Dray (11 page)

Chapter 20

Dray

I grabbed up my duffle. “I sure didn’t see anyone else taking that long to go through security. Either we look sketchy or that burly woman with the metal detector just wanted to keep running her wand over you.”

“She did seem to be taking her time with that thing.”

“I think she wanted it to go off so she’d have an excuse to frisk you.” We walked down the long corridor to the exit. “This is a nice airport. Clean and really modern. And definitely less hassle than LAX.”

Barrett pushed open the glass door. “What were you expecting— a three sided cardboard hut with a gravel runway?”

“Yeah, sort of. I mean if they can build airports like this, why can’t they make their tap water safe to drink?”

“Good point.” The air felt like the inside of a steamy shower stall only the soapy smell was replaced by the smell of cow manure, green grass and something that was hard to decipher but was the complete opposite of soap.

There was a line of odd looking golf carts outside the terminal. The drivers eyed us like prey. “Those are the pulmonia Pete told me about. We can hire one to take us into Mazatlan. Then we’ll have to catch a bus the rest of the way. These guys just go from the airport to Mazatlan and back.”

“We’re going to travel to Mazatlan in a golf cart?”

“Yep.” Barrett patted the pesos in his pocket.

I shrugged and pulled my bag onto my shoulder. “I’m good with that. Probably some cool scenery along the way.”

We headed to the line of carts. “How much attention did you pay in Mr. Rivera’s high school Spanish class?” Barrett asked.

“What was Spanish class and who was Mr. Rivera?”

“That answers my question. Three of the cheerleaders had Spanish at the same time as me, so I learned absolutely nothing except that I preferred their winter uniform over the spring one. The winter skirts were a lot shorter and those tight sweaters— damn.”

“So we’re screwed on the whole communication thing?”

“Looks that way.”

One of the drivers hopped out of his cart to greet us. “Mazatlan?” he asked.

Barrett nodded. “How much?”

The man’s thick moustache twitched, and he seemed to be assessing just how easily we could be duped, which, considering our lack of language and knowledge about Mexico, was a fairly good amount. “Four hundred pesos,” he said with very little accent.

Barrett reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper that had a lot of notes scribbled on it. “Pete gave me the heads up about some stuff.” He looked over the paper and then up at the driver. “Two hundred pesos.”

The guy nodded and inclined his head toward the gold cart. We climbed in back. He looked up into his rearview mirror. “Your friend, Pete, must know Mazatlan,” he said in perfect English. He must have seen the surprise on our faces. “I spent my teen years in the states. Which hotel are you heading to?” He threw his cart into gear. I grabbed the seat edge as we lurched forward.

“We’re not staying in Mazatlan,” Barrett said. “We’re going north for some Sinaloa surf.”

The driver looked up into the mirror, and the creases around his eyes deepened. “You should stay in Mazatlan. It’s more suited to tourists like yourselves.”

“We’re meeting friends up there,” Barrett continued.

The driver shook his head and then pushed earphones into his ears. We swung out onto a stretch of nearly deserted highway, and the open air concept of the taxi became really apparent. If you weren’t paying attention, one fast turn and you could be road kill.

The cool scenery I’d imagined quickly faded as we traveled along long stretches of weed covered fields with only the occasional rundown hovel to break up the scene. A different odor met at us at every turn making me wonder why they’d opted for golf carts as a way to introduce visitors to the country.

“A big contrast from that sleek airport we just came from,” I said.

Barrett stared out at the dry fields. “I think we’ll see a lot of the same, but I hear Mazatlan is really nice.”

I looked over at him. “You mean the place we’re just passing through?”

Barrett nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, I guess so, but if we stayed there it would cost too much money. We’re going on the poor man’s surfing trip, remember?”

“So, was Clutch still pissed at you for taking this trip?” We instinctively grabbed the edge of the seat as the cart hit a ditch at full speed. Our asses left the seat temporarily.

Barrett pushed his sunglasses up on his nose. “Jimmy is always pissed at me, so I really couldn’t tell you for sure. I’ve got to get out of his house. I love the guy, but I need to be out from under his controlling eye. This next construction job is going to be up in northern California. They’re building some big mansion on a vineyard or something like that. I’ll be up there for awhile. When the job is over, I’ll have enough money to move out.” A cluster of chickens and roosters clogged the road, which had shrank from several lanes to one primitive path. The driver pressed the gas pedal harder, and we plowed toward the birds. In a cloud of feathers and clucks, they scurried off to the side of the road with all their wings and drumsticks intact.

“Still don’t know what I’m going to do once you leave. I refuse to be the fifth wheel.”

“You should call the guy I work with and see if you can get a job with his crew. They always need guys to haul in lumber and stuff.”

“Just what I need— another
grunt
position. Besides, I don’t really like construction.”

A small herd of underfed cows plodded across the road several hundred yards ahead, and Barrett and I both seemed to imagine the same scenario. We both reached forward and grabbed the seat in front of us, sure that the driver was going to floor it like he had with the chickens. But he slowed, and we relaxed back.

The cows meandered across the road like animals that had no particular place to be. A few stopped to stare at us for a moment. The driver just tapped his steering wheel to the music playing in his earphones. An old, hunched over man followed at a snail’s pace behind his herd. Our driver pulled out his earphones and yelled something to the man in what seemed like a friendly, familiar tone. The old man said something back, and the driver laughed and motioned his head back toward us. Then he said a long string of Spanish words, and I was sure I heard the word
Sinaloa
pass his thick mustache. Laughter followed. The cow farmer laughed too.

Barrett and I looked at each other.

“You should have stopped looking at the cheerleaders and listened to the teacher.”

The last cow had finally trotted off the road, and the golf cart lurched forward.

“At least I made it to class,” Barrett snorted.

“Yeah, a lot of good it did you,” I said. “At least we were able to give the driver and his cow buddy a moment of humor. I’m not sure what the exchange was about, but something tells me the words
stupid tourist
and
Sinaloa
were used in the same sentence.”

After a long stretch of unplanted fields and houses that looked as if they’d been built from refrigerator boxes, we reached a road that led down toward the beach. The white and pink plaster walls of hotels, nicely landscaped with palm trees and fountains, blocked the ocean view as the cart coasted down to sea level.

The sidewalks were crowded with tourists and locals. The scenery was better, but the sour odor still clung to the moist tropical air. Even the ocean breeze didn’t seem to have the strength to clear it.

The driver pulled over to the walking path.

Barrett pulled out his wallet. “He did say he was going to take us to Mazatlan. I guess he’s not going to take us even ten more feet into town.”

The driver pulled out his earphones and reached back for the money. “I don’t know many pulmonia drivers who will take you past the city.” He glanced at the tiny clock magnet on his dashboard. “You can catch a bus north in a few hours. Just look for the bus bench.”

“What time?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Hard to say. Could be anytime this afternoon.”

“Great. Thanks for the ride.”

We climbed out of the cart. The driver whipped the cart around and headed back up the road we’d just traveled.

Barrett pressed a hand against his stomach. “Fucking starved. Looks like there some good places to eat. Let’s get some food and then we can find a bench and wait for the bus.”

“Maybe we should call your friend Pete and ask him if he knows when the bus will come through.”

“Good idea.” Barrett reached into the side of his bag and pulled out his phone. “I’ll have to talk fast because I think the minutes are going to cost a fortune.” He listened and then left a message. “Hey, we’re in Mazatlan. Call me back once you pull your ass out of the surf.”

We walked down toward the coastline. The terraced hillsides overlooking the palm lined beaches were crowded with boxy houses and hotels. A hot, intense sun reflected off the bright white paint of the buildings. A blue awning stuck out over the sidewalk boasting of shrimp being served inside. We headed in.

***

We were no longer on Los Angeles time. That became painfully apparent when we waited nearly an hour for our shrimp baskets. Our stomachs were full with beer by the time the food arrived, but we managed to chow down every piece of shrimp.

We walked outside. The sun had dipped lower in the sky. “I don’t know if I could ever get used to this laid back, snail’s pace lifestyle,” I said. “I hate waiting for shit. Makes me antsy. I guess since we never heard back from your friend, we better just find a bus stop and wait.”

We rounded a corner and nearly smacked directly into our pulmonia driver. He looked amused to see us. “No bus yet?”

“Nope,” Barrett said. “Where’s the bus stop at?”

“You might have missed the last one,” he said.

“Really?” Barrett looked over at me. “Shit. We shouldn’t have stopped for shrimp.”

“Well, at the time, we didn’t realize that they had to go out and actually catch the shrimp first,” I said.

“Where exactly are you heading?” the man asked.

“Can’t say for sure.” Barrett reached into his pocket and pulled out the infamous note paper. He pointed to some words on the paper. “Not sure how to say it but this is the closest town. Then we’re supposed to hike the dirt road down to the water, turn left, and walk until we see a small white shack with a stone wall and surfboards lined up along the back of it.”

The man looked at Barrett as if he was completely nuts and I joined him. “Do you mean those were the best directions Pete could give you? ‘Turn left and look for a shack with surfboards’?”

Barrett shrugged. Sometimes it was easy to see why Clutch became so easily irritated by his brother.

The man squinted at the paper. “If you walk to the north end of town, you’ll see a gas station. The mechanic lives in this town on the paper. For a few hundred pesos, I’m sure you can jump into the back of his truck for a ride. His name is Jorge.”

“That’s great. Thanks,” Barrett said.

“You should hurry though. The station closes in an hour, and if you miss him, you’ll have to stay here in Mazatlan tonight.”

“Thanks.” We headed in the direction he’d pointed.

Our feet pounded the white hot cement of the sidewalk as we half-ran toward the north end of town. Barrett pressed his arm against his stomach. “Those shrimp are taking a swim in all that beer, and it’s making me feel like shit.”

“A second reason why the shrimp stop was a mistake.” Three girls in sheer bathing suit cover-ups and tiny bikinis clicked past us on sandals. We both stopped to watch them sashay by. “You know, staying here for a night might not be so bad. Maybe we could just camp out on the beach.”

“That’ll be our last resort.” Barrett’s face was twisted in pain.

We were used to hot temperatures but not the humidity. The shrimp and beer mixture wasn’t sitting too well with me either. The farther we got from the center of town with its hotels, restaurants and other reminders of civilization, the more dilapidated and abandoned the buildings got. Several black and red gas station pumps poked up from a rundown lot of broken asphalt a mile ahead of us. I pushed up my sunglasses to get a better look.

“Looks like the doors on the garage are still open.” I glanced over at Barrett, who looked a lot paler than he had when we left the restaurant. “Dude, you look green. What the fuck?”

He shook his head. “I’m never going to eat shrimp again.”

A loud motor rumbled behind us, and the creaking sounds of a bad transmission cracked through the thick air. A garbage truck, bursting at its seams, came rumbling toward us, tilting from side to side like a massive, drunk animal. It roared past us and left behind a stench that could only be described as a sewage explosion.

I pulled my shirt up over my nose and held my breath, but it was too late for Barrett. He spun around and bent down into the bushes to get rid of lunch.

I watched him struggle with his long hair for a second, and as sick as I felt just hearing him, I couldn’t help but laugh. “Hey, Rett, I guess if we were girls I’d be obligated to hold your hair for you. Shit, I’m sure glad we’re not chicks.”

Still hunched over and groaning in pain, Barrett managed to lift a shaky hand and flip me off.

“Not a great start to our week of surfing, eh?” I said.

Barrett stood and braced his hands on his thighs to catch his breath. “Not exactly how I imagined it,” he said shakily.

I joked lightly about it, completely unaware that the river of bad luck had started to flow again. Only this time, I was taking Barrett downstream with me.

Chapter 21

Dray

“We’re looking for Jorge,” I said to the pair of work boots sticking out from under the old Cadillac. The boots didn’t move at first, and, for a second, I wondered if I was talking to a dead body that had been stuffed under a car. Then he rolled out and looked up at us with a face that was covered with far more grease than seemed logical for just being under the chassis of an old car. He sat up and stared at Barrett, who looked as if he’d just washed up on shore from some shipwreck.

It was hard to make out the name on the greasy nametag, but I was pretty sure I was talking to Jorge. “Hey, Rett, pull out your friend’s note and some money.”

Barrett reached into his pocket, and the man jumped to his feet in alarm. Instinctively, Barrett and I put up our hands to show him we had nothing in them. The guy relaxed.

Barrett held out the paper and pointed to the name of the town. “Two hundred pesos?” He pointed to the old pick-up truck sitting in the otherwise deserted gas station.

The guy looked us both over. He pointed a black-stained finger at Barrett. “Two hundred pesos.” Then he pointed the finger at me. “Two hundred pesos.”

“That’s four hundred pesos,” Barrett said in irritation.

I glanced over at him. “Math class must not have had any cheerleaders. Four hundred. Let’s just go for it. You said yourself we won’t need much once we get down to the beach. Besides, even the beer is dirt cheap down here.”

Barrett pulled four hundred pesos out of his wallet and handed it to the guy.

The guy pocketed the money and then ran a greasy cloth over his hands as if that was going to make any difference. He headed into a small stall that seemed to be his office.

Barrett called to him. “Hey, agua?” He raised an imaginary bottle of water to his mouth in case his flat Californian accent got in the way of the guy understanding him.

The guy nodded. “Si.” He brought us each a bottle. It looked better than any pitcher of beer or anything else for that matter. “Twenty pesos.”

Barrett sighed and pulled out his wallet again. “He’s definitely got the English number thing down pretty good.” He handed the coins to the guy and grabbed greedily at the bottle. “I’m so thirsty now, I’d give him my left nut for the water.” He gulped it down like a dry sponge. I did the same.

Jorge got a twinkle in his dark eyes. He’d just landed himself a couple of thirsty, desperate tourists, and it seemed he saw the pesos floating like clouds on a stormy day. With a grin he leaned back into the stall and pulled out two more bottles.

Barrett looked longingly at the water.

“I’d just give him another twenty pesos and leave your nuts as a matched pair.”

Ten minutes later we were sitting in the back of a truck that seemed to be held together by chunks of rust and a lot of luck. The scenic hills and deep green sea of Mazatlan disappeared completely. The road and terrain grew rougher with each mile, and the scenery grew more bleak. The sides of the road were littered with broken bottles, old tires and dead weeds. On the plus side, the air was clearer and less putrid smelling. The sun was low in the sky, but there was still plenty of heat and daylight.

Barrett and I leaned back against the back of the cab and watched the road grow narrower as it slid out from under the truck.

“I’m hungry again,” Barrett said.

“Really? Maybe your buddy will be frying up some shrimp.”

He moaned and turned his head to the side. “You’re an asshole.” The truck hit a hole, and his head smacked against the back window. Jorge reached up and knocked angrily on the glass.

“Yeah, yeah you stupid jerk, maybe if you learned to drive this piece of shit truck,” Barrett muttered and slumped down. “So, have you talked to Cassie since that night when you bailed on what promised to be a raunchy game of strip poker?”

“That was the last time I talked to her.” But the conversation had run through my head a hundred times. She’d sounded so shaken, and there was nothing I could do. It had driven me nuts for days just thinking about it. “By the way, from the noises I heard coming from that spare bedroom, there was plenty of
raunch
going on.”

Barrett leaned his head back and lifted his face to the sun. “I think I’m done with all that stuff.”

I threw my head back and laughed. “What stuff? You mean sex?”

“I mean sleeping around with all these girls.” He lowered his chin again and pushed his sunglasses up on his head. “Sometimes, I watch Clutch and Taylor just hanging out or watching a movie together, and I think that would be really cool. I need to find someone that I can just sit around with and laugh and, of course, have amazing sex with. I think I’m ready to get serious with someone.”

I stared at him as if he’d grown horns. “Whoa, I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Where will you find this fantasy creature?”

“Not sure, but I’ll know her when I meet her.” He looked at me. “When did you know that Cassie was the one?”

“What the hell are you talking about? Cassie and I aren’t together, remember?”

“Nah, but you will be.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, and, no offense, Rett, but you’re hardly an expert on love or relationships.” I stared out at the grim scenery. Nothing was familiar and nothing about the place looked inviting. “I knew the second she looked up from her book at me through those thick glasses. She looked tiny, and smart and confident and I knew she was perfect.”

“I never would have taken you for a guy who liked
smart
.”

“Up yours, you blond bimbo. I’ve always liked smart.” I leaned forward and cracked my back and neck. “I wonder how much farther it is. Sitting in the back of this truck sucks.”

“I think Pete said it was about another hour and a half from Mazatlan.”

“Yeah? Was he talking about riding in a regular car instead of a truck held together by glue and duct tape?”

“I don’t think any car could go much faster on this crappy road.” We passed a pale blue building that had no windows and a mural of graffiti. The shell of an old car sat next to it. It was hard to figure how either thing had gotten out there in the middle of what seemed to be a vast stretch of nothingness.

“It feels like we’re getting farther from the coast,” I said.

“Pete mentioned that the road to hike down to the beach starts inland.” The truck veered toward the right, and the first sign of life, a small crooked house, came into view. Some dingy white t-shirts and a pair of jeans dangled from a sagging clothesline. The legs of the jeans dragged on the ground with each breeze.

I leaned forward and looked up the road. “It looks like we’ve finally reached the town. I hope the hike down to the beach isn’t too long, I’m done with this adventure today.”

“At least you still have some food in you,” Barrett said. “My gut is folding in on itself.”

“Believe me, after watching you get rid of that lunch, I wish I had too.”

We passed a string of tiny houses, each one shabbier than the last. Rusted out shells of cars and trucks seemed to be the lawn ornaments of choice, although the yards were also lacking any form of lawn.

“How the heck do people exist out here?” I asked.

Barrett glanced around at the bleak scenery. “It’s a simple, stress free life. I’m sure most of these people work in the resort area.”

“Probably. I doubt there is much work out here. Sad thing about it is there are places like this in the states too. We just live a sheltered life being so close to L.A.”

The bed of the truck lurched from side to side as Jorge turned onto a road that, from the looks of it, had been paved a half-century ago. I peered over the side of the truck. There were just small islands of asphalt clinging to life between the dirt and weeds. “Maybe they’d planned for this place to be a bustling city, and it just never took off. Someone took the time to pave a road.” Apparently, we’d hit the center of town. There were several small stores and markets lining the half-eaten asphalt road.

“I sure as hell hope one of those markets has bottled water,” Barrett said. “I have major cotton mouth but without the pleasure of being buzzed.”

The truck stopped suddenly in front of what I could only guess was a bar. The windows were covered in black paint, but music and the smell of tobacco drifted out from an open door. Jorge hopped out of the truck. We climbed out of the bed. He pointed in the direction of a dirt road.

“Gracias,” Barrett said.

We headed first in the direction of the markets. Aside from two chickens, a dog and an old guy sitting on a chair in front of one of the stores, the street looked like one of the towns Clint Eastwood rode through in one of the million westerns he’d made. It was more like a ghost town than a real town.

“You weren’t kidding about it being a simple, stress free life. I could almost picture myself living out here, sitting on a chair with my beer and cigar waiting for a chicken or cow to pass by.”

The shelves of the tiny market were nearly empty, and the items that were there looked as if they’d been there for a decade. A short woman with weathered skin and a mass of gray hair stood behind the counter. Her brown eyes widened with alarm as Barrett approached her. Then he graced her with one of his dazzling smiles, and her hunched shoulders relaxed.

“Agua?”

“You’ve really got that one down,” I muttered.

“Si.” She bent down behind the counter and lifted a dented and dirty plastic gallon jug that looked as if it had been recycled from a milk container that was never cleaned out. The liquid inside was murky.

Barrett’s face twisted in disgust. “Jeez, that’s agua?”

The lady put on her best saleswoman smile, which, in her case, lacked teeth. “Si, agua.”

“How much?” Barrett asked.

“Dude, I’ll drink my own piss before I drink whatever is in that bottle.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Barrett shook his head at her, and we left the store.

Loud voices came from the bar that Jorge had gone in to. “Should we get some beer or something?” Barrett asked.

“That might cool our thirst at first, but, eventually, we’ll be even worse off. Let’s just get on the road. There’s a gray patch of ocean fog out that direction. It doesn’t look all that far.”

We trudged toward the dirt road. Things were bound to look up once we reached the beach hut.

We were about a hundred yards from the bar, the one place that was busy, when a guy came outside. He was holding a girl’s arm. Her young face was tight with fear as she stared up at the guy. It was the same expression I’d seen on my mom’s face many times.

I could feel Barrett tense next to me. “Remember, Rett, we’ve got to keep our noses clean out here.”

“Yep,” he said through a clenched jaw. As we crossed the road to avoid the couple, the man started yelling at the girl. She shrank down in his grasp. My fists balled tightly. We picked up our pace. Several other bar patrons had stumbled out of the darkness. They squinted in the sunlight to see what the yelling was about, but they quickly returned to their beers. We made it past the bar. Just as my shoulders and hands relaxed, the familiar sound of a fist hitting flesh stopped us cold.

We turned back around. The girl had dropped to her knees and blood poured from her mouth. She looked close to passing out. The asshole leaned down, roughly grabbed hold of her arm and yanked her to her feet. Her head lulled back and blood dripped down her dress.

I stormed toward the guy. Barrett was close at my heels. The jerk hadn’t heard us approach. His eyes nearly popped from his head as I grabbed his arm and jerked him around to face me. He released the girl. Barrett caught her before she flew back. My fist went straight into the guy’s face. He stumbled back and then, with a roar, he lunged forward. My leg flew up, and I kicked him squarely in the jaw. He dropped to his knees and blood flowed like a river from his mouth.

I stared down at him. “That’s called an eye for an eye, you asshole.”

By now, the earlier spectators had once again pulled themselves from their drinks to see what was happening outside the bar. Even our old buddy, Jorge, had joined them, but he’d carried his beer with him. One female patron was nice enough to take the girl form Barrett’s arm and walk her inside for some first aid. The others looked on with expressions that bordered on horror. Jorge lifted his arm and waved for us to leave, and, from the look on his face, we needed to get out of their fast.

We needed no further coaxing. Barrett and I ran for the dirt road. Even as thirsty and hot as we were, we didn’t stop or look back for a good two miles. The road and fields behind us were as deserted as a midnight graveyard, and we finally felt at ease enough to slow to a walk.

“That sure didn’t help my thirst,” Barrett said. “I really hope that Pete stocked up on bottled water. Can’t wait to get there.”

“At least the temperature is dropping. I could almost swear that I feel a mist on my skin, but that might just be sweat. Weirdly enough, as thirsty as I am, I actually have to take a piss.”

Barrett’s face swung toward me.

“I’m not really going to drink it, you knucklehead.” I wandered off the road and Barrett followed. I looked back over my shoulder. “It flows easier without an audience.”

“I’ve got to go too.”

We stood behind a mass of thorny bushes. A vehicle rumbled by on the road, but we couldn’t see it.

“I thought cars didn’t travel this road. Maybe we should have paid Jorge to take us down to the coast,” I said.

“Too late now. I think we’re almost there. You were right about the mist. Either that or I just pissed into the wind.”

We hiked back up to the road. A cloud of dust remained in the wake of the car that had passed. We fanned our hands in front of our faces and walked through it.

I held out my arm. A coating of dust from the long day’s journey covered every inch of me. “I don’t know when I’ve ever had this much dirt on my skin. Can’t wait to get in the water.”

An incline in the road brought us to the top of a small ridge and below was an awesome blue shoreline complete with swaying palm trees and fishing boats.

“Damn,” I sighed. “I thought we’d never get here.”

“I guess we’ll have to avoid that little town on our way back through. Something tells me our pictures are already hanging on the street posts with ‘wanted dead or alive’ scribbled beneath.”

“You’re probably right, but I’m not sure that sonavabitch would bother with the alive part.” I stretched out my fingers. “That jerk’s face was made of stone.”

“What if we only made it worse for the girl?” Barrett asked.

“Yeah, I thought about that too. What a shitty situation for her. No place to go and stuck with that man.” Immediately my thoughts went back to my parents. My mom wasn’t stuck with my dad. There were plenty of places for her to go, but she’d stayed with him. None of it had ever made sense to me.

Barrett’s pace picked up.”Hey, I see the fork in the road. We’re almost there.”

We jogged down the road toward the promise of surf and steaks and beer and water.

The first hut looked like it had been built from mud and palm fronds. There were two fishing rods leaning up against the back screen door. Inside, a man was sleeping in a hammock.

We continued along the stretch of road that split the beach huts from the sand.

“That’s got to be it.” Barrett pointed toward a house with a rainbow of surfboards leaning up against the wall. A nice truck sat in front of the place, the only car for miles. “Pete must have rented a truck.”