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.