CHAPTER EIGHT
Nogales, Mexico was a jungle of decay, a mix of flashing neon, tawdry hotels, crumbling arches, peeling walls, twisting alleys with large rats running over endless heaps of garbage.
A four-wheel drive slowly came up the dark street and stopped in front of a fleabag called La Macarena.
La Macarena was a filthy place with a lone light bulb over the fading sign. Maria got out and indicated that Jesus was to stay in the car. She entered through the broken door. Music from a cantina—the song was "La Paloma"—followed her into the dimly lit lobby. A very pregnant woman was sitting behind the dirty counter, fanning herself with a broken fan.
"Señora, I am looking for a man named Flynn O’Neil; is he here?"
The clerk took a long look at the beautiful
woman wearing expensive desig
