Baja Get Away

by Jinx Schwartz

  “Maybe we should call a doctor?” someone said.

  “Mister Jeff, if we do, you’ll be responsible for her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This is Mexico. If I call the doctor, the hotel will have to pay, and if you insist I call on your behalf, you’ll have to pay cash up front. It can get very complicated. You might even be held by the authorities for inflicting her injuries.”

  “What? Why? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Dude, this is Mexico. I don’t make the rules.”

  “Okay, how about this? I give you a wad of cash to cover an ambulance, and you tell them you found her on the sidewalk outside? At any rate, you should call 9-1-1, or whatever it is down here, now! She could be badly injured.”

  “Hey!” I yelled as loud as I was able to, “she can hear you!”

  I pulled my head—no easy task—from that wonderful backrest and sat straight, keeping myself upright despite a whirling brain and blurred vision. I knew if I blacked out I’d probably end up in a local hospital surrounded by nosy people wanting silly stuff like identification and proof of insurance. For a split second I considered letting it happen; at least I’d have a place to sleep besides the back of my antiquated Volkswagen Fox. But then common sense prevailed. “No ambulance!”

  “No?” both men asked.

  I opened my eyes wider. “Yes, no. I’m okay.”

  The clerk, relief in his voice said, “I’m so sorry I do not have a room for you tonight, Becky. Tomorrow night, maybe, but like I told you, we’re seriously booked.”

  “She can stay in my room,” the other voice said from behind me.

  I turned my head—a serious mistake—and when black spots stopped roller-skating across my eyeballs, I was face-to-face with my beer-drinking buddy from the Giggling Marlin. “Oh, hi there. We have to stop meeting this way, and that was a very unique pick-up line if I ever heard one. What? No dinner and dance before I get swept to your room?”

  “Very funny, Tex. I have a suite, so you’ll have your own room and bath. Sounds to me like you need a place to crash.”

  The clerk looked confused. “But, Mister Jeff, how about your…uh, friend. Think she’ll go for that?”

  “That little bird flew the coop.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Muffie went home.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize. I just came on duty. Uh, does my unc…her father, know?”

  “Daddy sent his plane for her. Do you need some identification from Red here for her to stay in the suite as my guest?”

  “No, no. I know Becky. Not a problem, let’s get her upstairs.” He didn’t say it, but the rest of that sentence should have been, “Before my manager shows up.” Now that his problem, namely me, was solved, George was anxious to get me out of sight.

  “I can walk,” I said, standing and taking a step through sheer willpower and years of Yoga. My savior grabbed me when one leg buckled. So much for all that time and torture on the mats. He half-dragged me into the elevator and propped me against the back mirror. “Hang onto that handrail, okay?”

  If I don’t have a heart attack from seeing myself in all those mirrors.

  Holding on tightly, I told him, “No problem.” Even though it was. “You got a minibar in that suite of yours, Mister Jeff?”

  “Just Jeff. You bet I do, but I’m not sure either one of us should raid it.”

  “Speak for yourself, Just Jeff. I’m starting to sober up and that is the very last thing I want to do.”

  ***

  Hawaiian-Shirt Jeff’s “suite” occupied the entire top floor of the hotel.

  The elevator opened right into his living room, which was on a level I guess I never knew existed. I squinted my eyes and concentrated when he punched a code into the elevator key pad located above the buttons to the peon sections and dizzy or not, I made a mental note. A gal never knows when she’ll need a suite.

  “Nice,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant as I checked out his digs. It was the understatement of the year, considering the spacious apartment was decorated in Luxe Mexican Modern Beach Fantastic. And, of course, sported the ubiquitous hot tub on the balcony.

  He showed me to my room. “There’s a bathrobe hanging on the back of your bathroom door but you’re stuck with a pair of my shorts and a tee shirt for jammies tonight.”

  “That’ll be great. So, your little bird took to the sky, huh?” I asked, as I reversed past him and headed for his bar area and an overstuffed couch I’d spotted.

  “See for yourself.” Jeff handed me a sheet of pink, perfume-scented, monogramed stationery, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my great-grandmother kicked the bucket.

  Remembering my manners, I politely asked if I could have a beer while I gingerly worked my way to that beckoning couch. I lowered myself into its softness, taking care not to jolt my throbbing head. Holding the pink paper far enough away from my face to possibly read it, I still had trouble with the cursive scrawl accented with exclamation points, hearts with slashes through them, and angry emojis.

  “Here,” my host said, handing me a cold beer and two pills. Then he gave me a pair of cheaters.

  I gratefully washed the extra strength Advil down with beer, and I started to say something like, “I don’t need those glasses yet,” but curiosity overcame vanity. I scanned the note smattered with an over-usage of “likes.”

  “How old is this Muffie? Twelve?”

  “Quite often, yes.”

  “And what is Muffie short for, anyhow?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Muffin.”

  “They named her Muffin?”

  He shrugged. “The parents are new money. Her mother saw the name in the social section of the New York Times or some such.”

  “Ah, the nouveaux-riches. Humph, sounds like a Yorkshire terrier to me.” I held up the note and read it aloud, sarcasm strong in my tone.

  “Dear Jeffie, this is it!!! (Angry face. Heart with zigzag down its center.) I like hate you.”

  Jeff rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

  I smiled back, but mine was slightly disingenuous. “Can we, like, buy a comma, here, Jeffie?”

  Taking another slug of cold brew to get me through the missive, I continued to read, this time aloud. “Daddy’s plane is picking me up. Don’t like call me ever again. Love, Muffin.”

  I took a slug of ice-cold beer. “So, I’m climbing out on a limb here, but Muffin is a journalist?”

  He barked a laugh. “You have a mean streak, Tex, you know that?”

  “It’s a birthright.”

  Shaking his head, he took the note and chucked it into an ornate porcelain trash can. “So, enough about my day. How is it you ended up stranded on the mean streets of Cabo tonight? It’s obvious you know a lot of people here.”

  “My so-called boyfriend dumped me. No note from him I can share for your amusement. My car and belongings are all at his condo, so when he goes to work—” I grabbed his arm and checked his fancy watch, “—in about six hours, I’ll go get my stuff. If he hasn’t changed the locks, which I’m almost positive he’s too cheap to do.”

  “And then what?”

  “I haven’t gotten that far. One step at a time.” I sighed. “I’ve got some nerve making fun of your girlfriend. My ex was no prize. George, the desk guy, told me I lasted longer than any of Barry’s other women.”

  “How long?”

  “Almost two years.”

  “Looks like we have the same bad judgement when choosing partners. Muffie and I lasted less than a year. Then yesterday, out of the blue, she said she was, like, thinking of making wedding plans.”

  “But, evidently, not with you?”

  “Yes, with me. She didn’t, like, like my lack of enthusiasm.”

  We both laughed, and he went for more beer. “So, should we stay up all night and drink? We both have decisions to make, and I’m thinking being drunk might make the process easier.”

  “You have a point there.”

  Afte
r chatting about mundane stuff for another few minutes, I stifled a yawn. The painkiller had kicked in, and so had my crappy day. “Ya know, maybe I’ll go back to La Paz tomorrow. I know people there.”

  “Uh, I gotta ask. Do you have any cash?”

  “Yes. At least I think so. Unless Barry found my hidey-hole in his condo. I’ve sort of been stretching the rules of legal residence here in Mexico, so I don’t have a Mexican bank account. I’ve been stashing money as fast as I can.”

  “So, you’re a reverse illegal alien?”

  “Yep.”

  “I know this may sound a little pushy, but can you take me with you when you leave Cabo?”

  “Why? You broke?”

  “No, no. That’s not it. I have plastic and a Schwab account to withdraw pesos from any bank. It’s just that I have a couple more vacation weeks left, so maybe it would be fun to check out something besides this loser town. Truth is, I didn’t want to come here in the first place, but Muffie’s daddy is a partner in ownership of this hotel and insisted, for security reasons, we stay here.”

  “Security reasons?”

  “Kidnappings down here have ramped up, so he made sure the suite was in my name since, as he put it, “You’re nobody.”

  “Ouch. So, he’s somebody? And if he’s worried about his little girl getting snatched, why did he even agree to let Princess Muffie visit big bad Mexico?”

  “She has him wound around her little diamond-laced fingers.”

  The way he was talking about a woman he said was his significant other, I had to ask myself what on earth he was attracted to. Sounded like she was a spoiled, over-privileged brat to me. Oh wait. Daddy’s money, of course.

  “Okay, so we’ve established that you’re on vacation paid for by dear old Pops. Did he cut you off when his daughter jumped on his jet?”

  “Evidently not. I checked with the morning clerk and according to him the suite is still mine for the next two weeks. But I’d like to see more of the Baja, if you’ll let me tag along. If not, I’ll catch a bus. Or, I can pay for your gas, instead.”

  I started to say the bus sounded good to me, but then again, I might be flat broke. If Barry found and confiscated my cache of cash, I was flat busted. I mean it wasn’t like I could call the cops, what with me being persona non grata in Mexico.

  Being the practical sort where dough is involved, I agreed to give Jeff a ride. “But first, we have to go get my car and pesos and if we’re going on a road trip in a few hours, we’d better get some sleep. Although drinking all night sounds mighty enticing right now.”

  “You want one of my tee shirts to sleep in?”

  “Nah, I sleep in the bu…yes, that would be great.”

  He went to his room and returned with a pair of heart-print boxer shorts and an I HEART CABO tee. He also handed me a toothbrush and tiny toothpaste tube wrapped in plastic. Dangling the shorts, he said, “Don’t even ask.”

  Grinning, I checked out the logo on the toothbrush pack. “You and Muffie been flying overseas first class commercial?”

  He looked surprised. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

  I gave him a look and quipped, “You don’t think I’m first class material?”

  Actually blushing, he said, “No. Yes. Look, I’ve obviously over-served myself tonight. I’ll set an alarm so we can go get your car in the morning. Sweet dreams.”

  I grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, downed it, and took two more with me into my bedroom.

  Locking the door behind me, I took a shower, washing my hair with the high-end shampoo the hotel provided. I gingerly palpated the knot on my head and concluded it wasn’t anything serious, even though it was fairly large and sore.

  Rubbing hand lotion on my face to remove streaked mascara, by the time I pulled back the several-million-count sheets, I was somewhat sobered up, and had clean teeth, hair, and skin. The only thing missing was my feather pillow I always carry with me. I pounded the stuffing in the hotel pillow and decided it would have to do.

  If I thought I couldn’t sleep for worrying about my future, I was so wrong. Next thing I knew, Jeff was knocking on my door, announcing that breakfast was on the way up.

  I quickly brushed my teeth, tried to tame my hair—going to bed with wet hair is never a great idea in my case—and wore his tee shirt and shorts into the living area. I’d considered getting dressed, but my clothes from the night before reeked of beer and bar smoke.

  “Wow, Becky. You look a heck of a lot better than I feel this morning. How’s your head?’”

  “Coffee.”

  “Ah, not a morning person, I presume?” he said, handing me a cup.

  “Sugar and cream.”

  He grinned and pointed me toward a sideboard stocked with what I needed.

  I took my coffee out onto the balcony and sat at the small table there. I hadn’t realized the night before that the room had a beach and marina view. Large power yachts, their crews already out polishing fiberglass and stainless-steel rails, glimmered in the morning sun. Most of them rarely left the dock, but when they did, they were spotless for their owners and guests.

  Cabo’s streets were empty except for a few shop keepers sweeping reveler debris from their sidewalks, but I knew that soon, after the every-morning pep talk, timeshare marketers would scuttle about like cockroaches, offering free breakfasts and the glories of owning a piece of paradise to hapless tourists.

  I was watching for members of Barry’s team to start plying the streets, signifying I could go to his condo without running into him.

  “Becky, breakfast is on the table,” Jeff called. “Get it while it’s hot.”

  I wasn’t sure my tummy was up for food but changed my mind when I saw the spread of Eggs Benedict, fresh-squeezed orange juice, blueberry muffins, a rasher of bacon, and fruit salad. Mexicans seem to have the best fruit, not like the bland stuff you buy in US grocery stores. I’m told the reason for their tasty produce is that fruit and veggies not shaped perfectly for northern markets are left in the fields longer instead of being shipped out unripe. Whatever, it’s a win-win for Mexicans and tourists alike.

  Revived by all that great food, about two gallons of coffee, and more pain relievers, I kept an eye out for Barry’s sales team while Jeff packed. He didn’t really have much, just a couple of duffle bags.

  Being somewhat of a pragmatic type, I used a clean dirty clothes bag—I know, oxymoron—and loaded it up with leftover muffins, bacon, and fruit for road food. Other than the pesos adding to my bust line, all of my money, and even my passport, were still in Barry’s condo. Until I found my hidden bank roll, I was more than a little worried about my financial situation. Note to self: find a safe place in the car to stash cash.

  “Ready to check out and get on the road, Mr. Jeff?”

  “Not gonna check out. Let Daddy figure out I’m gone.”

  “You don’t think the staff will get a clue when you leave with your bags?”

  “Good thinking.” He leaned over the balcony ironwork. “Okay, you go down first, then I’ll toss my bags to you.”

  “Fine with me. How do I look?” I twirled and struck a pose.

  He shook his head. “My shirt, my shorts, my baseball cap, and those espadrilles certainly make a fashion statement. A bad one, I might add.”

  I laughed. “I’ll change after we get my gear. Okay, see you in the alley, Cat.”

  He groaned.

  Everyone’s still a critic.

  Chapter Three

  Carrying my plastic bag of food and what few belongings I had, I sauntered through the empty lobby and waved a finger at the day clerk, who didn’t even look up from his cell phone.

  Scooting around a corner and behind the building, I arrived in the back alley in time to be bombarded by two duffle bags, which I didn’t even try to catch. All I needed was another bump on my already sore head. Jeff disappeared from sight and joined me, carrying only his backpack.

  “That guy at the desk didn’t even notice I l
eft,” he said. “This is kinda fun. I feel like a teenager again, sneaking out of the house. Let the adventure begin! Where to? You lead, I follow.”

  I led him six blocks away, into a semi-residential area. Cabo grew up from one dusty main street so fast that bars and homes share the same block. No planning or zoning, except in gated communities that were built later, after the first boom of beachfront mega resorts. Even those can be surrounded by low-end shacks.

  Barry’s place was off an original plaza, where many building fronts bordered the street, colonial style, with steep narrow curbs the only thing between them and street traffic. His building had started life as some kind of government edifice that someone renovated into condos, and his unit occupied the entire third floor, high enough to command a water view from what he called his Margarita deck. Small shops and cafes crowded the building on all sides, and one neighbor raised chickens in his small, lush, garden.

  My car was locked inside an ornately-fenced courtyard, which probably started life as a garden. Off-street parking being a luxury in this part of town, it actually made the vehicles inside a more desirous target, since Mexican thieves figure if you take care to lock your stuff up, it must be valuable. Therefore, Barry installed security cameras and a digital lock system, and since everyone knew about that, he never had a problem.

  I pointed to my car inside and breathed a sigh of relief. “There is a god.”

  “You didn’t think your boyfriend would put your car out on the street, did you?”

  “Truthfully, with everything I learned last night, I’m not sure what he’s capable of. But now all I need are a few clothes from upstairs, my car keys, et voila, Barry will be but a bad memory. Let’s do it.”

  He stood his ground. “A tendency toward self-preservation says I should wait over there.” He pointed to a café across the street. “I’m a bit of a ninny where ex-boyfriends are concerned.”

  “Trust me, this one wants me gone. But, okay. I’ll be right back. I don’t have all that much stuff that’s important enough to take with us.”