Free Hail Mary by J. R. Rain Page B

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