The Mexico Run Read Online Free PDF

that you plan to be in Mexico. I took a policy out for thirty days, and it cost me $45.
        We had no trouble crossing into Mexico.
        She began to talk in a low voice that was barely audible above the soft hum of the engine, as I swung the car to the right and headed for the downtown section of Tijuana.
        "Do you think you killed him? I hope you did." She sounded as though she meant it.
        "It would take a lot more than a broken whiskey-bottle to kill that guy," I told her. "By the way, you aren't his wife, are you?"
        "His wife is dead. He hired me about six months ago to take care of his kid. I guess that's about the only decent thing about him. He really digs young Johnny."
        "What made him say you were his wife? Were you sleeping with him?"
        She didn't answer my question. She merely said, "He's a son-of-a-bitch. He threatened to have me put in a reform school if I didn't do what he wanted me to do, and he wasn't bluffing."
        "At eighteen, they don't put you in reform school."
        "I'm really seventeen. And I already have a record."
        She sounded very tough, but I couldn't quite believe her, at least about the record.
        "A. record? What kind of a record?"
        "Well, I ran away from an orphanage, and I got busted a couple of times for smoking pot. I was up in Hollywood for a while, and I was just sort of kicking around when I took that job with him at the motel."
        We were cruising down the main drag of Tijuana. I hadn't been in the town for more than six years, but it really hadn't changed a great deal. I remembered a small hotel out by the race track, and although she hardly looked even the seventeen years that she said she was, I knew that it was the kind of place where they wouldn't care if I checked in with a pair of twelve-year-old Siamese twins.
        "We're going to a hotel to check in," I said. "And we're going to get some sleep. In the morning…"
        "I don't want to think of the morning. I just wish you hadn't broken that bottle when you hit him."
        "The bell boy can send up a bottle," I said.
        It took a little longer than I thought it would to find the El Camino Hotel. It had changed considerably since I had last seen it. Even in those days, it had hardly been a first class hotel, even by Mexican standards. I guessed, since the track burned down and the Americans were no longer flocking across the border to drop their money, business had fallen off.
        There was a parking space next to the hotel, and as I took the two bags from the car, a half-dozen, bedraggled street-urchins converged on me.
        I knew the routine. I gave the biggest one a dollar, American, and told him if he was still sitting in the car when I came back the next morning, and the hubcaps were still on the car, he'd get two more dollars.
        He spoke sharply in Spanish to his friends, and they drifted off. He climbed proudly behind the wheel and settled in for the night. He assured me in broken English that I would have nothing to worry about. He winked at me, and very carefully undressed Sharon with his liquid-brown eyes as we started into the lobby.
        The desk clerk could have been his older brother. But he wasn't old enough to start shaving. He couldn't help leering when he asked if I wanted a room with a double bed or twins.
        I asked about getting some whiskey, and he explained that they no longer had room service. But he would be able to find me a bottle of tequila. There was no bellhop to take our bags up, so he carried them himself.
        While he was down getting ice, the tequila, and a half-a-dozen bottles of Seven-Up, Sharon wanted to know if I thought he could get us some grass.
        She said tequila made her sick.
        I told her pot made me sick, even the smell of it in the room, and she could take the Seven-Up straight or nothing. I wasn't in the mood to pamper her.
        The room