The Dirty River

                                             Chapter One

I work out of a seedy, dirty, hot, barely livable, one room office. Sound like a nice place to you? I think
its paradise.

I mean, what can you expect on East 12th Street in downtown Brownsville, Texas? My ancient two-story
office building is in a neighborhood distinguished by ropa usada, used clothing stores. Adjoining them
are raunchy, rowdy, Tex-Mex cantinas complete with Harleys parked at the curb. Two types of
customers hang out in front of these joints---fat, mustachioed, tattooed, greasy leathered gringo
bums---or their brown skinned brothers from the far side of the river with thin pinched faces, dirty
curly brimmed straw hats, scruffy down at the heels boots, threadbare shirts, and torn jeans. Both
types have a common denominator---rattlesnake dispositions.

For the rent I pay I'll put up with them and my poor riverside view. Who wants to look at the polluted,
dirty greenish brown, ankle deep Rio Grande anyway? Most of my customers are Mexicans and don't
care what the river looks like as they know their way across it even in the dark. Actually they know it
better then. Besides they don't expect much. They ain't into looks anyway. They want me to look all
right but in a different way. I look for things, people, or trouble, particularly the latter.

I'm a private investigator.

Since Paco, my eleven year old ward, has been with me I try and get home early, but most days the heat
is enervating so I wait until the relative cool of evening before leaving the office. I'll let the lower Rio
Grande Valley bake and stew, stew and bake, until it reaches a bearable comfort level. Comfort being a
debatable term as my air conditioner falters so often that the outside humidity level is usually lower
than the one inside my room. The big dust encrusted ceiling fan does the brunt of the work. It looks
like something out of Casablanca but I know it was here before Bogie was born.

In the P.I. world, probably more so than others, there's a lot of critical self examination when business
is bad. Because most of us work alone we only have to look in the mirror for the villain. The criticism
can be bad after knocking back a jar or two of the local cattle dip---tequila especial.

That June night I lingered there later than usual contemplating my navel or something and sipping a
little Jose Cuervo.

It was past seven o'clock when I heard the soft knock on the door. I figured it had to be a lost soul
because it was too late for bill collectors and no self respecting border cop would knock when a kick
would do as well.

She wasn't a lost soul. No matter what kind of spin I put on it I wasn't prepared for her. She fascinated
me from the time I yelled, "Come in."

When the door opened, I took one look at her, jumped up, and whisked the magazines off my only
armchair.

"Mr. O' Leary?" She asked as she cocked her head and looked sideways at me.

I held out my hand. "Evening, I'm Miguel O' Leary. Please have a seat." Her hand passed briefly over
mine then was withdrawn. She nodded.

I moved the armchair for her and was rewarded with a closeup and personal view of major league
cleavage. Nice. I also inhaled deeply of a soft, sweaty feminine scent enhanced by a delicate, but spicy
perfume, a combination of elixirs so male enticing it could be called Instant Erection.

I walked behind the table that passes for a desk, drew up my chair and beamed my new customer smile.
"You seemed surprised, Miss?"

A faint, very faint smile. "Baxter. Well, I was told to ask for Mike O'Leary."

I knew what she expected, and smiled.

"Miguel surprised you?"

She pursed her lips. 'Yes, it did as a matter of fact." She raised her hand. "Not that it makes any
difference." I waited for her to say that some of her best friends are Mexican-Americans. She didn't.

"Most people call me Mike, but that's a nickname. So some people are surprised when I introduce
myself as Miguel. I'm just another hybrid border product. Everyone around here has in laws and
outlaws on both sides of the river." I laughed. "I admit it's hard to imagine a freckle faced redhead as a
Mexican-American."

There was a sultry Mediterranean, no, more of a Middle Eastern look to her, Armenian or Turkish, with a
blatant, all encompassing earthiness. Thick jet black hair lay carved in gentle waves over her broad,
thrust back shoulders. Large rounded sunglasses were shaded by somewhat thick eyebrows, and a
strong, but not unattractive, rather mannish appearing nose almost hawkish with its slight hook. Her
lips were full, no, lush would be a more apt word, topped off by a soft rose veneer surrounded by a
deep tan skin tone.

She had a developed sensuality about her.

Let's tell it like it was. She had a ripeness to her body parts with a slight thickness and sag that flooded
my senses. Her skimpy white sun dress helped the cleavage while her high heels showed calf muscles
at their best. This was a full blooded mature woman on the near side of forty.

I nudged the door shut to my head-high green steel equipment locker. I didn't want er to see part of my
investigative equipment; a half full bottle of Jose Cuervo, two shot glasses embossed with the Cuervo
logo, a stolen salt shaker from the local Mickey D, and a sliced lime. All replaced weekly except for the
shot glasses.

As she squirmed to find her comfort zone in the hard wooden captain's chair, she crossed her legs,
her dress eased up, and I got a flash of tanned meaty thighs. Tasty.

Before I could question her she started talking softly and very clearly, but without the usual Texas
twang. She seemed to choose her words with care, both for their content and probable effect on me.
Her careful enunciation was enhanced by a distinct erotic undertone in her voice. At the same time she
took off her glasses and riveted deep set dark eyes on me.

"Mr. O'Leary, my name is Alice Baxter and I'm from College Station." She paused then said softly, "I find
myself in need of a private detective." She seemed to stress one word---need. Perhaps a detective
wasn't her only need. I've lived on lesser hopes.

I nodded.

She smiled and continued in her throaty undertone. "You come highly recommended."

Surprised to hear that I interrupted, "I did? By who? Or Whom? Your choice."

A brief smile. "The manager of the hotel I'm staying at says you're quite competent." Her teeth were as
flawless as her diction and body parts.

I couldn't look anywhere else but into those eyes. They were deep dark pools and a man could drown
in them---some probably had---but I also saw a hint of something not hidden in them. Something I'm
sure she didn't want advertised. Nothing danced in them. No sparkles of light. No glint of humor. No
softness. They had all the warmth of obsidian. Cold. Hard edged. Cynical. And calculating. Maybe it was
my imagination, but I didn't think so. In my business you learn to follow your instincts.

Her eyes flicked around my office. Her lips pursed briefly then she seemed to force a brief thin smile.
Her eyes rolled for the briefest of moments with a distaste, haughtiness, or contempt of her
surroundings and me.

I decided I didn't like her.

-----------------------------------------------------End of Chapter----------------------------------------------------------------------


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