Page 38 of The Delivery

“Whoah. I didn’t know that was a look.”

Rocco rolls off the bed and gracefully glides over. He’s shorter than me despite the slight heel on his suede shoes.

“Just ignore him, he likes to make up stories as he goes,” he explains, handing me a snifter of brandy.

I nod and bring it to my lips. Rocco dings his snifter to mine and says, “Coat the sides, Cher, don’t swivel.”

The next time I wake up, the air is tinged with the direct sunlight heat of well-past noon. It’s too bright to be early morning. I’m guessing it’s past lunch. I roll over on thick carpet and hit my head on a trunk. It hurts to open my eyes, and hot rods are drag racing fiery circles inside my brain.

“Help!” I squeak out and try to pull myself up.

The hotel room door bursts open and in waltz’s Rocco with an elaborate breakfast on a tray. Slowly the layers of my brain fog peel away, and I remember a discotheque, dirty dancing, grinding with Tommy on the dance floor and doing coke in the bathroom off of my compact purse mirror. Then tacos, then some kind of barbiturate downer, then shakes and vomiting followed by squishing into bed between my two new best friends who are lovers.

Tommy’s head makes a smiley appearance over the side of the bed, looking down at me, his brunette locks falling gracefully along the cusp of his face.

“Naughty girl who pretends not to like to party. But who likes to p-a-rt-y, indeed!” Then he whoops like it’s a war cry and jumps on the bed.

“Oh fuck,” I say, covering my face with my hands. “I’ve got to get to the Western Union. Please tell me it’s not past noon.”

“To watch for Mozey, your true love. The artist. You told us the whole story. Of course you’re on time, you only said a million times that you had to wake up early.”

Tommy is jubilant and maybe has already had some coke with his OJ from the looks of how his eyes are dancing and he’s working his jaw.

“Sorry, Charlie,” Rocco says without affect. It’s quarter past three.”

“Fuck!” I say, standing up and then grabbing my head as I reel. “Oh, I’m gonna be sick. Why am I covered in glitter?”

“No, you’re not!” Tommy says as he holds a line of coke neatly centered in the middle of the Reader’s Digest. I close my eyes and weakly inhale. I swear I can feel it hit my brain. The racecars screech to a stop and then zoom away smoothly through my blood veins.

“Better, huh?” Tommy says, nodding like a wide-eyed baby deer. Then he tips his head back and laughs, and I look to Rocco for confirmation I’m not going insane.

“To stop the nausea. Just a bump. Want some orange juice? It’s fresh squeezed.”

I stagger to the door. “I’m gonna shower. I’ll see you guys later. Um, thanks for the company.”

I shower again under the forceful stream and try to recall the steps that lead me to last night. Fall off course just a tiny bit and then completely do a one-eighty with your life. I’ve seen this happen time and time again with so many delinquent kids. Since when do I do drugs or go dancing at gay clubs with strangers? I purse my lips, trying to make sure that no water slips past, even though I’m more thirsty than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m not drinking my shower. I don’t want to end up with dysentery in a Tijuana hospital.

A half an hour later, I’m back at my restaurant, this time with only coffee and some chocolate milk to try to settle the black hole also known as my stomach. After a quick chat with Reme, it would seem that the money is still there. I contact Lex, and of course, he’s heard nothing on his end. I ask Lex to send a picture of Mozey if he has any. A few minutes later, Lex texts me a photo of Mozey with his baby. It must have been taken just after he was born because Mozey is wearing scrubs. He looks so happy as he holds the bundle to his strong chest. Even in the profile he’s dashing, his wolfish jaw and straight nose, the curve of his lower full lip. I want to slip into the photo and touch his cheek.

But I burst that bubble pretty quickly when I realize he would probably think I was some kind of deranged drug addicted stalker if he could see me right now.

“Am I crazy?” I text to my brother.

“I’m not qualified to answer that question,” he texts back. Good answer. He doesn’t even know about last night.

“Do you remember Mo had a sister that they lost when they crossed the border? I bet you he’s looking for her. That always weighed on him heavily.”

I stare at my phone and scroll down through all of my Instagram photos. I have the account just for Lex. We both follow one person and have just one follower.

I call over the waiter who is thankfully, a different guy. I think it would scare the staff from yesterday to see me lurking here again. I settle my tab and go talk to Reme and tell her my plan. I’ll go location to location and show them the picture. It’s better than just sitting. I can’t take the waiting. I ask her about missing persons from as far back as the early nineties. She makes a pained expression that tells me it’s a lost cause without her even bothering to open her mouth.

“I don’t know. I hate to tell you but there are so many. And a baby? Your best chance is hiring someone private. I’d steer clear of the police. They’d just take your money without doing anything.”

After consulting with some co-workers, she produces a card for a private investigator. She also hands me a print out listing the addresses of every Western Union in Tijuana.

“Am I crazy?” I ask her. I don’t know what I’m expecting to get out of asking this question. Reme just shrugs her shoulders at me and grins. I notice she has a tiny chip out of one of her front teeth. She reminds me of a bunny rabbit, but maybe I’m just high on coke. Or maybe its just Tijuana and every thing here has got some hyper-real cartoonish quality to it. Including me. Lana in Mexico is not the Lana I know.

“Everybody has a weakness,” Reme states with candor.

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