“Bad shit,” said the Captain’s blond lady.
“It’s all a waste of time,” Diana said angrily. “I prefer a shot of booze anytime.”
She and the Captain’s lady raised their glasses. Debbie slowly raised hers.
After a small swallow, she tried again.
“I mean, I wouldn’t want anyone to go through what I went through that night. It was terrible.”
They stared at her, hands above their eyes to block the sun.
“I mean, I was frightened,” she tried to explain.
The two women nodded in the sun with eyes closed.
*
“I have to go back,” she told Michael. “I have to.”
“Okay,” he said. There was no need to argue. Whatever she wanted was fine. For her.
“Eric and Diana are talking about going down to Cabo for a while,” he told her. “I thought I’d go down with them.”
“Cabo? What about the boat?”
“Hell, it would be better to build it up in the States, San Diego or up by Frisco. You know?”
She knew.
“Look, I’ll take you up to the border. Make sure you get over all right. We can spend a night at Rosarito. You remember, that pink hotel on the beach? You thought it looked nice.”
She shrugged.
“”I’ll take the bus back from Tijuana and I’ll be back up in a couple of months. Okay?”
Staying at the pink hotel meant an extra night but she wouldn’t argue with him. She needed him to take her to the border. Once across she’d be all right but she couldn’t do it alone. She would have to hold on another night.
“I knew things weren’t going that well,” Diana said and dabbed at the canvas. “Michael can be difficult.” She squinted at the face of the Mexican doll-child.
“We’re going to Cabo for a change. This place gets old,” she said, never looking at Debbie. “I’m only here because it’s close to Los Angeles and that asshole’s gallery. The stuff sells.” Her brush searched the palette for a new bright color.
“Kids, they do sell.”
*
“Gonna build me that boat,” Michael said as they drove up the wild coast.
“And sail away,” she said.
“With you?” he questioned.
She nodded. The Valium had softened the shaking.
He smiled at her. “I’ll be back up in a few months,” he said and squeezed her thigh.
At the Rosarito, they drank rounds of margaritas by the pool. Near them, an American shouted and pounded on the table for his waiter who ran between the many other tables.
“Boyo, boyo!” he yelled. “Hey, get over here!” As the day went on, the voice became louder and the words more insulting.
“Bring me another one of these and hurry up. Pronto. You got that? Christ, they are stupid,” he said to all the others who tried not to hear him.
He watched the women on the patio with narrowed eyes, sure of himself, his bare hair-speckled chest, the big rubbery nipples. The woman with him was young, quiet, and plain. Skinny white legs reached from below her knee-long cover-up.
The waiter ran to his shouts.
“Hey, fella, over here. No tip for you,” he laughed loudly.
“They expect a big tip,” he told the woman and everyone else, “for nothing.”
“What a shit,” Michael muttered. “That’s what you are going back to. That bastard will be here all day screaming for a waiter and he won’t leave a cent. You watch.”
They waited until the day had moved into the evening chill. Beyond them the surf pounded the beach.
“Look, what did I tell you.” He pointed to the table where the American no longer sat. No money had been left for the waiter.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill. He moved as though to put it on the table, then stopped. His eyes sought out the waiter.
“For you,” he said with a sympathetic smile. “For that bastard,” he motioned toward the American’s table. “You understand?”
“Si, si, thank you, señor,” the waiter bowed. His white shirt was stained with the drinks of the afternoon.
Debbie watched. He had to make sure, didn’t he, that the waiter knew who left the tip. She turned away.
“We could get married, you know,” he said to her that night in bed. “We could get married in a few months. You want to?”
She shook her head.
“Christ, Debbie, I thought that’s what you wanted. Wasn’t that what you’ve been saying for two years?”
“I guess not,” she said. “I guess I really don’t want to.”
“Well, think about it,” he said. “Think about it.”
She nodded and curled into a tight ball of fear.
The next morning, as they paid the bill, the American from the day before ran through the lobby clutching his stomach. He crashed through the bathroom door and, as the dollar bills were being traded at the front desk, his moaning and retching rang out from the tiled walls and down the high-ceiling halls. It was gut-scrapping vomiting, agony. Michael smiled.
“Serves him right.”
And, while she did not see their smiles, she could feel them as the Mexican workers moved quietly, passing the slammed open door of the bathroom.
*
“Did you ever apply for another job in California?” Ellen asked.
“No,” said Debbie.
“I did. Almost got one, in San Diego,” Ellen told her. “That is one great town, the ocean, the weather.”
Debbie was remembering the day she left Ensenada, saying good-bye to Diana on the tiny porch where she dabbed at her canvas.
“The kids sell. That’s what sells,” she was saying to the painting.
Debbie stared across the tiny lawn of dust to the parked van. Suddenly she saw them, hundreds of tiny flowers, all colors, on thin stalks, reaching out of the dust.
“Look, look,” she cried. She was filled with joy.
“What?”
“Look at all those flowers. Where did they come from?”
“I don’t know,” Diana said. “Isn’t it unbelievable? They started coming up a few days ago.”
“I never saw them,” Debbie said and laughed.
Diana smiled at her and at her painting.
6
“Read it,” Chuck Farrell ordered. “Read it out loud.”
Tears filled her large brown eyes.
“Read it, Maria,” he demanded.
“A body was found on the Gila Indian Reservation last
