The Dogs of Mexico by John J. Asher

him levelly, no longer so affable. “That fuckin lieutenant sent you, didn’t he.”
    “No, no. I am looking for a good man to help me keep an eye on a man from the States. If you have a car, you will earn three months police pay in a week. You are interested?”
    Jinx hesitated, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who is this man from the States? What do you mean, keep an eye on him?”
    “A policeman with experience. I will pay you, say, fifty dollars a day, US. Plus expenses.”
    Jinx looked on as Helmut sipped at the water. After a moment of consideration, he said: “I’ve got this friend. We might do it for fifty each. A hundred bucks a day.”
    Helmut lumbered to his feet with difficulty, struggling to keep his balance, guarding against the viscous blackness rising up to drown him. He made his way along the wall, turned the faucet on, ran the cup full again. “Okay. Fifty each. But only if he is reliable, an experienced man like yourself.”
    The big man grinned. “You and me, we’re a couple of pretty funny bozos. All this big talk, but here we sit, locked in the calaboose.”  
    Helmut leaned one hand against the wall, closed his eyes. There was no place to sit other than the floor. Nothing at all in the room other than the hole of a toilet. He craved a drink, a little dog hair—as the Americans liked to say. He took his hand away from the wall, looked at it, wiped it on his pant leg.
    “How much money to get you out of here?” he said.  
    The big man studied him, as if determining whether he was reliably serious or unreliably delirious. “That lieutenant, he can be a real hard-ass.
    Helmut didn’t care for this soft gringo with his round face painted like a woman, but he was readily available and apparently qualified for the work. Regardless, he had to move quickly.  
    “Tell me,” Helmut said. “If you are a policeman, you have a uniform?”
    Jinx gestured at a tan policeman’s shirt he had been sitting on, spread on the floor, that Helmut hadn’t noticed. “The pants,” Jinx said, gesturing at a big saddlebag purse resting against the wall.  
    Helmut was about to call out for the jailer when the steel door clanged open at the end of the outside corridor. He was surprised and relieved to see Ana limp-swinging along behind a swaggering police lieutenant. Ana’s faint limp was unusually pronounced, and he was shot through with guilt, believing he had damaged her in the wreck. An armed guard stood back inside the doorway, rifle butt resting on his hip.
    The lieutenant threw a lock and swung the cell door back. “You,” he said to Helmut in English. “You are free to go.”
    Helmut saw that Ana’s eyes were red and swollen, her mouth drawn in angry silence. She handed over his glasses, then held a handkerchief over her nose against the stench.  
    “You were hurt?” he asked, cleaning his glasses on his shirttail.
    She shook her head, not looking at him.
    “How much to get me out?”  
    “You are a drunken pig,” said the lieutenant. “Except for this woman and the large generosity of my compassion, I keep you forever.”
    “And the generosity of her wallet, ja?How could you ignore that, ja?”Even as he said it he realized it was the booze talking.
    “Helmut—” Ana began angrily.
    The lieutenant darkened. “It is not too late. The door shut the same as it open.”
    “And this hombre?” Helmut said of the big man, Jinx. “How much do you require for him?”
    The lieutenant looked at Jinx, then at Helmut and Ana, one to the other. “What?” said the lieutenant, gesturing at Jinx with contempt. “You are trade the woman for this maricón?You wish to buy him for yourself?”
    “Fifty dollars.”  
    “Fifty dólare? This impostor, he is shake down the good peoples of México and keep the money for himself. This is not how we do. And we don’ hire gringos for our distinguish police. Fifty dólare? You think I am estúpido?”
    “I think you are very smart. I think you would