Baja Get Away

by Jinx Schwartz

  He eyed my red, 1988 Volkswagen Fox Baja beater. “Yeah, better leave the couch.”

  “Hey, she’s antiquated, but she’s a station wagon, and never gives me any trouble.”

  “Your car is a she?” he asked.

  “Yep. Her name is Foxie.”

  He grinned. “Foxie looks like she’s been around the block.”

  “Perhaps. She’s a seasoned lady, but she’s young at heart.”

  He sat at a table and was ordering coffee in passable Spanish as I left.

  Punching in the gate code, I took a deep breath and trudged up to the entry door into the lobby of what had been my home for close to two years. I knew all four of the other condos were rented out for the holidays, and the visitors were night owls, so I quietly climbed the stairs to the third floor. It felt strange to ring the door bell, but it seemed the appropriate thing to do, since Barry made it clear I was no longer a resident. After a wait to make sure no one answered, I blew out a held breath and inserted my key.

  When it didn’t turn, I thought for a split-second Barry had changed the lock, but quickly realized the door wasn’t even locked. Odd. Cabo has a serious petty crime problem, and I’d been soundly lectured on never leaving the place, or my car, unlocked.

  Pushing the door open, I leaned inside. “Barry? You here?”

  I knew the motion sensor camera over the front door had dinged a chime inside, alerting anyone that someone was in the foyer so, hearing nothing, I stepped in. I waited a few seconds before rushing straight for the bedroom, and my closet, which in truth was only partly mine. I shared it with Barry’s golf clubs, surfboards, snorkeling gear, and all the other stuff he didn’t have room for in his own closet.

  I smiled, thinking about how Jeff had told me about Princess Muffie’s designer dressing room in her San Diego condo and wondered what she would think about my pre-Prince-Charming/Cinderella-like-life with Barry.

  I yelled, “Yes!” when I found my money and passport safely hidden inside a battered, hollowed out, hardback copy of John Steinbeck’s The Log from the Sea of Cortez.

  I’d bought the water-stained tome at a flea market in La Paz when I first arrived in the Baja. It was almost unreadable, so I spent a couple of hours with an X-ACTO knife cutting out the center as a place to stash my valuables. I knew that Barry would never look inside, because heaven forbid he should open a book.

  Throwing my “safe” into a large, colorful woven-plastic Mexican shopping bag, I topped it off with shoes and then pulled my meager wardrobe from hangers and shelves and added them. That done I took one last look inside, and it occurred to me that my part of the closet comprised only about an eighth of the space.

  It felt like I was checking out of a hotel, proof that I’d never felt any part of the condo as home. Except for the payments I helped make.

  In the bathroom I grabbed what appeared to be two unopened boxes of feminine products that I’d cleverly used to ferret away more cash, and a few basic toiletries. Back in the living room I found my Kindle, iPad, Phone, and all of my chargers on a table I’d commandeered as my desk, then paused to take a mental inventory of what belonged to me.

  My pillow! It is the one thing I always carry when on the road. I rummaged under the sink for a clean garbage bag and, leaving my clothes by the door, went back to the bedroom and jerked my red satin pillow from under a pile of unmade bed linens. As I dropped it into the bag, I let out a “Humph!” and said to the room, “Gosh, Becky, I guess Master Barry hasn’t replaced you yet. God forbid he’d make his own damned bed!”

  I gave the room a last once-over to see if I’d forgotten anything, and on the way out I frowned into the foyer camera and said, “Good luck finding someone stupid enough to pay rent and do your house work. Adios, pendejo.”

  Locking the door, I gave it a satisfying slam, then remembered my earlier attempt not to disturb the other residents of the building.

  ***

  Jeff waited by Foxie and helped me jam my hastily gathered belongings into the hatchback. “You travel light, Red.”

  “Don’t call me Red,” I growled.

  He threw his hands up in a defensive mode. “Somebody has her knickers in a twist.”

  “Sorry. I’m pissed, but not at you. It occurred to me that my entire life has been reduced to an old car and two plastic bags of clothes. I am my own worst fear: a bag lady.”

  Jeff laughed. “In Cabo? I think not.”

  “Don’t fool yourself. This place is full of couch-surfing women a few pesos short of the streets.”

  “Becky, you have a car, so I think you only qualify as temporarily couch-less.”

  I slapped his shoulder, which I noticed was firmly muscled. Bad Becky! “Gosh, thanks for that comforting thought. Why don’t I feel better?”

  “I’m just joshing you. What a drama queen. Uh, did you find your money?”

  “Why? You down and out in Cabo, too?”

  “Touché. So did you?”

  “Me to know and you to find out.”

  “Do I look like a pickpocket?”

  I laughed. “Hardly. But then again, I can be a lousy judge of character.”

  “Aren’t we both?”

  “Yes. And yes, I found my stash.”

  “Only yours?”

  “Whoa, Jeffie, are you intimating I might have a touch of larceny in my DNA?”

  He held up his hands in a self-defense mode. “Truce! Just seems to me this Barry owes you.”

  “He does, but I ain’t gonna steal it. So, which way do you want to go to La Paz? Northern route, or the scenic southern route along the East Cape?”

  “I vote for the East Cape, since I’ve never been there.”

  I jammed Foxie into first gear and we drove toward San José del Cabo.

  In San José I stopped at a Pemex station to top off the tank. Before the attendant approached the car, I told Jeff, “Here’s the drill. You get out and make sure the gas station guy zeros the register before I release the gas cap cover. I gotta go to the little Mujeres room. If we’re full before I get back, get some cash from the Tampax box in the yellow plastic bag, and pay him. Count your change and then give him a five-peso tip for cleaning the windows. And don’t leave the car unattended.”

  “Are you always this bossy?”

  “Yes.”

  I told the Pemex attendant to fill Foxie with Magna Sin and dashed for the loo. The lady sitting outside gave me a few sheets of toilet paper in exchange for five pesos, and waved me into the spotless facility.

  By the time I returned, my car windows gleamed, and Jeff had moved her to a parking place.

  “Next,” I said, handing him five pesos from the bag full of change I keep in the ashtray, slightly lamenting that my vehicle was old enough to have one. “Give this to the woman at the door.”

  “They charge for using the Johns?”

  “Yep. And be grateful. The free ones are usually filthy. And besides that, the little old lady there is probably living off what she gets here.”

  He glanced over at the wizened woman. “No Social Security?”

  “There are government benefits for elderly people, like free health care, but you probably spent a lot more at that bar last night than anything else they get in a month. People like her probably don’t have any relatives in the States sending money back home to her.”

  “I hear there’s a heck load of money headed south.”

  “Ya think? Like three billion bucks last year.”

  ***

  When he returned from the Hombre’s room, I asked Jeff, “You up for some adventure?”

  “Usually. What do you have in mind?”

  “Several hours on a dirt road along the beautiful beaches of the East Cape. I’ve driven it a couple of times, and it’s nothing old Foxie can’t handle.”

  “I saw two spare tires in the back, we have three gallons of water, topped off tanks, and leftovers to nosh on. Why not?”

  After we ran out of pavement I waited for him to change his
mind, but he didn’t even blink. “So, Re…uh, Becky, you seem pretty up on Mexican stuff. How long have you been here?”

  “A little over five years.”

  “Really? Full time? The IRS after you?”

  “Possibly.”

  “How did you end up on the Baja?”

  I pulled the car over at a gorgeous stretch of beach and asked, “You writing a book?”

  “Enough about you, then.”

  Laughing, I got out and searched for an old campfire. Sure enough, all we needed was some dried driftwood and a lighter, which I kept in the car. Wadding up a few of Barry’s slick sales brochures from a box in the back, we got a fire going. I went to the car and returned with a frying pan I keep there for emergencies, and a pillowcase containing cutlery, salt and pepper, and plates and a bowl from Jeff’s hotel room.

  He eyed my ill-gotten goods and asked, “Rest of the linens wouldn’t fit into your bag? What are you, some kind of klepto girl scout?”

  “In the Baja, one needs to stay prepared. I hate cold bacon.”

  “You want to get married?”

  “Nope, been there, done that.”

  “Wanna live in sin?”

  I guffawed. I love guys with a good sense of humor, a snappy comeback, and who appreciate reheated bacon.

  After we made grilled bacon sandwiches and finished off the fruit salad, I realized my lack of sleep and too much booze the night before was catching up with me. It was still early, and I knew we could easily reach one of the East Cape hotels before dark. “I’m going to take a walk and wake myself up. And maybe get rid of this headache with some fresh sea air. Want to come with me?” I asked.

  “No, I’m going to wash the dishes, kill the fire and try to grab a cat nap. Too bad you didn’t steal the bedding.”

  “Steal is such a harsh word. Look in the white garbage bag. There’s a pillow in there, but don’t get sand on it.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  ***

  The deserted beach was breathtaking in its beauty.

  Now that we were on the Sea of Cortez side, the water was more turquoise, the waves gentler, and the light northern breeze refreshing.

  It took me a while after I moved—more like fled—to the Baja to figure out where the Sea of Cortez starts and the Pacific Ocean ends, but it is fairly simple; if you draw a line from Cabo San Lucas to Mazatlán, the Sea of Cortez is on the north side.

  Fifteen minutes after I left the car, I’d found a warm and protected patch of beach to lay on, when I faintly heard Jeff yelling and turned to see him frantically waving his arms like he was doing jumping jacks. Annoyed to have my solitary time disturbed, I walked back to meet him.

  “What?” I demanded when he was within hearing distance.

  He was gasping for breath after what had obviously been a sprint in the soft sand. He leaned over, hands on knees, “Your. Pillow. Something’s. Wrong.”

  “That’s a hundred-dollar goose down pillow! I told you not to get sand on it. What the hell happened?”

  “Come with me. You’ll see.”

  “Okay, but I ain’t jogging.”

  “Good by me. I think I just ran my hangover off.”

  “So, what did you do to my pillow?”

  “When you left I put the seat back to flat and stuffed the pillow, still in the bag, under my head. I was afraid I’d get your precious pillow dirty and you’d leave me out here for the buzzards. I dozed off and woke up in full sun, with sweaty, hot, stinking plastic stuck to my hair.”

  “Stinking? No way. I put on a clean pillow case last night, before Barry took me out for my dump din-din. Jeez, was it only last night? Seems like a year. Anyhow, I stupidly thought I was headed for an evening of dining, drinking, and romance. At least I got the food and booze.”

  “You didn’t find meeting me romantic?” he asked. Seeing my under-the-brow glare, he added, “Look, I’m sorry about what happened with you and Barry. Okay, I’m lying. I’m not sorry, because rather than being on this beautiful beach right now with you, I’d probably still have my elbows propped on some crappy bar in Cabo.”

  “Thanks. I think. Anyhow, my pillow stinks? I wonder if that rat did something to it?”

  “Stinks like hell. Worse than that. It looks like something died on it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s blood-soaked.”

  I took off in a run toward the car. Why, I have no idea. It’s not like my pillow was going anywhere.

  Chapter Four

  Jeff easily caught me as I made haste for the car. Despite being winded, he easily outpaced my slog—something between a shuffle and a slow jog.

  “Blood? On my pillow?” I gasped.

  “Oh yeah. No doubt. I know rancid blood when I smell it, Becky.”

  “I’m almost afraid to ask why.”

  “I hunt.”

  Finally back to the car, and breathing heavily, I grabbed a bottle of water and downed it while staring in dismay at the garbage bag on the hood. On it rested my pillow, with two turkey buzzards nearby squabbling over who got it. Several more circled above.

  “Eeewww. I guess I can’t argue with evidence like that. But I don’t understand. How did it get bloody?”

  “You’re asking me? You took it from your bed.”

  “Barry’s bed. Actually, I just grabbed a corner of the case and dropped it in the bag. Barry has a thing for red satin sheets, which are way too hot, so he keeps the thermostat at seventy to compensate. He said that’s the best sleeping temp.”

  “Sixty-eight.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Supposed to be the best temperature for sleeping.”

  “Says who?”

  “Doctor Oz.”

  “Oh, well then, it must be true. Quite frankly, when I saw that jumble of covers, I got pissed. Looked to me like someone had way too much fun in my…his bed, and didn’t even have the courtesy to make it up. Anyway, I dumped my pillow in the bag.”

  “Are you sure Barry wasn’t still in that bed?”

  “What? Of course, he wasn’t. Surely, if he was sleeping under all that bedding he would have woken up. Right?”

  “Unless he couldn’t.”

  “What do you mean? Oh, hell, you don’t think…” My stomach roiled.

  Jeff shrugged. “I don’t know what to think. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. You take a close look at the evidence and tell me what you come up with.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes.”

  He cautiously folded the garbage bag around my pillow and carried it to the beach. Laying it on the damp sand, he carefully uncovered a hundred bucks worth of Hungarian goose down swathed in red satin for my inspection.

  Gingerly picking up one corner of the pillow case, he flipped it over, revealing a large dark stain in the center of the satin. The spot was maybe ten inches in diameter, shiny in the middle and darker on the edges.

  “Oh, hell. I dunno, kinda looks like chocolate syrup to me. That SOB, he knew I loved that pillow, but it’s hard to believe he could be so hateful.”

  Jeff tilted his head. “I can’t believe you actually lived with a guy who has red satin sheets?”

  “Hey, you were with a girl who’s a literary moron!”

  Walking closer to my pillow, I bent over for a whiff and gagged. “Ack. That is blood, for sure.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I hunt.”

  He smiled. “You hunt, and yet you sleep on red satin pillows? Interesting. But I digress. What do you want to do?”

  “Throw it away!”

  “Becky, that’s not what I meant. Don’t you think we should go back to Cabo and find out why your pillow is covered in blood?”

  “Are you nuts? This is Mexico! If something happened to Barry, they’ll be looking for me. One is not presumed innocent until proven guilty down here. They simply throw the most likely person in the clink. Namely, me.”

  “Is there anyone you can call in
Cabo? Someone you can trust to find out if Barry is okay?”

  “I can’t think of a single person. No Mexican or timeshare hawker, that’s for sure. One thing I do know, this stain is a game changer. There is no way I can check into a hotel until I know for sure there isn’t a problem looking for me in Cabo.”

  “How about you call Barry?”

  “I’ll give it a go as soon as we get somewhere I can buy a burner phone.”

  “I have an iPhone.”

  “So do I, but calls from them can be traced back to a location, right?”

  “I guess. Not sure about in Mexico, though.”

  “I’m not taking any chances. I’ve been down here long enough to know how the guilty-until-proven-guilty thing works. Okay, let’s beat feet to the nearest OXXO so I can buy that phone.”

  He looked at the lonely stretch of dirt road ahead. “They have stores out here?”

  “We aren’t that far from civilization.”

  As we got back in the car, Jeff said, “I’ve been seeing those stores everywhere. What does OXXO stand for anyhow?”

  “I asked that, but no one seems to know for sure. OXXO is the 7-Eleven of Mexico. They’re so prevalent that when you ask Mexicans for directions, they’ll say something like, ‘Go past the third OXXO on the right and turn left.’”

  “Ha! I’ll keep an eye out for one.”

  We drove northward for a couple of hours, me watching for road hazards and thinking about that pillow, and Jeff snapping photos of the scenery and probably wondering if he was riding with a murderess.

  After we finally hit pavement again, sure enough, within a few miles, Jeff yelled, “OXXO sighting! Twelve-o’clock.” He pointed straight ahead.

  “Roger that, Copiloto.”

  I whipped into the parking lot and got out. “Want anything?”

  “I’m coming in. Do they have cold beer?”

  “Is there a piñata in Mexico?”

  While Jeff shopped, I bought the cheapest phone in the store. I filled out a form in almost illegible English, and when the clerk asked, waved a driver’s license at him before quickly pocketing it. Paying cash, I headed for the exit to wait for my copilot.

  When he butt-backed out the door, I asked, “Good grief, what all did you buy?”