16.2 Playa Del Rey

Friday morning, they woke up at eight.

“I must go and get my hair done. It is straw-like,” Angela complained.

“We take breakfast and go to a salon,” suggested Natalia, “Then we must go to Padre Island.”

“Aren’t you doing hair?”

“I will do in Houston,” replied Natalia.

“Am I going to Houston with you?”

“If you want to,” she got up from bed and pulled on her red slit shorts.

They drove to Leopard Street, had breakfast at a pub in front of The Raven. “Look! That’s the nightclub we came,” cried Angela, “I didn’t know it was so close to the motel.”

And spent two hours at a hair salon on Up River Road. It was almost 11:30 when they arrived at the motel to fetch Natalia’s camera and laptop. She sat on the bed gathering her stuff into the beach bag.

Angela said, “Hope it’s one week from now when we go to Houston. How are we going to find out about the rave?”

“We ask around for tickets at a convenient shop in Balli…”

BANG!

They were both shocked to hear a blast. “What’s that sound?” asked Angela.

“A blowout!”

“Hope it’s not yours!”

There were shouts. They rushed to the balcony. Both saw that short little woman walking towards a room underneath with a gun in her hand. They saw a handbag and a handset dropped on the turf. “Someone got shot!” cried Natalia.

They ran down the corridor to reach the ground. When they went to the reception front, there were people running as if all hell broke loose. Both girls took a glance in through the glass to see a woman in a green outfit on the floor.

“The singer is shot!”

That’s what they heard. Simultaneously, a police car arrived. “We better keep out of this. Someone’s shot!” uttered Natalia moving away from the glass.

They heard an ambulance. It came up the drive. “They’re very fast. She’d be okay,” she looked at the time, “Eleven Fifty-five.”

Natalia and Angela disbanded when the victim was carried to the ambulance.

They climbed up to the South Wing second floor and headed to their room. Picked their stuff and jackets, came down after seven minutes. More police cars entered the scene. They paused beside their SUV learning that the shooter was in one of the hotel rooms.

Soon they drove out of the drive heading south on Navigation Boulevard. Natalia turned on the radio. The singer shot at Days Inn won a Grammy on top of several other Tejano Music Awards.

“You heard of her?” asked Natalia.

“No,” Angela sat sombre.

“It seems every channel is on it!”

They arrived in Padre Island. News continued on the radio. It seemed more police were called. She turned to Verdemar Drive and switched off the radio. Soon she came to Playa Del Rey. “Which way should we go?” asked Natalia, “This is a long straight road.”

“I bet you turn this way,” said Angela, “What is the number?”

“431431.”

She began to crawl. They were on the right track. She stepped on gas and raced ahead. On both sides of the drive, a low-lying canopy of shrubs, yellowed vines, screw pines and crabgrass covered the houses on the left and the meadow to the right. There wasn’t a single vehicle or a movement on the road.

“Oh yeah! This is a scary place!” uttered Angela.

“There it is, four-three-one! See the mailbox!”

She stopped the car on the sandy curb and both climbed down empty handed. They could smell the beach elder. “It smells like San Diego,” uttered Natalia, “stinky or what!”

“Smells fishy.”

There stood a house behind the trees not too far from the roadside. When they entered through the short drive-in, the façade of the house appeared in full view. It was a classy house with multilevel gable and valley roof. Cool grey walls, navy-blue roof, mirror-glass windows on the second level, two closed garages on the left and the main door in wood dye.

They climbed the steps to the portico and rang the bell. “It’s a beautiful house!” muttered Natalia folding her arms from the chill.

“Those are pretty aged big trees,” said Angela.

Natalia rang the bell again, “Looks like nobody’s home. Give it another five minutes.”

Angela stepped down the floor and crossed the grass to a pathway cut through the trees. Natalia joined, “Where does this path lead to?”

“A private beach, I guess.”

“Let’s take a look!”

They entered the winding path and walked some hundred yards through the brushwood to reach an open ground facing the waters of Packery Channel. There was no beach as such but an esplanade, green meadow and a prom at the water’s edge. Two jetties built into water and cemented walkways leading into the trees. There were a couple of boats moored by the farther wharf.

They sneaked behind the trees towards the jetty and the boats. They had to cross an open ground to take a better look.

“I did not bring my camera,” whispered Natalia, “Stay here! I go closer to take a look.”

“There’s another house behind you. Can you see it behind the trees?” pointed Angela.

“Alright. Keep watch!”

Natalia crossed the grass and ran up the jetty towards the boats – two small cruisers of different sizes. Before she could go any closer, she recognised the boat that she had photographed and referred to many times. There was that tiny white Raymarine instrument box on the cabin roof. She could read no name but then it wasn’t on the prow in her view. Natalia was looking at the yacht called ‘Valor’.

She did not go any further, she had to take some photos so she turned back to fetch her camera and joined Angela. Before she could say a word, they saw a man on the boat called ‘Valor’.

“He saw me! Damn!” uttered Natalia, “Run!”

They ran in open field to cross two jetty-fronts and run into the woods through the winding path. It was actually there that that man on the boat saw those two girls running away. They ran as fast as they could, Natalia tossing a hog in her pants and Angela keeping ahead, to come in the clear of Playa Del Rey. Both made it hurriedly to the Bronco and drove away.

Gaining speed, trees cascading on a straight-line road, she asked, “Is he there?”

Angela surveyed.

“Is he there?” she repeated.

“Oh yes, he’s there,” replied Angela.

“He saw us,” cried Natalia coming to the end of the road, “Holy Shit! This is a dead end! Look at the map!” She turned around and drove north towards the house, saw a dirt road and turned left.

“Good…good! Keep going. It leads to Verdemar.”

Soon they turned into Verdemar Drive and sped away from Playa Del Rey.

“That is the boat I saw in Charleston.”

“Charleston?”

She grunted beating her palms on the steering wheel, “All this time…all this time, I thought it wrecked! It wrecked in the storm. Hurricane Hugo. I must go back. I have to take a photograph.”

“You can’t go in there,” cried Angela, “It’s private property. All along the coast.”

“How am I going to take a picture? I need some evidence.”

“Take a jetski in water.”

“Jetski!”

“Mono, you must not enter that area, not today.”

“Okay,” she gave up, “we go to North Beach.”

“See this beach!” Angela showed on the map, “I bet you can get a jetski here, not far from Playa Del Rey, north of Highway 361”

“Highway 361!”

Few minutes later, they were driving on 361 that took them further and further away from Playa Del Rey. Empty patches of sandbars, grass and meadows on both sides. “This is the road to hell. Where is it leading?”

“It is taking us nowhere.”

“Alright, we turn back.”