“You’re in Number Thirty-two,” the woman behind the counter said in lightly accented English. “Do you need help to your room?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“We serve continental breakfast in the courtyard from seven to ten A.M.,” the woman explained. She was in her thirties, solidly built, with tanned olive skin, streaked hair, and above her breast a rose tattoo that peeked out from her embroidered tank top. “And we have happy hour every night, from five until seven.”
“Great,” Michelle said. “You know, I can’t exactly remember. What’s the last date of my reservation?”
The woman consulted her computer. “You’re paid through the fifteenth,” she said. “But if you want to extend, just let me know. It’s not so busy this time of year.”
Nearly two weeks. Was that how long she was expected to play this game?
At least the room was cute, almost a suite, with a mini-fridge, a microwave, a wardrobe that had a luggage stand and a small safe inside. Painted tiles formed borders along the walls; there were a few framed molas hung up as well, and the bed featured an elaborately carved headboard.
She put her suitcase down on top of the open cabinet by the wardrobe and stood there for a moment. The room was hot. It would take a while before the air conditioner cooled it down.
I have to get out of here, she thought.
She grabbed her purse and her good camera and bolted out the door.
In the courtyard the guests still sat, drinking, chatting, reading books. A dog trotted slowly past the fountain. It was as hot as her room and utterly still.
She slowed her steps so it wouldn’t look like she was running, managed a smile and a half wave at the woman behind the counter, and pulled open the wrought-iron gate.
Free.
Up the hill, she thought. She was pretty sure that if she walked up the hill, she’d come to a broad avenue running north and south, where there were buses that went downtown, maybe even to the airport. What was stopping her from just getting on one? She had five thousand dollars in her purse. She could go pretty far with that, all the way to the border, certainly. Just walk across and tell the customs people she’d lost her passport. They wouldn’t throw her in jail for that.
Behind her a car started with a misfire that sounded like a hammer on a tin can. She could smell the unburned gas. They probably didn’t have strict emissions standards here, she thought, not like California. She kept walking, past a gay bar, a lavandería, which she knew meant “laundry.” If I stay here, I’ll need to wash my clothes, she thought; most of them were filthy. But it was crazy to think about staying here, wasn’t it? This whole thing with Gary, whatever the money was, it couldn’t be worth the risk.
It took a moment before she realized that the car she’d heard start matched her progress up the hill. It floated next to her, idling roughly, a presence she felt before she really took it in.
A police car. Not the Vallarta police, who drove white pickups with cheerful green geckos painted on them. A black-and-white sedan, with a shield on the door.
In the car just one officer: a big man with a mustache and aviator sunglasses. The man who’d arrested her.
When he saw that she’d noticed him, he leaned his head toward the window. Stared at her, eyes obscured behind the sunglasses.
Her heart hammered. She almost bolted and ran, but she stopped herself. Instead she turned away and continued to walk up the hill. Act like there’s nothing wrong, she told herself. Don’t try to run. Don’t give him an excuse.
The police car followed, cruising slowly up the hill, keeping even with her progress, past the Oxxo mart, past the yoga/Pilates studio.
The street dead-ended into a road that hugged the hill, curving out of sight a short distance ahead. At the junction were a sex shop and a tiny newsstand/Internet café.
She was aware of the police car turning left, toward downtown, though she wouldn’t look directly. She kept walking another half a block, toward the junction, and then she stopped and turned around. The police car was gone.
The adrenaline drained out of her, leaving her trembling after it had gone, and she stumbled a little on the uneven pavement.
The policeman had staked out her hotel. He’d waited for her. Followed her. He’d wanted her to know about it.
Her phone rang. The soothing classical tone she used for known callers.
For a moment she didn’t want to look. What if it was Gary, calling to threaten? To gloat?
It was her sister, Maggie.
Her hand shook, her finger slipped, and she almost missed the ANSWER key.
“Hello? Michelle? Is that you?” Maggie sounded frantic.
“It’s me, listen.… I’m fine.…”
“What the fuck happened to you? We’ve been going crazy here! I mean, when you weren’t home on Sunday, I thought, okay, maybe I got that wrong, but it’s Tuesday, and—”
“I’m really sorry,” she said in a low voice. “I’m still in Puerto Vallarta. It’s been—”
“Jesus, Michelle! I mean, you could at least think about—”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “But it’s been complicated. Look … I’m in a weird situation. There’s this guy named Gary, and …”
“Oh, you met someone?” Maggie’s tone suddenly lightened. A new man—the big Get of Jail Free card.
“I wish. No, that’s not it at all. This guy, Gary. Gary Wallace. Write that down. But maybe that’s not even his real name. I …”
She took in a deep breath.
“Michelle? What …? What’s going on?”
She almost laughed. “I wish I knew. They planted drugs in my purse and—”
“Are you in jail?”
“No. No. I mean, I was, but not anymore.”
“Jesus, what happened?”
Maybe I should write it all down, Michelle thought. Send Maggie an e-mail. But was that safe? Wasn’t somebody, some government agency, reading everyone’s e-mails?
If Gary was even part of the government.
“I don’t know where to start. But write down Gary Wallace. And Daniel. Daniel …”
Christ, was it possible? Did she still not know Daniel’s last name?
“Fuck,” she muttered. “I … I have their cell-phone numbers. And some other information. I’ll get it to you.”
“Michelle, can’t you just … can’t you just tell me—”
“No. I mean …”
If Daniel was involved with drugs … or if Gary was …
Could they do something to Maggie? To Ben?
She couldn’t think right now.
“I’m fine,” she finally said. “I’m probably here for another two weeks. I’ll let you know what’s happening. I …”
She didn’t know what to say. She watched an older Mexican woman walk her Chihuahua down the street, stopping to scoop the dog into her arms before she stepped down off the tall curb.
“I’ll let you know when I book the flight.”
I’ll write a letter, she thought. A real letter, and I’ll send it through the mail. Maybe to Maggie’s office. Just in case …
She couldn’t finish that thought. She stood there, hot and sweaty and unable to think at all.
Internet.
There were things she should look up. Things she should know. How the legal system worked here. What kind of trouble she might be in.
The chairs in the café were plastic and uncomfortable, the computers old and set to Spanish-language keyboards, but it still felt like a refuge, a place where she could sit and think and try to understand what had happened to her.
From what she could find out online in an hour, Gary had told her the truth. At least about how the legal system worked. And the prisons—not that the prisons in the United States were much better, but someone in her position could probably avoid prison there. Here not so likely. Not while the case dragged on and on, waiting for trial.
The Mexican president had proposed decriminalizing small amounts o
f street drugs, but she didn’t even know how much she was accused of possessing.
Before, she’d heard of a crackdown on drug smugglers by the Mexican federal government; she’d read stories about border massacres, headless bodies, corruption at every level of society, stories that had formed part of the fuzzy background to what little she’d known about Mexico. But she’d never associated any of that with resorts like Puerto Vallarta. Things like that didn’t happen here, or so she’d thought.
Not often anyway.
Sinaloa cowboys. Narcos. Assassinations. Street battles with grenade launchers.
The cartels had infiltrated everything here. Police forces, judicial offices, even American embassies. There were former presidents whose relatives were awash in drug money from one cartel. A current president whose top officials were in the service of the another. The cartels slaughtered cops, politicians, journalists, and mostly, each other.
Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. She didn’t know that the conflict between Gary and Daniel was about drugs.
But the money. The coke in her purse. And Daniel. He’d said he was a private pilot. Flying Gulfstreams. Wasn’t that how you smuggled large amounts of drugs? In planes?
The air-conditioning chilled the sweat on her skin.
When she went outside, the police car was still nowhere in sight.
She started walking back to the hotel. The streets were quiet. A few tourists wandered in and out of the storefronts. An older gay couple stood on the corner, accompanied by a little dog straining at its leash. She passed a tiny stall, tucked between a money-changing window and a condominium building, that sold fresh juices, a youngish woman in a tight T-shirt grinding oranges, a small boy bouncing a soccer ball on his knee by the scoured wooden table where she worked. Then a boutique, with cocktail dresses and hand-tooled and beaded bags displayed in the window.
Michelle thought about the five thousand dollars Gary had given her. Maybe I should buy an outfit, she thought. Something nice, in case Daniel wants to go out with me again.
Crazy. She was getting as crazy as fucking Gary.
“Michelle?”
She flinched, and Vicky quickly said, “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you!”
Vicky, the American woman she’d met in El Tiburón. Gary’s friend.
“Sorry,” Michelle said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone here to know me.”
Vicky wore another Hawaiian shirt, blue hibiscuses this time, a pair of khaki shorts that came just above her dimpled knees, and the Teva-style sandals that every American expat here who didn’t wear Crocs seemed to favor.
“Well, it’s a small town,” Vicky said. “It’s nice to see you again.”
For a moment Michelle had some strange thoughts—fragments of them, more accurately—like Vicky was actually an international drug smuggler, or a hit woman, or who knows what, a procurer of children for sex tourists. And then she took another look at Vicky, this stout, middle-aged American woman with dyed-blond hair and a Hawaiian shirt and told herself she really needed to get a grip.
Even if Vicky was a friend of Gary’s. One who just happened to be in the neighborhood.
Was Puerto Vallarta really that small a town?
“Nice to see you, too.”
Vicky frowned, wrinkling up her sunburned forehead. “I’m not sure why, but I guess I thought you’d gone back to the States.”
“Well, I was planning to. But, you know, the craziest thing happened.”
She hesitated. She felt like she was about to step off a cliff.
“I was on my way to the airport, and my taxi … well, he hit a police car who pulled out in front of us. And the officer claimed his neck got hurt, and it turned into this whole drama. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Oh, my!” Vicky gasped. “That kind of thing can get really nasty. What happened?”
“Like I said, it was crazy! They took me to jail, can you believe that? I mean, what did any of it have to do with me? And by the time they let me go, I’d missed my flight.”
Stick as close to the truth as you can. It’s easier to remember the truth than a lie.
“Oh, honey, you’ve just had terrible luck.” Vicky gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. “Yeah, that kind of thing happens when you get in car accidents here. It’s because it’s all the Napoleonic Code, you know? Guilty until proven innocent. But so long as you weren’t driving, it’s not really your problem.”
Michelle mimed a shudder, which wasn’t hard to do. “I can’t imagine driving here,” she said. “Especially after that.”
“So did they give you a credit for your ticket? Will you be able to get home okay?”
Her heart thudded hard in her chest. She hadn’t thought to check on the status of her ticket.
You have five grand in cash, she told herself. Make something up.
“Sure, getting home’s not really a problem. I just thought …” Michelle smiled. “You know, it’s starting to feel like something doesn’t want me to leave. I got a room down the street for the next week or so. Just so I could, you know, give this place a chance. See what I think about being here.”
She gave a little half shrug. “It’s kind of embarrassing for me to say this, but I don’t have a lot going on at home right now.”
“I understand. I really do.” Vicky stared at her with an almost enthralled expression, as if she’d found a fellow traveler. “This is a nice place, Michelle. I’m so glad that you’re giving Vallarta a chance. Not everybody would, if they’d had stuff like that happen to them.”
“Well, bad things happen everywhere. I mean, I’m from Los Angeles.” She spread her hands wide, palms to the heavens. “I’m used to stuff happening.”
Vicky hesitated. “You know, when you’re an expat, it’s easy to get isolated,” she said, a little shyly. “Just sort of hang out with other Americans and stay in our routines. But there’s a whole other side of life here. If you’re interested.”
“Thanks,” Michelle said. “That’s really nice of you.”
Vicky rummaged around in her fanny pack (a fanny pack? people still used fanny packs?) and drew out a silver business-card case.
“Here,” she said, extracting a card. “This is my contact information. If you ever feel like getting together, if you need anything, just give me a call or drop me an e-mail.”
• • •
A part of Michelle couldn’t believe that she’d done it. She’d stood there and lied. Sticking close to the truth, as Gary had recommended.
Just like he’d wanted her to do.
It hadn’t been that hard.
She felt as though she’d crossed some sort of line, but it wasn’t irrevocable. It had only been with Vicky.
Trying it with Daniel wouldn’t be the same.
Michelle sat on the edge of the bed in her room at Hacienda Carmen and weighed her options.
Play along and call Daniel or try to run. Trust someone to help her.
Not the local authorities, that was for sure.
The consulate? Would they believe her? Protect her if she got hauled off to jail again?
Was there someone back home who could help?
Her own lawyer specialized in finance. Bankruptcy. Civil lawsuits. He’d know a good criminal attorney, certainly, but she couldn’t afford to pay the lawyer she already had, let alone a new one.
Not her sister. It seemed to her that Maggie barely coped with her life as it was—and besides, what could Maggie really do?
Tom’s friends?
The ones caught up in the scandal weren’t in a position to help. His acquaintances who’d ridden out the storm, how many of them wanted to be associated with Tom? With Tom’s widow? They were his friends anyway, not hers, and a lot of them weren’t terribly good friends when it came down to it.
The people in their social circle, the charity friends, entertainment-industry lawyers, doctors, entrepreneurs—any of them?
Her own friends, her real friends, she could count them on her fingers.
Friends from college. One was a costumer for TV and film. Another a Web editor. Her husband was a lawyer, albeit one who dealt with corporate mergers. Could he help?
Office manager. City planner. Interior designer.
What could she even say to them?
How had she ended up like this?
You can’t think about that now, she told herself.
Just go along with it, then.
She tested that option, gingerly, as if she were putting weight on an injury, seeing how it felt.
It felt like giving up.
But was there a better choice?
It wasn’t like Gary was asking her to be a drug mule or anything like that, she told herself. Just to hang out with Daniel, tell him what they did and who they saw—that is, if Daniel wanted to see her.
Danny’s involved in some sketchy stuff.
If it starts feeling dangerous, if I think I’m not safe, I’ll have to take my chances with the consulate, she thought. Or, better, get out of town somehow.
If she could, with the policeman watching.
She didn’t think the story she’d used for Vicky would work on Daniel.
Vicky wanted to believe, loved Vallarta so much that she wouldn’t question Michelle’s decision to stay longer, even after all that had happened.
Daniel, however, had been there for some of the worst of it. Had caught Michelle in his apartment taking pictures of a rotting pig head. Even if he’d believed her explanation, what must he think of her, finding her doing something like that? She could hardly explain it to herself.
Say one thing for Gary: At least he liked her photos.
Add the disastrous first date (if she could even call it that), with her weeping in bed followed by masked gunmen and concussions—why would Daniel even consider spending time with her at this point?
Why had he asked her out to dinner?
She could hardly believe he was still interested. Maybe he was just being polite.
Or he was suspicious of her and had wanted a chance to find out more.
She stared at her phone, her heart pounding, thinking, He might be dangerous. He doesn’t trust me. He’s into sketchy stuff.
He might still want to know more.
That was how to play it.
Great, Michelle thought. I’m thinking like Gary. And it’s James Bond as told by Cosmo.
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