Day of the Dead by Lisa Brackman Page B

were in the service of another. The cartels slaughtered cops, politicians, journalists, and mostly, each other.
    Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. She didn’t know that the conflict between Gary and Daniel was about drugs.
    But the money.The coke in her purse. And Daniel. He’d said he was a private pilot. Flying Gulfstreams. Wasn’t that how you smuggled large amounts of drugs? In planes?
    The air-conditioning chilled the sweat on her skin.
    When she went outside, the police car was still nowhere in sight.
    She started walking back to the hotel. The streets were quiet. A few tourists wandered in and out of the store-fronts. An older gay couple stood on the corner, accompanied by a little dog straining at its leash. She passed a tiny stall, tucked between a money-changing window and a condominium building, that sold fresh juices, a youngish woman in a tight T-shirt grinding oranges, a small boy bouncing a soccer ball on his knee by the scoured wooden table where she worked. Then a boutique, with cocktail dresses and hand-tooled and beaded bags displayed in the window.
    Michelle thought about the five thousand dollars Gary had given her. Maybe I should buy an outfit, she thought. Something nice, in case Daniel wants to go out with me again.
    Crazy. She was getting as crazy as fucking Gary.
    â€˜Michelle?’
    She flinched, and Vicky quickly said, ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you!’
    Vicky, the American woman she’d met in El Tiburón. Gary’s friend.
    â€˜Sorry,’ Michelle said. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone here to know me.’
    Vicky wore another Hawaiian shirt, blue hibiscuses this time, a pair of khaki shorts that came just above her dimpled knees, and the Teva-style sandals that every American expat here who didn’t wear Crocs seemed to favor.
    â€˜Well, it’s a small town,’ Vicky said. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
    For a moment Michelle had some strange thoughts – fragments of them, more accurately – like Vicky was actually an international drug smuggler, or a hit woman, or who knows what, a procurer of children for sex tourists. And then she took another look at Vicky, this stout, middle-aged American woman with dyed-blond hair and a Hawaiian shirt and told herself she really needed to get a grip.
    Even if Vicky
was
a friend of Gary’s. One who just happened to be in the neighborhood.
    Was Puerto Vallarta really that small a town?
    â€˜Nice to see you, too.’
    Vicky frowned, wrinkling up her sunburned forehead. ‘I’m not sure why, but I guess I thought you’d gone back to the States.’
    â€˜Well, I was planning to. But, you know, the craziest thing happened.’
    She hesitated. She felt like she was about to step off a cliff.
    â€˜I was on my way to the airport, and my taxi … well, he hit a police car who pulled out in front of us. And the officer claimed his neck got hurt, and it turned into this whole drama. You wouldn’t believe it.’
    â€˜Oh, my!’ Vicky gasped. ‘That kind of thing can get really nasty. What happened?’
    â€˜Like I said, it was crazy! They took me to jail, can you believe that? I mean, what did any of it have to do with me? And by the time they let me go, I’d missed my flight.’
    Stick as close to the truth as you can. It’s easier to remember the truth than a lie.
    â€˜Oh, honey, you’ve just had terrible luck.’ Vicky gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. ‘Yeah, that kind of thing happens when you get in car accidents here. It’s because it’s all the Napoleonic Code, you know? Guilty until proven innocent. But so long as you weren’t driving, it’s not really your problem.’
    Michelle mimed a shudder, which wasn’t hard to do. ‘I can’t imagine driving here,’ she said. ‘Especially after that.’
    â€˜So did they give you a credit for your ticket? Will you be