann was shocked to see that he had a long scar down the side of his face. His dark eyes were defiant and sad. She repeated her question. The boy’s face brightened a shade but still, he hesitated. He jerked his head to the left, indicating that she should follow him. “Show me,” she said.
The boy’s pace quickened as he led her away from the main thoroughfare toward what appeared to be a more industrial area. He kept looking back to see if she was still behind him. Ann glimpsed buildings riddled with small holes and broken windows. Despite the sinister surroundings, she was glad to be away from the bustle of the growing crowds. The grim faces of the loitering men had spooked her. The boy crossed a street and stopped. He gave her a pointed look, as if to say,
down here
.
From the opposite corner, Ann peered down the narrow way where the boy wanted her to go, expecting to see a restaurant. Her heart jumped. A hundred feet away, a huge skeletal face partially obscured by a thick hood of paint gleamed in the late afternoon sun.
Santa Muerte
. Painted in broad black and white strokes, the saint’s one visible eye socket stared out from the front of a sprawling warehouse. Santa Muerte held a stiff scythe in one bony fist, a globe in the other. Her formidable presence alerted Ann, for the first time, to the graffiti that covered the nearby buildings and sidewalks.
The boy waved his hand, indicating that Ann should follow him. Remembering the beggar that morning, she turned and quickly retracedher steps. There was no way she was going down there. A gang of kids could be waiting to slit her throat. She wasn’t about to tempt fate a second time.
As she hurried away, a plan began to take shape in Ann’s mind. Her nemesis, the artist Chuck Blackmart, lived in Tijuana. He sold his own work and that of fellow artists out of his gallery here in the city. Blackmart had a reputation for hobnobbing with others who, like himself, were rich and famous. Living in Tijuana, he probably knew the local players. Though they had never actually met in person, they had talked on the phone once. Once he heard that her son was missing, the artist might be willing to help her.
Her heart sinking, Ann remembered that Blackmart had accused her of encouraging Nora March to dump his work—several of his early pieces that Nora’s late husband had purchased—in order to harm his reputation. The truth was Nora hated Blackmart’s work so much she didn’t need any encouragement from Ann. When Ann tried to explain that she had nothing to do with Nora’s decisions, Blackmart had switched gears and accused her of belittling his work to the auction house staff that handled the sale of the collection. Untrue of course. But she had trashed his work on her blog. And here she was thinking of seeking Blackmart’s help in the hopes he would forget their past.
She would do anything to
This boy could very well be one of those bad kids. Then again, he looked more sad than criminal. Ann wondered if maybe he could help her get to Max Ruiz. Jamming her fists into her pockets to steady her nerves, she approached the boy. The closer she got to the child, the more he kicked at the garbage. Ten feet away, she stopped. She remembered that boys were always hungry. This one certainly looked like he could use some food.
“You know where I can get some food around here?” she called out in English, signaling with her hands what she meant.
When the boy turned to look at her, Ann was shocked to see that he had a long scar down the side of his face. His dark eyes were defiant and sad. She repeated her question. The boy’s face brightened a shade but still, he hesitated. He jerked his head to the left, indicating that she should follow him. “Show me,” she said.
The boy’s pace quickened as he led her away from the main thoroughfare toward what appeared to be a more industrial area. He kept looking back to see if she was still behind him. Ann glimpsed buildings riddled with small holes and broken windows. Despite the sinister surroundings, she was glad to be away from the bustle of the growing crowds. The grim faces of the loitering men had spooked her. The boy crossed a street and stopped. He gave her a pointed look, as if to say,
down here
.
From the opposite corner, Ann peered down the narrow way where the boy wanted her to go, expecting to see a restaurant. Her heart jumped. A hundred feet away, a huge skeletal face partially obscured by a thick hood of paint gleamed in the late afternoon sun.
Santa Muerte
. Painted in broad black and white strokes, the saint’s one visible eye socket stared out from the front of a sprawling warehouse. Santa Muerte held a stiff scythe in one bony fist, a globe in the other. Her formidable presence alerted Ann, for the first time, to the graffiti that covered the nearby buildings and sidewalks.
The boy waved his hand, indicating that Ann should follow him. Remembering the beggar that morning, she turned and quickly retracedher steps. There was no way she was going down there. A gang of kids could be waiting to slit her throat. She wasn’t about to tempt fate a second time.
As she hurried away, a plan began to take shape in Ann’s mind. Her nemesis, the artist Chuck Blackmart, lived in Tijuana. He sold his own work and that of fellow artists out of his gallery here in the city. Blackmart had a reputation for hobnobbing with others who, like himself, were rich and famous. Living in Tijuana, he probably knew the local players. Though they had never actually met in person, they had talked on the phone once. Once he heard that her son was missing, the artist might be willing to help her.
Her heart sinking, Ann remembered that Blackmart had accused her of encouraging Nora March to dump his work—several of his early pieces that Nora’s late husband had purchased—in order to harm his reputation. The truth was Nora hated Blackmart’s work so much she didn’t need any encouragement from Ann. When Ann tried to explain that she had nothing to do with Nora’s decisions, Blackmart had switched gears and accused her of belittling his work to the auction house staff that handled the sale of the collection. Untrue of course. But she had trashed his work on her blog. And here she was thinking of seeking Blackmart’s help in the hopes he would forget their past.
She would do anything to
Similar Books
