Getaway (2 page)

Losing control would be a bad idea.

“How would you feel about dinner?” she asked.

They had
another drink so they could watch the sunset, ate some more guacamole to absorb the tequila. “There’s a restaurant not too far from here I like,” Daniel said.

“I’m not really dressed.” She’d only put on a gauzy white blouse over her bathing-suit top, wrapped the sarong around her hips.

“What you’re wearing is fine,” he said, giving her a quick, appreciative look. “It’s a casual place. Lots of people go there after the beach.”

The restaurant was a few blocks away, on a street that ran up from the beach and bordered a small plaza, where there were a number of restaurants that catered to tourists. Farther up the street were shops, mostly clothing stores and handicrafts: Huichol beadwork, hand-tooled leather, embroidered blouses. Michelle had walked up there the day before.

“There’s always lines out the door,” Daniel said. “It’s one of the only decent places to get Mexican food around here.”

They waited outside, by the open-air grill, where a woman made tortillas and a man tended meats.

“Really?”

He shrugged. “Well, I’m sure there are some places the locals go to that I don’t know about. Here in Zona Romántica—you can get better Mexican food in Los Angeles.”

Michelle nodded. “I’m from Los Angeles,” she mentioned.

“Oh, yeah? I love L.A. Where do you live?”

“Brentwood.”

Of course, that wasn’t exactly true. The storage space with her things in it was in Torrance.

But she’d lived in Brentwood, before.

“Nice,” Daniel said. “Good weather, right, that close to the ocean?”

It was hot inside the restaurant, even with the fans, even though the front was open to let in whatever breezes there were. There weren’t any. The air was weighted down by heat and humidity, immobile.

Daniel recommended the tortilla soup. They both ordered a bowl. Had another round of margaritas. Mariachis played, whether anyone wanted them to or not.

“Hey, Danny!”

The man who approached their table was soft-featured, in his thirties, wearing Dockers and a polo shirt.

Daniel shifted in his chair. “Ned, hey.” Something close to a frown creased his forehead.

“Man, I can’t believe I ran into you here. I was just, you know, on my way to the restaurant, and I saw you.”

“Yeah, well, we’re having dinner,” Daniel said.

Ned shuffled from one foot to the other, rubbed his hands together. “I don’t want to interrupt. But, look, I really need to talk to you. When you have a chance. Are you around, or …?”

“Can you make it to the board meeting? We can talk then.”

“I guess … I’ll try.… It’s just … kind of time-sensitive.” Ned looked around, eyes darting, still rubbing his hands. He reminded Michelle of the tweakers she used to know in high school. “Hey, you could come by the restaurant tomorrow night. I’ll hook you up. We’re running some great specials. Surf and turf. Got some good wines in, too.” He finally focused on Michelle. “You could bring your friend.”

“This is Michelle,” Daniel said. “From Los Angeles.”

“Oh, cool.” He extended his hand to her. She took it. Sweaty, not surprisingly. “My place is just down the street. The Lonely Bull.” He smiled at her for a moment and seemed to lose focus. “Hope you can make it.”

“I don’t know, man,” Daniel said. “I’ve got some stuff going on. Look, just give me a call tomorrow, okay?”

Ned nodded like a bobblehead doll. “Okay. Great. I’ll call you.”

“The board meeting?” Michelle asked after he’d left. “Are you in business together?”

Daniel snorted. “With Ned? No.”

By now their carnitas had arrived, along with another round of margaritas.

I’m getting pretty buzzed, she thought. She no longer cared.

“The board meeting, it’s just a bunch of us expats who get together on Fridays, at El Tiburón. We hang out, watch the sunset.” He stared at her. “Think you’ll be around?”

“Maybe,” she murmured. “Tiburón. Like the town in California?”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “It’s Spanish for ‘shark.’ ”

• • •

By the
time they finished eating, it was almost eleven. Not that late, but after all the drinks and a day in the sun Michelle had to step carefully off the high curbs onto the cobblestones. That was the thing here—the curbs were not a uniform height, you couldn’t just assume you knew how to judge the distances.

“Whoa!” Daniel said, catching her elbow, steadying her.

Michelle giggled. “Glad I’m not wearing heels.”

Now they had reached her hotel, bypassing the open-air lobby and entering through the arches that bordered on the wide, cobblestone drive.

“Which way is your room?”

Through the courtyard, to the right, in the tower overlooking the beach. Watch for the slick terra-cotta tiles, the sand gritting underfoot. Wait for the elevator, and when it doesn’t come, climb the stairs to the fourth floor.

Michelle felt around in her sisal tote bag for her key, found the hard plastic wedge stamped with the room number, the key attached. Her hand closed around it.

She turned, her back to the door.

“Well,” she said.

“Well.”

He leaned down and kissed her. She tasted salt—from the drinks? From the ocean? She leaned into him, let her hand rest above the small of his back. He pressed against her, hard. She wrapped her leg around his, felt his hands on her ass, lifting her up.

“Wait,” she said. She showed him the key.

He grinned. “I was hoping you’d ask me in.”

The room was stifling. She’d turned the air conditioner off, out of habit. She switched it on, and the unit rattled to life. It smelled musty, like the spoiled damp of an old refrigerator. Still, with the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony left open, you could hear the ocean, catch a whiff of its brine.

Daniel stood and watched her, a dark silhouette.

“Come here,” he said.

By the time they’d made it to the bed, the air conditioner had chilled the room enough that Michelle was grateful for the warm breeze that blew in from the balcony.

“You have a beautiful body,” Daniel said, running a hand lightly over her belly.

“So do you.”

The words sounded stupid as soon as she said them. You don’t tell men they’re beautiful.

Daniel didn’t seem to mind. He looked pleased. “Gotta keep in shape for the things I enjoy.”

He had a nice body, he really did. Lean but not stringy. Energetic. She hadn’t been with anybody like him in a long time. Certainly not Tom, and she’d stayed faithful to Tom.

Tom with his big belly, his barrel chest. Twelve years older than her and not exactly a stud.

“Hey,” Daniel said. “Hey, what is it?”

She was crying, goddamn it. She rarely cried. She hated it.

“Hey.” He smoothed the hair around her face.

He was looking at her now, and she could tell what he was thinking: Great, I’m in bed with a crazy woman.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry. Don’t … It’s stupid.”

“Listen, I mean, if you’re not into this …”

He tried but could not quite keep the irritation from his voice.

“I am. I’m sorry. It’s just …” She tried to smile. “I haven’t dated in a while. My husband …”

“So … you’re married?” Now the irritation seemed mixed with curiosity.

No disapproval at least. Perhaps a calculation about whether this was worth it.

“No. Not anymore.”

“Oh.” Daniel rolled over onto his side, propped himself up on his elbow. “Yeah. It’s tough getting back into things after you split from somebody you’ve been with for a long time.”

“My husband died, actually.”

She enjoyed it in a way, getting the reaction, seeing the look on his face, the shock, the embarrassment.

“I’m really sorry,” he said.

The way he said it, so simply, made her flush with guilt.

“No, don’t be, I really …” She wanted to reach out, wanting to touch him, to encourage him, but it felt so awkward, so phony.

“I want to,” she finally said. “It’s just a little hard.”

Daniel extended his hand, rested his palm on her cheek for a moment. “Look. We both had a lot to drink. This is all kind of intense. Maybe I should just go.”

This time she did reach out. “No. Stay. If you want.”

They tried again. But the energy that had gotten them into bed was gone now, dissipated, and after a few perfunctory thrusts Daniel stopped and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’m really tired.”

“Don’t apologize.” She tried to smile. “You’ve been great. I haven’t.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

His face was dark above hers, but she thought his expression was kind.

She kissed him, slowly.

“Mmmm. That was nice,” he said.

After that they both fell asleep, not spooning but close together, Daniel’s hand resting on the hollow above her hip.

So many noises here. The familiar: unmuffled motorcycle, snatches of music, pounding surf. The unfamiliar: songbirds singing foreign tunes, parrots squawking, the
toc-toc
cry of geckos.

What woke her?

A muffled thud. A clatter. She blinked her eyes open. Two men, one entering from the balcony, the other crouched over the chair, Daniel’s shorts in his hand, her tote bag on the floor by his feet.

“Hey!” Daniel flung the sheet off, bolted out of bed.

Now Michelle saw they wore kerchiefs over the lower halves of their faces. The second pulled something from his pocket, something dark that he gripped in his fist. For a moment Daniel froze
as the man took two quick strides to him, raised the hand that clutched the black pistol, and smashed it against his temple.

Daniel crumpled, as surely as if he’d been shot.

It happened so quickly that Michelle didn’t scream; instead she gasped and clutched the sheet.

The man with the gun turned to her.

He was close to the bed. She could see that he wore dark clothes, a black T-shirt, jeans, and he took another step toward her. He had on a belt, woven brown and white leather; she could see it clearly in the light that leaked in from the balcony.

The buckle was a gun, and there were letters in the weave. She saw those as he tugged at the tongue of the belt to unbuckle it.

“¡Pendejo!”
the other man spit, gesturing toward the balcony.

The man with the gun stared at her a moment longer before he turned and followed his companion out the sliding glass door, into the night.

[CHAPTER TWO]

There was a lot of blood
.

Head wounds 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.