Lizzie Fox (eBook)

Chapter One
La Bamba

July 1960 — A light drizzle falls as a dark sedan travels down a brick-paved street that winds along fences made of rock and mortar. The car stops inside an entrance guarded by the Mexican police. Loud music resonates from behind a ten-foot-tall stone wall that has shards of broken glass embedded in the top.

This is La Zona Rosa, a seedy place on the outskirts of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico—also known as Boys Town—a favorite hangout for servicemen from the nearby Air Force base and young boys out to lose their virginity.

Sergeant Escobar, a middle-aged policeman with a big belly, pokes his head from inside a small booth in the middle of the entrance. He waves by several cabs loaded with young Air Force cadets, and then pulls the top of a yellow slicker suit up over his shoulders and saunters up beside the sedan. He taps on the driver-side window glass. As the window cranks down, the driver flips the top of a metal Zippo lighter and rolls the flint, igniting a bright-yellow flame. He draws the flame to a Camel cigarette as Escobar leans down and glances inside. Escobar smiles through his mustache as he turns his head to the side, spits a stream of tobacco juice onto the rain-soaked ground and watches it float in a puddle of standing water. Escobar has met the driver many times before.

“Elo, mi amigo.”

Elo Turk pulls a long drag on the cigarette and exhales the smoke in Escobar’s face. Elo’s glass left eye sets him apart in a crowd and makes him look much older than his thirty-eight years. He is quite aware that Sergeant Escobar is really just a slack-jawed local policeman but someone you should never turn your back on. Elo inhales a deep breath through his nose. His instant expression tells us it’s a familiar odor that strikes his fancy.

There’s just something about this sleazy place that appeals to him. Like an itch that has to be scratched every so often.

“Business or pleasure?” Escobar asks in heavy Tex-Mex accent.

Elo doesn’t answer. He reaches his hand out the window and hands Escobar a small envelope.

Escobar opens it and thumbs through a stack of twenty-­dollar bills. He’s not through counting the money when Elo rolls the window up and shifts the car into gear. Escobar knows he wouldn’t have a pot to piss in on a policeman’s salary if not for getting a little cut from all the graft and corruption in Boys Town.

“It is almost seven o’clock,” shouts Escobar as he attempts to shine a flashlight through the back window of the sedan. “You know the doctor is very punctual.” Escobar keeps hollering and waving his flashlight. Elo peers through his driver-side mirror and watches Escobar turn and slosh back to his hut.

A few lights are beginning to flicker on in Boys Town. The place has a small-town carnival appearance at night, but in the light at dusk, it has a more sordid look, especially since brothels and strip joints occupy most of the real estate on both sides of the cobblestone street. There are only five total streets, three east–west streets, and two that cross. The clubs have names like El Papagayo, Marabu, and Bar 1-2-3. On both sides of the main drag, the Mexican police patrol a crowd of regulars and American servicemen that spill out onto the barricaded street.

A couple of cowboys huddle together. One shows the other his empty wallet and says, “The police took all my money. I didn’t do nothing.” The other cowboy slips him a ten-dollar bill and says, “You got to learn; you can’t slap them whores.”

Boys Town even has its own small police station and jail. This is not a place a person wants to be locked up in. Many young men found this out the hard way. The police and most of the politicians here are on the take. The only justice is the amount of money someone is willing to pay for their release. If one can’t come up with the money, then they are transferred to the main jail in Nuevo Laredo. There, you will be physically assaulted on a daily basis by the hardened criminals who reside there.

Elo strains to see through the windshield of the car as the wipers flip back and forth every so often, sticking to the glass when the rain slows. Up ahead, he makes out the partially lit sign on a stone-and-stucco building that reads, El Clinico. He glances into the rearview mirror and says, “We’re almost there.”

In the rear seat, a disheveled young Black girl presses her face close to the window. Pearl Lott is very attractive and physically mature for just fifteen years old, but way too young to understand what is about to happen to her. Elo stops the car and turns around facing the rear seat. “Go up and knock on the door. They’re expecting you.”

Pearl has never been over fifty miles from home, much less all the way to Mexico. She makes out a set of stone steps that lead up to double wooden doors. You can see the absolute terror written on her caramel-toned face.

A sudden gush of fear washes over her. She feels sick to her stomach, her knees are weak, and her hands tremble.

She must make herself open the car door as she looks back at Elo and in a cracking voice asks, “Where are you going to be?”

Elo looks straight ahead. “Never you mind; I’ll be back to get you when it’s time.”

Pearl slides out of the car and climbs the steps to the entrance. The overwhelming sweet-and-sour smell is something very foreign to her. She knocks on the door and waits; nothing happens. Just as she raises her hand to strike the door again, it swings open and now a pungent chemical odor fills her nostrils. She stands face to face with a gray-haired man in his sixties.

He removes a pair of tiny horn-rimmed glasses and wipes the lens on his white medical coat. He speaks in a heavy German accent. “You are late.” Pearl knows she has nothing to do with being late. If it was up to her she would be a thousand miles away from here. He grabs her arm and pulls her inside as she glances back over her shoulder and swallows hard, holding back tears when she sees Elo driving away.

The sun has now completely fallen as Elo makes his way along the Main Street of Boys Town. The music has gotten louder. Seems like every club is playing a different tune. Elo’s not crazy about the music; in fact, he could do without it. He notices that it’s a bigger than usual crowd for a weeknight. He finds an empty space and parks the sedan, steps out, locks the doors, and starts meandering up the street. Up ahead, he notices a group of guys pause under a brick archway with flashing neon lights that reads El Papagayo Club. The young men grin at one another and step inside. This just happens to be Elo’s favorite hangout. He decides this must be the place with all the action tonight. He grins, steps up on the curb, and heads toward the entrance.

Elo slips through the saloon-style doors, straddles a stool, and sits sideways to the bar—obviously, a familiar spot for him. He removes a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and his lighter from his khaki pant pocket. He flips out one of the Camels from the pack and lights it with the Zippo. The lighter makes a familiar metal sound when it snaps shut. Elo scans the room for anyone unusual. He has seen most of these women and girls many times before. They range in age from barely legal to way too old to still be doing this.

Inside the El Papagayo is a long wooden bar that sits in the middle of a rather large circular room lined with booths. Cigarette smoke hovers head-high and then slowly rises, leaving a blue haze in the room. A jukebox in the corner spins the latest hits that are completely lost in the rowdy noise of the patrons.

Mexican prostitutes clad in short skirts and high heels work the crowd of men. Some couples sit in booths sipping Tom Collinses and haggling over the price of a few minutes of sex. A mixture of cheap perfume, tobacco, and stale alcohol gives the place a rather unique scent.

Elo watches as an airman folds and slips money inside the bra of a girl who’s young enough to have been his prom date. They stand and slide out from a booth. She takes him by the hand as he turns back to his fellow airmen and motions in the air with a closed fist. They all whoop and holler. She grins and then leads him outside to a row of one-room shanties that surround a lush courtyard. The young prostitute slips some pesos to an older woman who unlocks one of the rooms. The young boy wouldn’t admit it, but this is his first time and he’s nervous as hell. Other than a little touchy-feely in high school, he knows absolutely nothing about sex, but if all goes well and he can perform, he knows that soon he’ll be a man among men.

The girl opens the door, steps inside, and motions for the boy to follow. She closes the door behind them. He’s embarrassed because he can tell she knows he’s a virgin. He glances around the sparse room, noting a bed, a small table with a roll of paper towel on it. Other than those items, the tiny room is empty. She can tell his reluctance by his body language, so she seductively undresses, sits down on the side of the bed and motions for him to approach her. The only women he has ever seen totally naked were in a magazine. This girl doesn’t measure up to any of them. She has certain flaws, but he knows he can’t back out now. He steps up in front of her, not sure what to do next as he watches her unfasten his belt and unbutton his pants.

Back inside the club, Elo’s good eye locks on a teenage prostitute as she approaches the bar. She wears a short skirt and halter top. He obviously...