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sucker for Kate’s Sam bags. I only wished I could afford a genuine
     one with a sewn-on label to replace the oh-so-obvious fakes whose labels were sloppily glued.
    “I’m not addicted, ” Jodi protested, a bit defensively.
    “Ah, denial. The first sign of a fake-purse addict.”
    She swatted at me, managing to tip over my margarita. I jumped up to avoid getting drenched. Oh dear, she was more wasted
     than I thought.
    “Nice one, drunk girl.”
    Jodi, as much as I loved her, defined the word lightweight . Three margaritas was way over her limit. If I didn’t watch out, she’d be dancing on tables or stripping for the immigration
     officers at the border. Not that either of those actions would have anyone batting an eye in TJ.
    “I’m so not drunk. The table was wobbly, ” Jodi said, not yet willing to own up to her current state of inebriation. Problem
     was, to prove her point about the wobbly table, she wrapped her hands around it and wobbled it some more, succeeding in knocking
     over her own margarita in the process.
    “Yeah, yeah. Definitely the table’s fault.” I fished in my purse for a ten and threw it down on the table as a sympathy tip
     for the guy who’d have to clean up the mess. “Come on, let’s get the hell out of here before the waiter comes back.”
    Giggling, we got up and scampered away from the scene. Like a bug to light, Jodi was hopelessly drawn to the fake-purse store.
    “Ah, my girls are back.” The short, skinny shopkeeper behind the counter greeted us with a big toothless grin. Sad to say,
     but we’d been there so many times that at this point he had a right to be named Godfather of Jodi’s firstborn.
    “Hi, Miguel, ” Jodi said with a hungry smile. “Got any new ones?”
    “For you? My special customer? Si , of course.” Miguel reached under the counter, where sellers typically stored all the premiere fakes, and placed various
     purses purporting to be from top designers on the counter. Jodi immediately started grabbing at them and checking for obvious
     signs of counterfeit.
    “Do you have any Kate Spades with a sewn-on label?” I asked, hopeful. I so didn’t need another purse, but a good knockoff
     was a good knockoff.
    He shook his head. “Sorry my bastane una —my pretty one. Not today.” He paused for a moment, as if thinking, then added, “If you want to leave me your phone number,
     I can call you if one comes in.”
    Did I really want to leave Miguel my phone number? What if he was some stalker? Sure, he looked pretty innocent, but still.
     You never knew these days.
    I decided to give him my business card. At least at work I was protected by security guards and a barbed wire fence.
    “Ah, you work for News Nine?” Miguel asked, taking the card and stuffing it in the pocket of his faded blue jeans.
    “Yup. And she just got promoted to investigative producer, ” Jodi informed him, not able to withhold a single personal-life
     detail from my potential stalker. “How much is this one?”
    “For you? Because you are so bella , I give it to you for five hundred pesos.” He turned back to me. “Investigative producer?” he asked, grinning again. “Senorita,
     do I have a story for you.”
    “Oh?”
    “Five hundred pesos? How about two hundred?” Jodi interrupted, her voice slurring a bit as she bartered. I needed to get her
     home soon. But first, I wanted to hear the story idea Miguel had. If Jodi’s addiction was fake purses, mine was story ideas.
     All it took was one really, really good one and I’d be clocking in at Newsline .
    Miguel glanced around the square before leaning into me and lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper. “A cartel in San Diego. Mucho drugs being imported everyday. Cocaine. Ecstasy. Meth.”
    “I only have three hundred pesos. How about three hundred?”
    “Really?” I asked, intrigued. Exposing a drug cartel sounded exactly like the type of story Newsline would like. And it was a perfect News 9 story, too, because