Читать книгу: «Day of the Dead», страница 2
CHAPTER TWO
There was a lot of blood.
Headwounds bleed a lot, Michelle thought vaguely. She’d read that somewhere. Or seen it on television.
It didn’t mean that Daniel was dying.
But by this time the blood had covered one side of his face, was dripping onto the tiled floor, and he was unconscious, moaning now and again. Michelle couldn’t decide what to do next.
Clothes, she thought, I have to put on some clothes. And I have to call someone. And get a towel, for the blood. Which first?
Phone.
She wasn’t sure whom to call or how it worked, so she punched ‘zero’ on the room phone, and finally a woman’s voice answered, asking a question. ‘A sus órdenes,’ Michelle made out.
‘Help … I need help … in Room 452. I need a doctor.’
‘You are having an emergency?’
‘Yes. Someone’s hurt. They came in, and … Please, just send help.’
She grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, thinking, I’m putting on clothes, and this naked man is bleeding on my floor. I should be doing something for him, but I need to get dressed, don’t I? And it took only a minute or two, and by the time someone pounded on the door, she’d crouched down by Daniel, had covered him with a sheet, was pressing a towel to the bleeding gash on his scalp. No one needed to know she’d gotten dressed first.
Two hotel workers had come, men who handled luggage, patrolled the grounds. Seeing Michelle at the door holding a bloody towel, Daniel lying on the floor behind her, one immediately reached for his walkie-talkie.
The first set of police arrived just before the ambulance did.
‘He’s not my husband,’ Michelle tried to explain. ‘He’s a friend. Un amigo.’ The blood had soaked the towel, had gotten all over her hand, and she wiped her hand on her shorts.
One of the policemen handed her a fresh towel. White, like the uniform he wore, white polo shirt and cargo shorts, black baseball cap.
The other policeman knelt down next to her. ‘Let me help you, señorita,’ he said, taking the towel. ‘You can rest if you like.’
Suddenly she felt dizzy. ‘Thank you,’ she said. Somehow she made it to the bed, her hand reaching blindly for the solidity of the mattress. She sat on the edge of the bed, watched the ambulance attendants arrive and tend to Daniel with a minimum of fuss, bandage his head and lift him onto a gurney.
By now he was conscious, somewhat. ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘What … ?’
‘Where are they taking him?’ Michelle asked the policeman.
‘CMQ Hospital. Don’t worry. It’s a good place. He’ll be fine.’
Two more men arrived. ‘Judicial police,’ the patrolman explained. ‘They can take the statement from you.’
The new policemen wore plainclothes. Polo shirt again and khakis on one, a madras plaid and Dockers on the other, ID and badges hung on lanyards.
One of the ambulance attendants asked her a question. It took a couple of times for her to understand.
‘Su nombre,’ she heard. He pointed at Daniel. His name.
‘Daniel.’
‘The family name?’
Of course she didn’t know.
The faces of the ambulance attendant and the policemen stayed studiously blank.
‘So he is not your husband,’ one of the new policemen stated, the one in khakis. ‘Or a boyfriend.’
‘No.’ Her face flamed red. ‘Just a friend.’
His partner lifted Daniel’s shorts off the floor, patted the pockets, and retrieved his wallet. The policeman in the khakis gave a little wave to the ambulance attendants, who bundled Daniel out the door.
He was younger than she was, the policeman, in his early thirties, she thought: tall and well built, with a relaxed, loose way of carrying himself. Something about his accent, the cadence of his speech, was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place what it was.
‘Can you tell me what happened?’ he asked.
There wasn’t much to tell, really. She skipped how she and Daniel had met. They’d had dinner. Come back to the hotel. Were sleeping.
‘So these men,’ he said when she’d finished. ‘Anything you can tell me, about how they looked? Were they tall? Short? If we showed you photos, could you identify them?’
‘No.’ She shook her head ‘No. They wore scarves across their faces. They were … I don’t know.’ She tried to picture them, that moment when she saw them entering from the balcony. ‘One was skinny. Not very big at all. Short. The other, he wasn’t tall either, but he was stocky. Like a wrestler.’
The one who’d approached her bed.
‘He had on a belt,’ she said suddenly. ‘With a buckle shaped like a gun. And there were letters woven in it. ERO.’
‘Guerrero?’ the policeman asked.
‘Maybe. Yes. I think so.’
He nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said, standing up. ‘Sorry this has happened to you and your friend. It’s not so common in Vallarta, but it happens. If you give me contact information, I’ll let you know if anything comes up.’
‘What’s Guerrero?’ she asked.
‘State next door. Lots of thieves come from there.’
The other plainclothes policeman nodded. ‘And narcos,’ he said. ‘Always causing problems. Even now in Vallarta.’
After the policemen left, Michelle stayed where she was, sitting on the edge of the bed. Little piles of clothes lay scattered about, like the aftermath of a freeway car wreck. She could see the blood as well, the blood on the tiled floor. She’d gotten blood on her T-shirt and shorts, too.
What was she supposed to do now?
There was a knock on the door.
‘Señorita?’
And naturally there was blood on her hands. She almost laughed at that. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and she still felt guilty.
‘Señorita Mason?’ It was a woman’s voice. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Who is it?’
‘Claudia, from the front desk.’
She thought she remembered a Claudia, but she couldn’t be sure. She got up, went to the door, put on the chain, and cracked it open.
A woman stood there, middle-aged and stout, wearing a blue shift that looked like a nurse’s uniform. Michelle recognized her. Behind her was a man she’d seen sitting at a stand resembling a portable bar up at the entrance to the hotel driveway, where taxis dropped off guests.
‘We are here to help you,’ the woman said.
Michelle nodded. ‘Okay.’ She undid the chain. ‘Thank you.’ It made sense, she thought, that they’d send someone. To clean up.
They came in. The man spotted the bloody towel on the floor. He picked it up and put it in a trashbag. He wore latex gloves, like you’d use to do dishes.
Michelle sat back down on the bed. She didn’t know what else to do.
The woman immediately squatted by Michelle and covered her hand with her own, which was dry and a little rough.
‘This is terrible,’ she said, ‘and we are so very sorry. These things should not happen in Vallarta.’
‘Things like this happen everywhere,’ Michelle murmured.
‘I think we can move you to another room, right? A better room.’
Michelle thought about it. She stared at the heaps of clothing, the puddle of blood now drying in the refrigerated air.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. I don’t want to stay in this room anymore.’
They moved her to a suite in a newer wing, one with a separate bedroom and a bar, a wide balcony with wrought-iron furniture. She checked the balcony first thing. It could not be reached through another suite; there was no way to climb up to it that she could see.
After the woman from the front desk and the man from reception moved all her things, hung the clothes that had been in the closet, arranged her toothbrush, cosmetics, and moisturizers on the bathroom counter – after all that had been done, the offer of tea by the hotel staff turned down, Michelle stepped into the shower. Stood under the spray for a very long time.
When she got out, she slipped into the silk pajamas she’d packed, the sleeveless top and shorts. She considered having a whiskey from the minibar, thinking it might relax her, might help her sleep, but she already had the beginnings of a headache, so instead she took an Ambien. Tom’s prescription. Why let them go to waste?
She climbed into bed, closed her eyes. What replayed in her head was not the robbery, the assault, but Daniel’s face, over hers.
Maybe I should have gone to the hospital, Michelle thought as the drug began to take hold. Would that have been the right thing to do? But she barely knew Daniel, after all. Couldn’t even ask for him by name.
The breeze from the ocean billowed the gauzy curtains on the balcony. I should get up, she thought. I should close the door. But she was safe here, wasn’t she? And she was so tired, and the air smelled good.
She watched the curtains expand and contract, as though they were breathing.
Eventually her breaths slowed down to match, and then she slept.
‘We hope you can stay a little longer, Ms. Mason.’
The woman behind the front desk, a different woman from the one last night, briefly rubbed her hands before composing herself. She was trim, perhaps Michelle’s age, carefully made up, with a gold necklace and gold earrings that looked to be a set. Even in the heat of the patio that served as the hotel lobby, only the faintest dewy perspiration dampened her forehead. Michelle was already dripping sweat.
‘We are so sorry about what happened. We’d like for you to stay as our guest and enjoy yourself.’
Everyone was being very kind, Michelle thought. Probably they were worried about lawsuits.
The robbers had somehow gained access to a vacant room next to her old room, climbed from that balcony onto hers. Obviously the security was not what it should have been. If she were in America, she could probably sue.
But in Mexico? How did things work here? Would it be worth it to try?
‘Right now I’m scheduled to leave on Sunday,’ she said.
‘Of course, of course. We could make an arrangement for you to stay here in the future, if you’d like to return. Or if you decide you’d like to stay a little longer, we can do that as well.’
‘Thank you,’ Michelle said. ‘I’ll think about it.’
Even with what had happened, it was tempting. Spending time on the beach, drinking margaritas on the hotel’s dime, sounded better than her current life in Los Angeles. Living in her sister’s spare room. Listening to Maggie’s fights with her boyfriend, to her son Ben’s tantrums. It was why she’d come on this vacation in the first place, to get away from all that for a few days.
A giggle rose in her throat as she walked up the stairs from the reception area to her tower. Maybe she just wouldn’t leave. See how long the hotel’s free room was good for. They hadn’t really said.
I’ll live off room service and peanuts from the minibar, she thought. Let my hair go gray, my thighs get fat, get a couple of cats and a Chihuahua. Fill the room with purchases from the beach vendors: loud serapes, wooden dolphin statuettes, flying Batman parachute toys, piled in stacks, all smelling vaguely of cat piss. Take her Chihuahua on walks down the Malecón. Maybe one of the cats, too.
She felt, for the first time in months, light. Unencumbered. Free.
The feeling wouldn’t last long, probably, but why not enjoy it?
Maybe I’ll take some pictures, she thought.
Get out the good camera. Wander around. See what caught her eye. She hadn’t done that in ages, hadn’t done it here at all, not even a few snapshots with her point-and-shoot, and she was a pretty decent photographer – or had been, once.
She decided to change out of the sundress and into some shorts and a tanktop. Better for taking photos, in case she needed to climb or crouch.
The hotel people hadn’t arranged things the way she would, naturally, and she had to hunt inside the wardrobe to figure out where they’d put her clothes.
Underwear on one shelf. Blouses and skirts neatly hung. Sandals lined in a row.
Including one pair that didn’t belong. A pair of Tevas, too big to fit her feet.
Hanging on the closet pole, a faded batik shirt.
Daniel’s clothes.
She found the swim trunks on the shelf with her bathing suit and sarong.
Holding up the trunks, she felt a surge of irritation. How could they have forgotten his clothes? What was she supposed to do with them?
Maybe she’d give them to the beach vendors, to one of the Indian kids peddling garish magnets made in China.
It’s not right for me to feel this way, she thought. She should care – shouldn’t she? – about what had happened to him. Maybe he’d just needed stitches, maybe he was resting at home right now, or even back on the beach looking for some other tourist to fuck, but what if he’d been badly hurt? A skull fracture, bleeding in the brain, something like that.
But ever since Tom had died, she didn’t seem to feel the things she was supposed to feel.
And maybe it wasn’t so strange, not wanting to see Daniel, after what had happened. What did she know about him, really? Just that he was attractive, and after she’d taken him to her room, they’d been attacked.
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 coming 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.’
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