Love at 11 (3 page)

The sun had set moments before, painting the Tijuana sky with a rosy glow. Jodi and I sat in our plastic outdoor chairs at the little Mexican café, soaking up the colorful atmosphere and our even more colorful margaritas. Coming down to TJ, just across the border, was one of our favorite after-work activities. We stayed away from the noisy, tourist-packed Avenida Revolucion, however, in favor of a smaller, quieter market square just before the canal bridge.

Of course, “quieter” was a relative term in Tijuana. The square still boasted loud ‘80’s music, blasting from the karaoke bar next door and little Mexican children still pulled at our sleeves, wondering if we’d like some
Chiclets
. The first time I came here, I thought they meant those pink-colored books about girls in the city. But no, they were talking about gum.

Still, there was something serene about sitting back and watching the shopkeepers harass tourists into buying their cheesy wares. Or spying on the druggies browsing the plethora of pharmacies for their Percocets and Valiums. (And the shy, old, balding men who slunk in and whispered their Viagra orders to a Mexican pharmacist who didn’t give two
cajones
about whether or not they could get it up.) Okay, so it was a bit sketchy. But also a much cheaper night out than hitting any of the San Diego bars. There, even the dive places charged like ten bucks a margarita.

We’d started coming here about a year ago, after Jodi produced the “Tijuana Tacos” story. That was one of the few occasions we could name names on News 9, basically because they had absolutely no chance of becoming potential advertisers. So we bankrupted ten taco stands by getting a food inspector to test the temperature at which they kept their meat. A proud day, even though it turned out in the end that the so-called food inspector Laura dug up wasn’t even licensed to test food and most likely made up all the results. But hey, the story looked good and got killer ratings—all that mattered to the News 9 Gestapo.

Anyway, when working on the story, Jodi came across the most amazing find. Fake purses! You name it, this Mexican shop had it. Prada, Gucci, Fendi, Kate Spade. All 100 percent counterfeit and all 100 percent cheap. So of course she’d wanted to return when she had more time to shop and brought me with her. At first I was a little skeeved out by all the poverty and dirt and puking eighteen-year-old drunk San Diegan kids, but once I saw the purses and the price of margaritas, I realized TJ could very well be the Promised Land.

“So, what’s up with the photog?” Jodi asked, paying the waiter for our third round of drinks. It was going to be one of those nights, I could tell already. And it was only a Wednesday!

“Well, you were right about him being cute. And he’s so cool, too. He used to work on movies,” I related, trying to mask the dreaminess in my voice. He was so perfect. So, so my type. It was really too bad that he wasn’t available.

“Sounds amazing. When’s the wedding?”

“Rather soon, actually. Problem is, it’s not mine.” I gloomily sucked down a huge portion of my frozen raspberry margarita.

“Girlfriend?”

“Worse. Fiancée. And not a ‘we’ll get married someday, but we haven’t picked the date’ type, either. He’s getting married in three months. There are invitations. Caterers. Probably a Vera Wang white dress.”

“Yeah, at three months, you’ve pretty much lost your chance at getting your deposits back,” said Jodi, knower of all things wedding. “Might as well go through with it at that point.”

“Just further evidence that all the good guys are gay or taken.”

“Oh, Maddy,” my optimistic friend cooed. “There’s someone out there for everyone.”

I snorted. “Thanks, Pollyanna.” I took another sip. “I suppose now you’re going to tell me there are lots of fish in the sea, too.”

“Clichés become clichés ‘cause they’re true.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Tonight I’m celebrating my promotion at News Nine. That’s what’s important. I’m one step closer to
Newsline
.”

Jodi raised her margarita. “To
Newsline
!”

We clinked glasses, somehow managing not to spill any alcohol, and took deep sips.

“So. Um. Want to go check out the fake purses?” Jodi asked casually. Too casually.

I grinned. “Look at you, jonesing over there for your fake-purse fix. You’re completely addicted!”

We didn’t need any new purses at this point, but it was still fun to look at the latest knockoffs. At last count, I owned four Gucci, two Christian Dior, and nine Kate Spades. I was a sucker for Kate’s Sam bags. I only wished I could afford a genuine one with a sewn-on label to replace the oh-so-obvious fakes whose labels were sloppily glued.

“I’m not addicted,” Jodi protested, a bit defensively. “Ah, denial. The first sign of a fake-purse addict.” She swatted at me, managing to tip over my margarita. I jumped up to avoid getting drenched. Oh dear, she was more wasted than I thought.

“Nice one, drunk girl.”

Jodi, as much as I loved her, defined the word
lightweight
. Three margaritas was way over her limit. If I didn’t watch out, she’d be dancing on tables or stripping for the immigration officers at the border. Not that either of those actions would have anyone batting an eye in TJ.

“I’m so not drunk. The table was wobbly,” Jodi said, not yet willing to own up to her current state of inebriation. Problem was, to prove her point about the wobbly table, she wrapped her hands around it and wobbled it some more, succeeding in knocking over her own margarita in the process.

“Yeah, yeah. Definitely the table’s fault.” I fished in my purse for a ten and threw it down on the table as a sympathy tip for the guy who’d have to clean up the mess. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here before the waiter comes back.”

Giggling, we got up and scampered away from the scene. Like a bug to light, Jodi was hopelessly drawn to the fake-purse store.

“Ah, my girls are back.” The short, skinny shopkeeper behind the counter greeted us with a big toothless grin. Sad to say, but we’d been there so many times that at this point he had a right to be named Godfather of Jodi’s firstborn.

“Hi, Miguel,” Jodi said with a hungry smile. “Got any new ones?”

“For you? My special customer?
Si
, of course.” Miguel reached under the counter, where sellers typically stored all the premiere fakes, and placed various purses purporting to be from top designers on the counter. Jodi immediately started grabbing at them and checking for obvious signs of counterfeit.

“Do you have any Kate Spades with a sewn-on label?” I asked, hopeful. I so didn’t need another purse, but a good knockoff was a good knockoff.

He shook his head. “Sorry my
bastane una
—my pretty one. Not today.” He paused for a moment, as if thinking, then added, “If you want to leave me your phone number, I can call you if one comes in.”

Did I really want to leave Miguel my phone number? What if he was some stalker? Sure, he looked pretty innocent, but still. You never knew these days.

I decided to give him my business card. At least at work I was protected by security guards and a barbed wire fence.

“Ah, you work for News Nine?” Miguel asked, taking the card and stuffing it in the pocket of his faded blue jeans.

“Yup. And she just got promoted to investigative producer,” Jodi informed him, not able to withhold a single personal-life detail from my potential stalker. “How much is this one?”

“For you? Because you are so
bella
, I give it to you for five hundred pesos.” He turned back to me. “Investigative producer?” he asked, grinning again. “Senorita, do I have a story for you.”

“Oh?”

“Five hundred pesos? How about two hundred?” Jodi interrupted, her voice slurring a bit as she bartered. I needed to get her home soon. But first, I wanted to hear the story idea Miguel had. If Jodi’s addiction was fake purses, mine was story ideas. All it took was one really, really good one and I’d be clocking in at
Newsline
. Miguel glanced around the square before leaning into me and lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “A cartel in San Diego.
Mucho
drugs being imported everyday. Cocaine. Ecstasy. Meth.”

“I only have three hundred pesos. How about three hundred?”

“Really?” I asked, intrigued. Exposing a drug cartel sounded exactly like the type of story
Newsline
would like. And it was a perfect News 9 story, too, because it didn’t burn any potential advertisers. “How do you know about this? There’d have to be some kind of facts. Proof.”

“Come on, it’s got a real cheapo lining. It’s not worth over three hundred fifty pesos.”

Miguel nodded. “The man who runs the cartel, he is a bad man and he killed my brother. I would like to see him brought to justice.”

“Couldn’t you go to the police?”

“Ah, senorita, you do not understand how the law works in Mexico. You get pulled over in a car and you pay the policeman not to write you a ticket. It is the same with all things.”

“Police on the payroll. Right.” That made sense. “Okay, fine. Four hundred. But I’ll have to borrow money from Maddy. Maddy, can I borrow fifty pesos? I think that’s like five bucks, right?”

“They have dug a long tunnel out in the desert. They use it to transport the drugs from Mexico to America. My brother, he used to work for them as a driver before he was killed. Before he died, he told me where the tunnel is.”

Jodi waved the purse in Miguel’s face. “Four-fifty? Come on, dude. I really want this purse.”

“Wow.” I tried to sound casual, as my insides did the Snoopy dance. I’d found a whistle-blower. Someone actually wanted to blow a whistle at me. Give me information no one else knew. This was something that happened to
Newsline
producers, not little old local news me. “That’s such a great story. I’d love to hear more about it. Seriously. Can you call me with all the details?”

“
Si
.” Miguel nodded. “I will call you tomorrow.”

“Okay, fine. Five hundred pesos. And that’s my final offer.”

“Sold. You are a shrewd barterer,
chica
.” Miguel winked at me as he took Jodi’s money and wrapped up her purse. I smiled back. “If all Americans were like you, my nine children would starve.”

Jodi grinned stupidly, pleased by her bargaining prowess. She was going to be so pissed tomorrow when she woke up and realized she’d spent fifty bucks on a cheesy Louis Vuitton knockoff that had Xs instead of LVs on the pattern. As her best friend, I should have dragged her away a long time ago. But at this point it was easier to let her have her simple purse-buying happiness. Besides, she could live with the loss of fifty bucks.

I, however, had a feeling this story was going to change my life forever.

Chapter Three

FROM
: “Victor Charles, MD”

TO
: “Madeline Madison”

SUBJECT
: re: cosmetics that kill?

Dear Maddy,

Thank you for writing to me regarding your story on “Cosmetics That Kill.” However, in all my forty years as a doctor at this major medical institution, I have never once come across a single case where cosmetics were responsible for someone’s death.

Perhaps you’d be better serving the community by doing a story on a new over-the-counter diet drug that uses herbs hand ground by Aboriginal tribe members. As the company’s paid spokesman I’d be happy to extol its virtues to your viewing audience and I’m sure it’d be a great ratings booster. I could even provide you with a patient who lost over fifty pounds in one week by taking this pill.

Your favorite TV doc, Victor

P.S. The FDA has not yet approved this drug (you know how
they
are!) So I would suggest you don’t bother contacting them to ask them if it is safe and effective, but rather take my word for it. After all, I am a doctor.

Bing!

[email protected]
: hi!

I squinted in puzzlement as an instant message popped up on my computer the next day at work. We weren’t really supposed to be IMing on the job. The IT department had even put a block on our computers so it’d be impossible to download an IM program. Luckily, AOL’s service had a Java Express version, which meant it could run online and there was nothing to download. Let’s just say the brilliance of such a concept wasn’t lost on our department.

In fact, in News 9 Cubicle Land all you ever heard was
bing, bing, bing
all day long with a sole
bong
thrown in from Jodi’s computer. She had gotten sick of thinking other people’s
bings
were hers and changed the sound settings.

So, while the appearance of an IM wasn’t unusual in and of itself, I couldn’t help but notice this particular IM came from my father, the most un–computer savvy, low-tech guy on the planet. The man didn’t know how to program his DVR. Didn’t own a cell phone. And now he was IMing me? I had no idea he even knew IMing existed. I would have been willing to make a bet before this very minute, in fact, that he would have happily gone through his whole life never knowing or caring that communication with his oldest daughter was simply a bing away.

Bing!

[email protected]
: Are you there, sweet pea?

[email protected]
: Yes. Hi Dad. What’s up?

[email protected]
: Wow! This instant messaging thing is very tight, huh?

Oh-kay. Now I’m officially freaked out. Not only was my dad using IMing technology, but he was using expressions like “tight.”

[email protected]
: Yeah, it’s a gr8 way to communicate :)

[email protected]
: Listen, hon. I was wondering if you would like to come over for dinner tonight.