One of Those Malibu Nights (19 page)

A “shit” was what many called him, and Ron finally believed it was true. And that was the reason he was here, on a lonely stretch of beach outside the funky Mexican tourist town of Mazatlán, hiding from the law and from his own emotions.

This was no time to be alone. His morbid thoughts were getting the better of him. Setting down the empty beer bottle, he walked into the apology of a bathroom, took a sparse shower—water pressure was bad tonight—combed his hair back from his sunburned forehead, put on a faded old T-shirt with
MAZATLáN
printed on the front, flowered beach shorts and flip-flops. He was ready to take on the Mazatlán nightlife.

He knew just the place: a joint on the beach where the booze flowed, the mariachi music blasted to the rafters and nobody knew him. He could get drunk there. Again. In peace.

Sunny was glad the Alaska Airlines L.A./Mazatlán flight was a quick two and a half hours. She was itching to get there and see if her theory about Ron Perrin was right.

Arriving at the airport along with the planeload of holidaymakers already in their shorts and tank tops, she picked up the rental car and asked the way to Nuevo Mazatlán.

The sun blazed from a sky as blue as any Raffaello fresco, turning the interior of the little Seat into a furnace. Hitching her skirt to her upper thighs, and gasping for breath, she turned up the air-conditioning. Sweat trickled between her shoulder blades as she drove the airport road, past humble little ranches with thin black cows in sparse fields and lumbering dogs, sniffing for scraps. Past run-down houses and auto repair shops, and cheap street cafés with plastic gauze
slung overhead to keep off the sun offering
mariscos
and tacos. And past a yellow-painted school, and lavender and pink and turquoise houses.

The road rambled into the outskirts of Mazatlán, threading through congested traffic out to the marina area, bristling with new condominiums. Then over the new bridge and, at last, into the quiet countryside of Nuevo Mazatlán.

Here development petered out and the scenery reminded Sunny of Provence: stony, dotted with scrub and low-growing shrubs, and with a kind of singing silence in the air.

Following the signs, she came at last to the entrance to the Emerald Bay Hotel. A guard checked her at the gate and she drove slowly down a long avenue, turning finally in to the approach to the hotel, guarded this time by a tall aviary where bright macaws and parrots shrieked a welcome.

The lobby was centered with a large stone fountain set beneath a lofty dome, and its water music immediately cooled her. Slipping off her sandals she walked gratefully across the travertine floor and was checked in by a smiling young woman.

Ten minutes later, in a gauzy white skirt that flowed around her pretty knees as she walked, a black T-shirt and sandals, water bottle in hand, she hesitated at the door to her room. Should she call Mac? Or Roddy? Tell them what was up? She grinned. Nah! Let them wait. They’d find out later what a clever girl she had been.

The door slammed behind her as she hurried along the jungly path leading back to the entrance where her car was already waiting. Pausing only to ask the concierge the names of the most popular bar-restaurants in town and directions, if any, to the Villa des Pescadores, she was on her way, she hoped, to meet the infamous Ron Perrin.

The empty road followed the long curve of the beach as she left civilization behind, or at least the resort version of it, passing small shacklike homes and makeshift outdoor bars. Children stopped their play to wave and a couple of thin brown dogs chased her tires, making her think wistfully of Tesoro, pouting, no doubt, in the fancy kennel with the sofas and cushions and doggie TV. But right now her mind was on bigger things.

As dusk settled over the empty landscape, the road seemed to wind on forever. Loneliness crept around her, almost tangible in the warm air, and for the first time she was nervous. Then suddenly, a house popped into view, right at the edge of the beach. A small square yellow box, very much the worse for wear. She slowed down to read the name painted on a rock by the sandy path leading to it.
VILLA DES PESCADORES
.

She took another doubtful look. Could this
really
be a place the worldly, flamboyant billionaire Ron Perrin would stay? Remembering his glamorous Malibu home, she knew she must be on the wrong track. A man like that would never live here. He wouldn’t even spend the night here.
And neither, she thought, stumbling up the rutted path to the house, would she.

The slatted unpainted wooden door was closed. There was no bell, so she rapped, then waited, glancing anxiously round. It was getting dark and she was in the middle of nowhere. Alone. She was doing everything a woman in a foreign country was not supposed to do.
And
she was on the trail of a criminal. Who knew how he would react when she confronted him?

Uneasy, she rapped again, harder this time, waiting again, sucking on her bruised knuckles. Still no answer. She tried the door. It was not locked. In fact there was no lock.

Calling hello, she stepped inside and found herself in a single small shabby room. There was a narrow unmade bed in one corner. A lamp stood next to it. A couple of cheap woven Mexican chairs fronted the adobe corner fireplace that looked, from the blackened areas around it, as though it smoked badly. The sink and a tiled counter were piled with empty beer bottles and plates, while an open cupboard held a few shirts. Other garments spilled out of drawers in untidy heaps. An old CD player and a Bryan Ferry disc were on the table.

“Is anyone here?” she called hopefully, though she didn’t see how anyone could be since there was nowhere else to go, except the primitive bathroom. She checked it, shuddering, then the terrace, if it could fancifully be called
that. It overlooked the sea and, in a way, she thought wistfully, had a lot in common with Mac’s own place.

Still, out on the terrace she felt the appeal of Perrin’s little beach shack. The wind blew coolly through her hair and the only sounds were the thud of the sea and the cries of seabirds. Hard green waves, framed by a couple of blackened mesquite trees, pounded the long crescent of beach, then slurped noisily back again. A squadron of pelicans flew past at eye level, and hanging high in the sky were seabirds with wings like stealth bombers that reminded her of Batman.

Suddenly she understood that Perrin came here in search of peace and simplicity. And to her surprise, she found herself almost hoping he had found it.

Getting a grip, she reminded herself of her mission and also
exactly
why Perrin was here. He must have
something
to do with his wife’s disappearance. She was certain he knew where Allie was. Anyhow, he was dodging the law and she was going to find out what was going on and hopefully bring him back.

Tripping over the stones on the path and wishing she had put on sneakers instead of flimsy sandals, she went back to the car. In Mazatlán town, she parked, then hailed a passing mini-moke open-air taxi and asked to be taken to the Bar La Costa Marinera.

The bar was down a side street leading to the beach and
it was jumping. Impressed, Sunny counted half a dozen Harleys parked outside, and the mariachi trumpets blasted her eardrums before she’d even stepped through the door.

The café was crowded with locals and holidaymakers dressed for a Saturday night out, most already into their second or third margaritas, served in massive goblets. The wooden tables were packed and brawny waiters in yellow shirts lofted enormous platters of seafood over their heads. The aromas of deep-fried red snapper, of shrimp and hot chilies and cheese nachos filled the air, and those seated on the terrace reaped the benefit of the evening breeze while devouring guacamole and spicy salsa. Telling the waiter she was looking for a friend, Sunny wended her way between tables, fending off bantering offers to come take a seat.

A mariachi troupe in tight black pants and short jackets, glittering with silver studs and sequins, were playing familiar Mexican songs very loudly. There were two girls on fiddles, their long hair swaying as they played, warm dark eyes smiling, while an old man hefted the traditional huge Mexican bass. Plus there were four guitars and two trumpets. Sunny stopped to listen, applauding with the others.

In a far corner of the terrace the Harley bikers sat at a big round table, arms around each other’s shoulders. Sunny watched disapprovingly as they poured tequila shots down their throats. Bottles of Tecate and Corona littered the table and huge platters of lobsters and rice and beans were being
delivered. Sunny hoped they were not riding those bikes home.

She wasn’t the only one watching. At his lonely corner table, Ron Perrin sank another tequila shot followed by a slug of beer from a bottle topped with a crescent of fresh lime. The bikers yelled to the mariachis to play “Guadalajara.”

“Guadalajara,” Perrin yelled with them. It was his favorite.

Sunny turned to see where the American voice came from. And there he was. The rugged, beetle-browed billionaire mogul in a pair of flowered bathing shorts and an old Mazatlán T-shirt.

“Guadalajara,” Perrin began to sing along in Spanish, in a firm tenor voice, and the waiters crowded round, joining on the chorus. Ron knew every word and brought it to a fine Mexican-style yipping finale, taking a bow at the applause and whoops of acclaim when he’d finished.

Sunny threaded her way toward him. His head was lowered now and he stared somberly into his glass.

“Ron Perrin,” she said.

It was not a question, it was a statement, and he knew it. He lifted his head and looked at her with those molten brown puppy-dog eyes.

“Aw fuck,” he groaned, reaching for the bottle. “I’m busted.”

Perrin did not invite her to join him, but Sunny pulled back a chair anyway and sat down. Her soft white skirt ruffled around her pretty knees and she noticed that Perrin noticed that. He was still the ladies’ man, even in a moment of crisis.

Perrin raised his hand to summon a waiter. “What would you like?” he asked, polite despite the circumstances.

“Mango margarita, rocks, no salt,” Sunny told the waiter.

“Are you crazy? Whoever heard of anyone drinking a
mango
margarita?”

“Obviously you haven’t traveled in the right circles, Mr. Perrin. Mango margaritas are very popular.”

“Hah! I prefer my tequila straight.”

“So I notice.”

They stared silently across the table, taking each other
in. Even though Perrin was drunk, Sunny thought he had an oddly magnetic personality, forceful, drawing you toward him with soft brown eyes that were in complete contradiction to his supposedly tough character. Yet she knew this was a man of steel, a man who did battle in the boardrooms of the world, a dangerous man nobody ever said no to. Except his wife.

“So who the hell are you anyway?” Perrin demanded. “You’re not the cops, not the FBI …”

“Is that who you were expecting?”

The waiter brought Sunny’s margarita. Her throat was parched by the hot dusty drive and she sipped it through a straw, eyes raised to watch Perrin.

“You’re a beautiful woman,” he said, avoiding her question. “I came here to get away from that.”

“Seems you succeeded.” She took another long sip. The trouble with mango margaritas was you could almost forget there was tequila in there. Two and it crept up on you like rocket fuel. Suddenly hungry, she waved the waiter over again and ordered nachos.

“You don’t need to worry about your figure then,” Perrin said.

Sunny tried to assess if he was coming on to her, but decided he wasn’t, though his eyes still admired her. He seemed suddenly more sober.

“And you speak perfect Spanish,” he added.

“My father’s Mexican. Other than my grandmother, I
make the best tamales you’ve ever tasted. And since Abuelita wasn’t fat, I’m hoping I inherited her genes as well as her recipes.”

The nachos arrived: steaming-hot refried beans and cheese on crispy tortilla chips. Sunny dived right in. “Go ahead,” she said to Perrin. “Try them, they’re good.” She stopped in midbite.
What was she doing? This was the enemy, her “prey,” and she was acting like they were friends out on a dinner date
. She took another slurp of the margarita and said, “So, anyway, what are
you
doing here, Mr. Perrin?”

He grinned at her, brows beetling. “Well, darn it, I thought you must know. Otherwise why are you here?”

“We’re going round in circles,” she said, and found herself smiling back at him. She had to admit again that Ronald Perrin had a certain charm. She was meant to be the interrogator, doing Reilly’s job, and here she was schmoozing. “Anyway,” she said briskly, “I came here specifically to find you. We need to talk.”

“So how
did
you find me?”

“The tax receipt in your Hummer for the Villa des Pescadores.”

“Should have shredded that,” he said with a sigh. “I just couldn’t get around to everything, there wasn’t time. Anyhow, what were you doing in my Hummer?”

Sunny blushed. “Oh God, now I have to confess,” she said, lowering her eyes to avoid his gaze.

“So?” He was waiting for an answer.

“I guess you’d call it ‘breaking and entering,’” she said with a sigh. “We were looking for clues.” “Clues to what?”

She glanced up, uncertain. This conversation had gone all wrong. Wasn’t she meant to be the interrogator?

She avoided his question. “Don’t worry, we didn’t find any, except the tax receipt.”

They stared silently at each other across the table. Perrin downed his tequila.

“How about that train set?” she said.

He shrugged. “I grew up too poor to have a train set. Call it the child in me.”

Sunny smiled back at him, understanding.

“You still have not told me who you are,” he said.

“My name is Sunny Alvarez,” she said. And to her astonishment he offered his hand across the table.

He held it fractionally longer than necessary, looking deep into her eyes. Then he said, “And exactly who
is
Sunny Alvarez? With the Mexican father and a grandmother who makes the best tamales in town?”