***
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.
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“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.