“ 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.”
“ That’s cause to celebrate?” I asked.
“ For some.”
I shook my head. Sanchez grinned, pleased with himself. We drove on mostly in silence. Mexico is home to some pristine beaches. In California, the pristine beaches would have been turned into multimillion-dollar properties. Here, the beaches were mostly left alone, broken up by modest-sized homes that were often tagged with graffiti. We passed a variety of cars, but the prevalent vehicles were old pickup trucks piled dangerously high with junk. Where all that junk went to, I hadn’t a clue.
“ Ever been to Ensenada?” I asked.
“ Often.”
“ Do you know where the illegal fish markets are?”
“ No,” he said, “but we can ask around.”
“ Will people talk to you with me around?”
Sanchez looked at me from the passenger seat. “Probably not. You look like a cop.”
“ A big cop,” I said.
“ With a big head.”
I shook my head. “I should never have told you that story.”
Sanchez grinned and sat back and closed his eyes. “Too bad for you.”