Getaway

by Lisa Brackmann

  It could have been a lot worse.

  She shuddered thinking about it.

  Just some clothes that he wasn’t going to miss. Not her problem.

  There was a sudden burst of music. She flinched, almost flinging Daniel’s trunks in the air. What was that? Not the stereo from the beach bar, it was definitely inside the room. A rock song, something familiar. She finally recognized it as “Pretty Fly,” by the Offspring. Coming from inside her tote bag.

  It was her iPhone. I’ve never used that ringtone, she thought. She grabbed it from her bag, hit ANSWER.

  “Hey, Danny?” A male voice.

  “No,” she said. “Who’s this?”

  “Oh. Sorry. Wrong number.” The call ended.

  She stared at the phone. The wallpaper on the screen was wrong—an ocean wave rather than the rows of mountains she used. A moment later it rang again. NED G came up as the caller. Same ringtone.

  “Hey,” the same male voice said. “This is Danny’s phone, right?”

  [CHAPTER THREE]

  She hadn’t thought it was Daniel’s phone. It looked exactly like her phone. It was a black iPhone, for chrissakes; they all looked pretty much alike.

  “Who’s this?” she asked again.

  “It’s Ned. So is Danny around?”

  “No. He isn’t.”

  “Oh.” A nervous chuckle. “Well, sorry to bug you. But, um … is this Danny’s number? Maybe my phone’s screwed up somehow.”

  She stared at the iPhone. “I don’t know,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.

  “Okay,” the voice said. “But you know him, right?”

  She hit DISCONNECT before she could even think it through.

  When she slid the bar to unlock the phone, ENTER PASSCODE appeared on the screen. She didn’t use a passcode.

  She had Daniel’s phone. So where was hers?

  She tossed his phone on the bed. Used the hotel phone to make an international call and dialed her own number, waited for the ringtone she used for unidentified callers, the default marimba.

  Nothing.

  The call went directly to voicemail, and then she remembered that she’d turned it off to avoid roaming charges. To avoid calls from her attorney. From the creditor who’d somehow found the number.

  “Oh, fuck,” she said.

  “Leave a message,” her own voice said.

  Beep. She hung up.

  She tried to remember where she’d put the phone last night. It had been in her tote at the beach, she remembered that.

  Where she’d found Daniel’s phone.

  She checked the tote. Her phone wasn’t there.

  Then she remembered: the tote, knocked over, its contents spilling out onto the floor. The man, going through Daniel’s shorts.

  If she had Daniel’s phone, maybe Daniel had hers.

  The phone rang again, and she lunged for it. “Hello?”

  “Look, I’m really sorry to keep bugging you.” It was the man who’d called before—Ned. “But if Danny doesn’t want to talk to me, could I, like, leave a message or something? It’s kind of important.”

  Ned. That was the man who’d come up to Daniel in the restaurant the previous night. Tweaker Ned. Daniel didn’t seem particularly happy to see him, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close, close enough at least for Ned to maybe know where Daniel lived.

  “Is this Ned?”

  “Yeah, it is.” He sounded relieved, like he was happy to have been recognized. “Who’s this?”

  “Michelle. We met last night at the restaurant. I’m Daniel’s … Danny’s friend.”

  “Great. So can you give Danny a message for me?”

  “No, he.…” How to put it? “He had a little accident last night. They took him to the hospital.… He.…”

  “Fuck. Shit. Really? What kind of accident?” It was more than concern in his voice, she thought. There was a distinct note of panic.

  “A robbery. I mean, he’s okay,” she said, even though she didn’t know that for sure, “but he probably needed some stitches. And I ended up with his phone, and I think he has mine.”

  “Oh, man,” Ned said. “Oh, man.”

  “So I was wondering … do you know where he lives? Because I’d like to get this back to him.”

  “No. No, I don’t know. I always just … you know, call him.”

  “Great,” Michelle muttered. “Okay, thanks.”

  Well, that was useless, she thought, hitting the red “disconnect” bar.

  She couldn’t call Daniel’s contacts. Couldn’t access any information he might have on the phone.

  Maybe she’d try the hospital.

  “Discharged,” the woman at the hotel front desk said.

  Michelle had asked her if she would make the call, in case the hospital receptionist didn’t speak good English.

  “So it must not have been serious?”

  The woman gave the suggestion of a shrug. “I think probably not.”

  “Did they tell you … is there any way I can get a hold of him?”

  As soon as she’d said it, she knew it was a waste of time. Hospitals weren’t going to give out that kind of information.

  “They say if you want, you can leave a note with them. That he must come back in a week or so for removal of the stitches.”

  A week. She couldn’t wait that long, could she? That would mean staying here till next weekend, at least.

  Today was Friday.

  Friday was when Daniel’s friends met. At El Tiburón. The Shark.

  El Tiburón was one of a string of bars just north of the small cement pier at Los Muertos Beach, where people caught fishing charters and the water taxi south to villages like Yelapa. Like most of the beach bars, it had a palm-thatched roof, wood floors, and a wooden rail running along the front, where a few vendors quickly draped their serapes and blouses and sarongs to display to customers before a waiter shooed them away.

  We hang out, watch the sunset, Daniel had told her.

  One of his friends would know how to find him.

  She’d brought his things, on the off chance that he’d be there. Stopped at one of the little stores by the pier to buy a tote bag to put them in. Her choices were Frida Kahlo and Che Guevara, their faces outlined in black against fluorescent shades of green, red, and yellow, stamped on woven plastic. She chose Che.

  Now Michelle stood on the beach boardwalk a few yards from the rail, squinting into the darker bar. That group at the long table, was that the board meeting?

  She climbed the three steps that led into the bar, stood there a moment. It must be that table, she thought. There were about a dozen people there, and she thought they mostly looked like Americans, or maybe Canadians. White people, mostly. One black woman, an Asian man, and a guy who might have been Mexican.

  Mostly middle-aged or older. Ordinary.

  Certainly not dangerous.

  Stupid, she told herself, it was stupid to even think that way. What had happened in the hotel room, that was just a robbery. Not Daniel’s fault. Nothing involving any of these people.

  “Miss? Would you like a table?”

  “I … I’m looking for … There’s a group that meets here?”

  The waiter, a young man tanned as dark as strong coffee, gestured at the long table she’d already noted.

  She took a tentative step forward, toward the table. Stopped.

  This is silly, she thought. Just get it over with.

  “Here for the board meeting?”

  The man who spoke was hollow-cheeked thin, with a white-stubbled beard. He wore a Clash T-shirt, collarbones protruding above where the neck had been cut out. A blurred tattoo ran down his shoulder, below the ripped-off sleeves.

  “I’m … a friend of Daniel’s. Michelle.”

  He might have been in his sixties, but he looked like he’d lived hard. “I’m Charlie.” He smiled, revealing yellow, channeled teeth, an obvious hole where a tooth should have been and a bridge wasn’t. “Danny’s co
ming tonight?”

  “I’m not sure I …” She felt herself flush. “He got hurt last night, and I was wondering if …”

  “Danny got hurt?” He sounded concerned.

  “Is he okay?” a blond woman sitting across from him asked.

  “I think so,” Michelle said, and then Charlie patted the empty chair next to him.

  “Sorry, my dear, I didn’t mean to make you just stand there. You want something to drink?”

  She sat. He seemed nice. Harmless at least. And he knew Daniel.

  “Thanks. Yes, I would.”

  “I wouldn’t have the margies here,” he confided. “They use Sprite.”

  “Have the piña colada,” the blond woman said. “Two for one during happy hour.” She was large, on the far side of middle age, the blond an obvious dye job, wearing a Hawaiian shirt patterned with orange and white hibiscuses.

  “Piña colada, I guess.”

  “I’m Vicky.”

  Her smile, unlike Charlie’s, showed gleaming white teeth.

  “Smoke?” Charlie asked.

  “No, thank you.” Not surprising that he smoked. She could smell the cigarettes on him, layer upon layer of smoke on his T-shirt and shorts that no amount of washing would vanquish, on his index finger and thumb as well, browned and baked by burning tobacco.

  Their drinks arrived, Michelle’s piña coladas coming in two large plastic cups. She sipped one. The rum cut through the sugar with a tang of kerosene.

  “What happened to Danny?” Charlie asked.

  “It was a robbery.”

  “Oh, my God,” Vicky said with a gasp. “That’s terrible!”

  “He’s okay,” Michelle said quickly. The more Vicky reacted, the less she wanted to talk about it. “But I have some of his things.”

  Both Charlie and Vicky had Daniel’s cell number, but no landline. No address.

  “You know who I bet does?” Vicky said suddenly. “Gary. He told me he was stopping by tonight, and if he doesn’t, I can call him.”

  “Great,” Michelle said. Maybe she’d get her phone back. That would make the evening worth it.

  “Oh, Gary. He’s delightful,” Charlie muttered.

  Vicky grabbed her wadded-up napkin and tossed it at him. “Now, come on,” she said. “Gary’s … a good person. He really likes to help people.”

  “He’s not my sort,” Charlie said in an exaggerated whisper. “He golfs.”

  Michelle smiled, for a moment forgetting that she didn’t want to be here.

  She’d waited for almost an hour, listening to the blur of small talk around her and sipping her piña colada, when Vicky said, “Oh, here’s Gary.” She waved in the direction of a man who’d just come in. He wore a neat, expensive Lacoste shirt and khaki shorts, Ray-Bans pushed up onto his forehead.

  “Well, hey there, Vicky,” Gary said. He made his way up to the table, next to Michelle, and gave her a long, thorough look. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  Michelle wasn’t sure how old he was. He had a face that seemed out of balance, his cheeks and lips plump like a baby’s, the knowing eyes above peering out from wrinkled, puffy lids, all framed by blond curls.

  “Michelle.”

  He took her hand, gave it a little squeeze. “Can I get you a drink, Michelle? You look practically empty.”

  He signaled to the waiter before she could say yes or no.

  “Michelle’s a friend of Danny’s,” Vicky said. “Did you hear …?”

  Gary found a chair and pulled it next to Michelle. “Oh, man, I sure did. So that was you in the hotel with him?”

  She’d thought she was beyond embarrassment by now, but she wasn’t. She kept her voice level. “It was.”

  “I’ll tell you, this town …” He shook his head, his bow lips curved in a little smile. “It’s getting kind of crazy here.”

  “What happened to Danny?” an older woman a few seats away asked. Karen, or was it Kathy? Michelle had been introduced to too many people to keep track. She was thin, tanned almost as dark as the waiter, her hair in a long gray braid.

  “Oh, well, the way I heard it, some narcos tried to rob him, cracked him on the head.” Gary spoke loudly, so that others sitting at the table could hear him, even over the blare of Steely Dan playing on the bar’s speakers.

  “How do you know they were narcos?” the older woman asked, but no one paid attention.

  “The narcos are out of control,” said a middle-aged man sitting two seats over. “Did you hear about what happened by Bucerías yesterday?”

  Everyone started talking at once. A battle with machine guns and grenades, between drug gangs and police. Narcos incinerated in cars. Police ambushed at a crossroads in retaliation.

  Michelle felt dizzy. She closed her eyes. Clutched her drink. Took another long sip through the plastic straw. Like a pineapple milkshake.

  “Fucking Sinaloa cowboys,” someone said. “They ought to put an electric fence around that whole shithole state. Save us all a lot of trouble.”

  “Guerrero,” Michelle said. “They were from Guerrero.”

  “It’s just really sad.” Vicky’s eyes glistened. “I hate seeing this kind of thing happen in Vallarta.”

  “If this were St. Louis, or New Orleans, no one would even blink,” Charlie said. “But here in paradise we expect everything to be perfect.”

  “Oh, come on,” the Asian man said—American, Michelle amended, from his accent. “Machine guns? Grenade launchers?”

  “I’m talking about a few robberies, not narcos killing each other.”

  “This town depends on tourists and foreign residents. If crime gets out of control and people stop coming here, everyone is fucked. Right down to your favorite Babaloo on the beach selling shrimp on a stick.”

  Michelle’s head hurt. Probably from all the cheap rum and sugar. She really wanted to go back to the hotel and sleep, even though the sun had barely set.

  “Gary, Vicky tells me you might have Danny’s address,” she said.

  “I might.”

  Gary smiled, pushing his pillowy cheeks up to meet his puffy eyes. Like a debauched cherub, Michelle thought. “You want to check up on him? See how he’s doing?”

  “No.” She pushed down the urge to snap off some hostile response. “I mean yes, but mainly I have some of his things. His phone. And I think he has mine.”

  “Ah.” From his little smirk, she wondered if he believed her. He appeared to consider. “Well, I think I can help you out,” he finally said. “Anybody have a pen?”

  Vicky did.

  He extracted a business card from his wallet and scribbled on its back. “This isn’t the exact address, but any cabdriver will be able to find it.” He held it out to her, fingertips brushing hers when she took it. “I wouldn’t go there tonight, though. I don’t think he’s home right now. Try him tomorrow.” The smirk again. “Not too early.”

  She glanced at the front of the card. Plain black letters on white linen—nice design and good-quality paper.

  Gary Wallace. Trinity Consulting. A cell-phone number. An e-mail address.

  “Thanks.” She stood up, unsteady from the rum. “I’d better get going,” she said. “Thanks for the drinks.”

  Vicky rose with her and gave her a hug. “This is a good place,” she said in Michelle’s ear. “Don’t let what happened spoil Vallarta for you.”

  [CHAPTER FOUR]

  “I think you will want to take a cab,” the woman at the front desk told her after looking at the address written on Gary’s card. “It is a ways from here, and up the hill.”

  “But close enough to walk?”

  “If you like walking.”

  Between last night’s drinks and the margarita she’d just had at lunch, she could use the walk. “I do.”

  “Maybe two miles.”

  I could take some pictures, she thought. Like she’d set out to do yesterday, before Daniel’s phone rang.

  She went back to her room, grabbed the Che bag with Daniel�
�s clothes, retrieved her Olympus E-3 from the hotel safe, and set off, heading south from the hotel, up a road that curved around the hill.

  The heat made it hard to keep walking. It felt like being smothered in a steaming-hot blanket. Sweat dripped into her eyes, smeared her sunglasses when she pushed them onto her head. And trying to take pictures while juggling her purse and the Che bag was awkward. The camera, which usually fit so comfortably in her hand, slipped in her grip.

  Nothing was going to go right today.

  She tried. Shot a few images. Nothing very interesting. Wrought iron and bougainvillea. Superhero piñatas. She’d seen these photos before, she was certain, and seen them better executed.

  Michelle put the camera back in its bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  The road ahead was cobblestoned, the banks lining it tangled with browning vegetation that would not green until after the summer rains, with plastic bags and food wrappers caught up in the branches. A lot of the houses looked expensive. New construction clung tenuously to the hillside, as though the flesh of the land had wasted away, leaving skeletal frames stacked unsteadily on top of one another, foundations undermined before they’d even been laid. With enough rain saturating the hill, she could just see one of these buildings giving up, letting go, the cheap rebar popping out of the ground like a rotten tooth.

  Halfway up the hill was a little street that branched off the main road at an impossibly steep angle. She followed it, per Gary’s directions. The street led to a cluster of small, multistory buildings—apartments or condominiums.

  The one on the right, Gary’s note said, light brown with a dark roof.

  She looked. She thought the description fit, but blue tarps covered most of the roof, and there was other evidence of ongoing construction or repairs: a small cement mixer and a pile of gravel, a dug-up walkway, a boarded window. No workers. The place looked abandoned.

  Daniel’s unit was the one on the upper right, according to Gary’s note. The tarps extended halfway across what would have been his roof.

  Michelle stood there for a moment. She was absurdly sweaty, drenched; her blouse was actually wet, her hair separated into salty tendrils. Really, she wasn’t in any condition to see Daniel if he was there.