Ensenada, Mexico
Three very pale men wearing Bermuda shorts, Hawaiian shirts, and sandals, sat around a small table littered with empty Corona beer bottles.
“I don’t know how I let you guys talk me into this trip,” Maddox said. “All we ever do is get drunk.”
“That’s cause beer is cheaper here,” Fitch pointed out.
Gaspar rubbed his stomach. “Do you guys think I’m getting fat?”
“Let me see that clipping again,” Maddox said.
Fitch pushed it across the table toward him. Maddox snatched it up and scanned the lines. “Do we really think the man the article refers to is Hans?”
“Come on,” Gaspar said. “The guy was trapped in the wreckage of his car. Gasoline is everywhere, an explosion is imminent and then a mystery man with eyes the color of fish scales comes out of nowhere and rips off the car door, drags the guy to safety, all without touching him?”
“It also says here that the guy in the car was half marinated in tequila at the time.”
“You know I haven’t had a drop of tequila since I’ve been here,” Fitch said.
Maddox looked at him. “You had a margarita for breakfast.”
“So?”
“What kind of alcohol do you think they use in—” Maddox shook his head. “Forget it.”
“Look,” Gaspar said. “It doesn’t hurt to check out the story. And if we find Hans…well, you heard what the General at the DOD said. This could be very good for us.”
“What do you think they’ll do to him?” Fitch asked. “Do you think it’ll be like that movie, The Fury? Those scientists performed experiments on Kirk Douglas’s psychic son until his brain exploded.”
Maddox stood and threw a few bills down on the table. “I’m going back to the hotel. I think I’ve got sunstroke.”
Gaspar watched him go. “What’s up with him?”
“Didn’t you hear?” Fitch said. “He’s got sunstroke.”
“I’m going too. I want to talk to the guy Hans supposedly saved.” He stood and threw down a few bills.”
“Wait for me,” Fitch said and pulled a few bills from his wallet, adding them to the stack on the table. He started after Gaspar, then turned back to the table, went through the pile of money and shoved half the notes back into his wallet. He took off.
Sitting quietly behind a newspaper nearby, a slight man with eyes the color of fish scales, slowly stood up, tucked the newspaper under his arm and sedately headed in the same direction Fitch and Gaspar had taken. He sang softly under his breath in a voice that was high-pitched and heavy at the same time, sexless. It wasn’t a catchy tune.
Then again, Hans had always liked it.