Baja Honeymoon

by Roland Graeme

  “Wait a minute, Ken. You want to freshen up before we check into a hotel? That sounds like something Eva would say.”

  “Sorry. It was just a thought.”

  “Don’t be so paranoid. This place’ll welcome us with open arms. You could walk in covered with manure and they wouldn’t dare to hold their noses, as long as you’re with me. I believe it was Liz Taylor, no less, who once said, ‘there’s no deodorant like success.’”

  “Wow. That’s some high opinion you’ve got of yourself.”

  “I have a very realistic opinion of myself, thank you. It’s that guy named Deacon Rowe whom some people have an inflated opinion about, for some reason. But that can come in handy at times, and this is one of them, so I intend to take full advantage of it. You’ll see. Give me a minute to switch into my ‘minor celebrity’ mode. Then get ready to witness some major ass-kissing.”

  The hotel sat on a half-mile expanse of private beach, in an area where streets lined with palm trees, mansions, and upscale boutiques led to the ocean. They left the pickup with the parking valet.

  There was an infinity pool in the lobby and a view straight through the lounge to the ocean. Despite the hotel’s proximity to the beach, there were no fewer than three outdoor pools, all surrounded by comfortable chaise lounges and colorful umbrellas and cabanas. The hotel had two restaurants, both accessible from the lobby. The moment he set foot inside this air-conditioned comfort, Ken had the eerie sensation that he and Rick had stepped into an alien environment far removed from the Baja that lay outside.

  The ass-kissing began at the reception desk, where an unctuous clerk with slicked-back hair greeted Rick as though the actor was his long-lost brother.

  “We’re so delighted that you’ve chosen to stay with us, Mr. Decareau,” he said, or rather purred. The clerk consulted his computer screen. “I see that you do prefer to be addressed as Mr. Decareau?”

  “It beats some of the other things I’ve been called,” Rick replied.

  “I meant as opposed to your professional name.”

  “I’m on vacation. I’m down here to enjoy myself, not to work.”

  “Of course. Did you know that your television show is broadcast down here? With the voices dubbed in Spanish, of course.”

  “I did not know that. Have you seen it?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “My apologies. For subjecting you to that.”

  “Oh, but you must be joking, Mr. Decareau. I can assure you that everyone here enjoys your show very much.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so.” Rick’s manner and tone of voice were a bit haughty, and Ken realized Rick was putting on an act, playing the role of minor celebrity to perfection.

  Obviously not sure what to make of Rick, the clerk now glanced curiously at Ken, although he continued to direct his remarks to Rick. “I gather Mrs. Decareau will not be joining you?”

  “No. There is no Mrs. Decareau. Mr. Bollinger, here, will be staying with me. As I believe we discussed in an exchange of e-mails? I’ve brought along the printouts verifying the change.”

  “Oh, of course. It’s just that….”

  “Yes?”

  “Frankly, Mr. Decareau, given the emphasis you placed in your correspondence with us on your desire for privacy, I assumed that ‘Mr. Bollinger’ could be a pseudonym for Mrs. Decareau. To throw the press off the track.”

  “Really? That was a very clever assumption on your part. Now I wish I’d thought of it.”

  “And, of course, you reserved the bridal suite.”

  “Oh yeah. I’d forgotten about that. I didn’t think to ask to have the room changed.”

  “We could possibly change it now, if you’ll give me a few minutes.”

  “No, don’t bother. The bridal suite is what I reserved, and the bridal suite is where I intend to lay my head tonight.”

  “We could move an extra bed into it for Mr. Bollinger.”

  “There’s no need to. Mr. Bollinger and I have been traveling down the peninsula and camping out at night. It’s been delightful. He’s used to roughing it. We have our sleeping bags with us. He can always put one of them down and sleep on the floor.”

  The clerk couldn’t seem to come up with a response to this suggestion, although he maintained his studiously bland facial expression as Rick and Ken presented their passports and signed the guest register. Then the clerk summoned a handsome young Mexican bellboy, who burdened himself with their bags and led the way to a bank of elevators.

  Rick waited until they were in the elevator and the door had closed before he exploded into giggles.

  “Shut up,” Ken growled.

  “I can’t help it. The fucking bridal suite! I really did forget about that.”

  The bellboy, Ken noticed, was maintaining a poker face. Ken assumed he understood English.

  “I have no intention of sleeping on the floor,” Ken said.

  “I was joking. Of course you can sleep with me. As long as you behave. Or if you misbehave, for that matter.”

  “Thanks. That’s very big of you.”

  The bellhop’s lips twitched as he struggled to show no reaction.

  The bridal suite consisted of no fewer than four rooms, plus bath. There was a sitting room, a dining room, a dressing room, and of course a bedroom. Ken estimated that the sitting room alone was equal in square footage to his entire apartment back in Culver City.

  Floor-to-ceiling windows provided a view of the ocean and ensured that, when the drapes were drawn back, the room was flooded with natural light. The room itself was beautifully appointed, with modern but comfortable furnishings. The pale hues that predominated in the décor made the space a tranquil refuge from the hot sun. There was an L-shaped sectional sofa near the windows.

  The overall effect, Ken decided, was of a cool, private haven far removed from the heat of the day outdoors. In his present dusty, sweaty state, Ken felt more like an intruder than a paying guest.

  Rick was already investigating the bedroom. A king-sized bed was draped with crisp white linens.

  “Oh my God,” Rick exclaimed. “Look at this place. I can’t believe I’ll be sleeping in a real bed tonight. And not just any bed. It’s huge.”

  “Yeah,” Ken agreed. “It’ll be quite a novelty after all those nights on the road.” To himself, he couldn’t help adding, And I can’t believe I’ll be sleeping in a real bed too—with you, from the looks of it.

  Rick was doing some further exploring, opening a door into the bedroom and taking a quick look inside.

  “It gets even better,” he reported gleefully. “There’s a real bathroom, with a real shower and a real toilet. I’m going to get down on my knees and kiss that toilet, I’m so glad to see it.”

  “Whatever turns you on. And to think that they call me queer.”

  “Can I be a selfish prick and have the first crack at the shower?”

  “Go ahead. Knock yourself out. Just don’t use up all the hot water.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem in this supposedly high-class establishment. Hell, it had better not be a problem, at these prices.” Rick was already stripping, strewing his clothes across the floor.

  “Don’t expect me to pick up after you,” Ken warned.

  “That’s why they have maid service here” was Rick’s parting shot as, nude, he disappeared into the bathroom. He left the door open, which Ken found rather interesting. No doubt roughing it together on the road had taught Rick to dispense with the need for complete privacy.

  Ken had forgotten all about the bellboy, who now came into the bedroom carrying their bags.

  “Would you gentlemen like me to unpack for you?” the young man asked.

  “Ah, that won’t be necessary. I’m afraid those bags are mostly filled with dirty clothes.”

  “I can take anything you wish to be laundered or dry cleaned.”

  “You do laundry here?” Ken asked. If the bellboy had claimed to be able to walk on water or turn it into wine, Ken could hardly ha
ve been more surprised.

  “Of course, sir. All you have to do is give me the things you would like to be laundered.”

  Ken handed the youngster what he hoped was an adequate tip. “Come back in half an hour, and we’ll have everything ready for you.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  When it was Ken’s turn in the bathroom, he was impressed. It was a large space with pale-green glass wall tiles, matching the green opaque ceramic tiles underfoot. A walk-in stone-and-glass shower featured a rain showerhead as well as a European, hand-held one. A long and deep soaking tub and dual sinks were set into large expanses of green marble with white and gold veins running through it.

  They compared notes on the bathroom experience as they changed into fresh clothes. Virtually every other item of clothing they possessed needed to be washed and ended up in a pile for the bellboy to take.

  “I feel like a new man,” Rick said.

  “So do I. But, in my case, that’s not so unusual. Maybe I’ll find a new one before the day’s over.”

  “Very funny. Although, in all seriousness, if you do want to go out cruising… well, feel free to. Don’t let me stop you.”

  “And don’t let me stop you from trying to pick up some likely young chick.”

  Rick grimaced. “That isn’t likely to happen.”

  “I wouldn’t be so pessimistic. Not if I were you. There must be plenty of starstruck women here.”

  “Well, they can remain starstruck, as far as I’m concerned. For one thing, I’d like to stay incognito here, if I can. And for another, having a one-night stand with some giddy broad is about the last thing on my mind at the moment.”

  “I see. So what would you like to do? We have the whole afternoon to kill.”

  “Let’s do some exploring. I want to check out this Marina Golden Zone I’ve heard about. It’s supposed to be this big restaurant, bar, and shopping district right near here. I’ll violate our fifty-fifty agreement about incidental expenditures and treat you to lunch.”

  “That sounds good. But I can’t let you pay my way all the time while we’re here.”

  “I’m still going through the money from the returned engagement ring, remember? I’m getting a certain vindictive pleasure out of spending it, I must admit. And the more frivolous the expenditure, the better.”

  “All right. Lead on. Wait. We’ll need our sunglasses.”

  As they were getting ready to leave the suite, the smiling bellboy knocked on the door. He collected the heap of laundry, and Rick and Ken followed him out into the hallway.

  “Are there any special instructions for any of these garments, gentlemen?”

  “Hardly,” Rick said. “They just need a good scrub. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Diego, señor. The manager has told me to take especially good care of you and your friend. If you need anything, anything at all, you need only pick up the house phone and ask.”

  “Will do.”

  After spending so many hours during the days seated in the pickup, Ken and Rick were eager to do some walking. They joined the throngs of pedestrians strolling along the waterfront.

  They went into the Tequila Museum, which featured huge, blown-up photos of old tequila factories, displays of agave presses and distilling equipment, and—as a particular enticement—a tequila sampling bar. There they learned, among other things, that there were extra-fine varieties of tequila that could cost more than a thousand dollars a bottle, even more than a similarly aged wine. Needless to say, none of the extravagantly expensive brands were available among the free samples, but Ken and Rick were assured that they could find them offered for sale in some of the Golden Zone’s more upscale restaurants and bars.

  “Now we know how we can go through your engagement ring money as quickly and efficiently as possible, if you really want to,” Ken joked.

  “Yeah, but I learned a long time ago that I don’t have to spend a lot of money to get drunk. We can always blow the big bucks on some other form of entertainment.”

  Next they walked through the Aqua Market, which as its name suggested was located right on the waterfront. Among its amenities were a pharmacy and a coffee bar with Internet access and seating both inside and out on a patio overlooking the marina. There was also a mini-market, stocked with a wide variety of Mexican and imported beers and wines, baked goods, and fresh fruits and vegetables. The delicatessen counter sold sandwiches or box lunches, which fishermen and beachgoers could take with them.

  “I’m getting hungry,” Rick admitted. “Should we eat here or find a real sit-down place?”

  “Let’s check out that place that looks like some sort of a combination steakhouse and sports bar, over there.”

  The steakhouse, Ken was amused to see, had a pirate theme décor, with props that might have been recycled from a low-budget movie set. The bartenders were dressed in pirate costumes, and the waitresses looked like some soft-core porn version of eighteenth-century serving wenches.

  The menu featured several kinds of steak, including Texas Angus.

  “I didn’t come to Mexico to eat Texas beef,” Rick said. “I’m going to try one of the local varieties.”

  He settled on Mexican Arrachera steak, which—according to the menu’s description—was sliced thin, marinated, and aged until it was exceptionally tender.

  “You experiment all you want. I’m going to have the Angus,” Ken declared. “But let’s try one of the local beers.”

  After they ordered, they relaxed and discreetly observed the other patrons.

  “Nobody in here seems to have recognized you,” Ken said. “They don’t realize they have a celebrity in their midst.”

  “Everybody probably assumes we’re a gay couple.”

  “Not necessarily. We’re a male couple, obviously. But I’m sure a lot of straight guys come down here together, probably hoping to score some action.” Ken smiled at his lunch companion. “Does it bother you if people do assume we’re a gay couple?”

  “No. Which kind of surprises me, I will admit. I guess this trip, this whole experience, has helped to raise my awareness, or something. And you have to take the credit for that.”

  After polishing off their steaks, they did some more walking and went into some of the shops. The merchandise ranged from tacky tourist souvenirs to luxury items, but Ken and Rick had buyer resistance, and returned to the hotel empty-handed.

  In their room, they found their laundered clothes, hung up in the closet or neatly folded and stacked on top of a nearby chest of drawers.

  “Now that’s service,” Ken declared. “I’m almost beginning to think roughing it is kind of overrated. I could get used to this kind of treatment.”

  “Yeah, at least we’ll have clean clothes for the rest of the trip.”

  “What do you want to do now?”

  “Why don’t we check out the pool? A dip ought to feel good, right about now. And”—Rick added with an impish grin—“it’ll give you a chance to check out all the scantily clad hot bods.”

  “Good idea.” Ken kept his voice and his facial expression under control, refusing to react to Rick’s teasing. But Rick snorted with laughter at his expense anyway. Ken didn’t mind. He liked it when Rick tried to get a rise out of him.

  They changed into their swimming trunks—which, because of all the nude swimming they’d indulged in while on the road, had been neglected until now—and went downstairs. Jesting or not, Rick had managed to make an accurate prediction. Scantily clad hot bodies, both male and female, were in and beside the pool in abundance. Not all of the eye-catching scenery in Baja, Ken concluded, consisted of deserts, beaches, and mountains.

  After their swim, they sat on deck chairs beside the pool and had drinks while observing their fellow guests. Ken had to admit that there was considerable eye candy on the premises, in the form of guys with toned, tanned bodies—to say nothing of the lifeguard and attendants. He caught Rick doing some discreet bimbo-watching, and kidded him about it. “I seem to re
call somebody telling me he planned to remain celibate on this trip.”

  “Look who’s talking,” Rick retorted.

  The best thing about using the pool, however, was that it gave them an excuse to take turns showering in their room again. The hotel seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of hot water.

  They decided to try out the restaurant in the hotel for dinner. Curious about the high end of traditional Mexican cuisine, they had sopa de lima, a fragrant chicken and tortilla soup flavored with lime juice, as a first course. This was followed by cochinita pibil, tangy slow-roasted pork marinated in citrus and a paste made from achiote seeds, for Ken. Rick chose the poc chuc, grilled pork marinated in sour orange juice.

  The meal and the service were excellent. As they lingered over coffee, Ken caught Rick studying him.

  “What are you looking at?” Ken asked. “Have I got something on my face?” He dabbed his mouth and chin with his napkin.

  “No, I was just curious.”

  “About what?”

  “Are you having a good time, Ken? Here in the hotel, I mean, as opposed to before, when we were on the road?”

  “Of course I am. It’s great. I do have to admit that it seems kind of unreal, being surrounded by all this luxury and all these people.”

  “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. It’s funny how I can almost tell what you’re thinking sometimes, or guess what you’re about to say before you actually say it.”

  “That’s not so surprising, Rick. We’ve just spent a whole week in each other’s company.”

  “And we haven’t got on each other’s nerves yet, have we?”

  “No. I think we’ve gotten along fine.”

  “That’s why I’m not sure I don’t prefer it when it’s just the two of us, instead of all these other people.”

  Ken felt somewhat flustered by Rick’s admission. He was tempted to make some sort of a sexually suggestive joke to lighten the mood, but for once he thought better of it. “I feel the same,” he finally said, quietly.

  Rick smiled. “Jesus. I just realized what a long day it’s been. I’m kind of tired.”