Ten minutes later, I was in Puerto Angel and twenty minutes after that ordering dinner on the veranda of a small but clean and not un-charming inn on a hillside overlooking Puerto Angel Bay, lit to perfection by the moon and stars shining down through a clear night sky. The inn’s owner, a graying ex-hippie herself from San Francisco, had heard nothing of any massacre of Americans. Rumors, she said, it’s what the ex-pats and the paranoid surf bums live on along this coast. The time to worry will be when the rumors stop. She had been running her inn for twenty years, so, relieved, I was happy to take her at her word. So happy and so relieved that after dinner I had three or four shots of the strong—very strong—and smoky local mezcal.
There was a couple that I took to be American—in their late twenties, both blond, both good looking—at a table not too far away. The place was otherwise empty. I thought to ask them to join me but there was something about the way they were talking, looking at each other and then not looking at each other, that decided me against it.
The Brit I had picked up had left a decrepit Raymond Chandler paperback in my car, which I read for a half hour before falling into a dead sleep.
At three A.M. I was wide awake, rebounding from the mezcal and tossing in the humid subtropical night air. My room was among a half dozen or so situated along a wide terrace facing the bay and the black Pacific beyond. The terrace’s ceiling consisted of long wooden Venetian blinds, left open to catch whatever stray breeze might drift up off the bay. Sticky with my own sweat, I took my cigarettes out to this terrace, found a comfortable chair next to a thick potted plant, and sat, to smoke and try to cool down until I felt I could fall back to sleep. Before I could light up, however, I heard the crash of glass on tile floor quite nearby, followed immediately by the voices, at first constrained and then getting louder, of a man and a woman arguing. A moment later, the young blond woman from the restaurant came out of the room two doors down, stepped quickly to the terrace’s sturdy wooden railing and began vomiting over it.
Her husband, or boyfriend, or whatever he was, came out and put his hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off violently. She was wearing a thin cotton robe, knee length, which she had been holding closed while she retched. It came loose when she shook off the man’s hand, and I could see a breast exposed, and a portion of soft, beautifully rounded abdomen, before she pulled it tight again.
Leave me alone, she said. I’m leaving tomorrow.
What about your share? the man asked. He was wearing jeans and no shirt, his hairless, sculpted arms and chest bathed in moonlight.
The woman did not answer. She pulled her wrap even closer, then she turned and looked my way. I was in deep shadow and had not lit my cigarette, but I was far from certain she couldn’t see me. I could see her face full on now. She was very beautiful. I stared at her. Your share of what, I said to myself?
Fuck you, she said, then turned and stepped past the man and into their room. He followed and pulled the door shut behind him.
I waited a moment or two, then lit up. And listened. But all was quiet.
Yes, I said to myself, your share of what?
It occurred to me that I’d have to write a novel to answer that question, to enter Raymond Chandler’s noir world. In it, I would not only discover what her share was, but I would sleep with the beautiful blonde as well. I would be faced with decisions that were deeply troubling and morally ambiguous. I would learn life lessons that I didn’t know I needed to learn. I would remain deeply cynical in the end.
And I would find out whether her final fuck you was meant for me or her man, or perhaps for God himself.
About Project 52/2015: I like to take pictures and I like to write fiction. This Blog will combine the two in what I am calling Project 52/2015, one of my images mated with a piece of very short fiction each week in 2015. Enjoy.