Page 10 of Wild Temple
Brooke’s face wrinkled with sadness. "Oh, no!”
"Nobody’s seen her in a week,” I said.
"That’s before our time here," Brooke said. "But I hope you find her.”
"Thank you. What brings you to Tanjung Sur?”
The two girls shared a look.
Then Brooke answered in a cryptic tone. “You know. Just looking for adventure.”
"Well, I think you’ve come to the right place. Just be careful.”
They both surveyed me with cautious eyes.
Hannah asked, "Is it really that dangerous here?”
I shrugged. "Apparently, another girl went missing last week.”
The girls’ faces went long.
"Could be nothing,” I said. “Somebody wanders off and gets lost. Someone decides to go home early. Who knows? But I wouldn’t let your guard down.”
“Good advice," Brooke said.
I handed them both a card and told them to get in touch if they heard anything. "Enjoy your stay in Jatala.”
"You too,” Brooke said with a smile. “I'm sure we'll see you around.”
I left the hotel and headed over to Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. From the Bamboo Lofts, Rex’s bar was several blocks down Sunset Row.
I figured the walk would do me good. I’d been cooped up on that plane for damn near 24 hours and was ready to move around. It would give me a sense of the local flavor.
The avenue bustled with activity. Cars and mopeds whizzed by, and the smell of exhaust swirled. The delightful aroma of grilled food wafted. Everything you needed was within walking distance from the hotels and hostels in the area. There were American chain coffee shops as well as local eclectic offerings. Restaurants and bars lined the boulevard, along with clothing boutiques, gyms, yoga studios, Internet cafes, grocery markets, and spas.
Street vendors hustled food, local art, knickknacks, and other trinkets. There were a few buskers, filling the air with music. I stumbled across more than a few hustling Mata Vaya—Water of the Divine.
“Eternal life!” the vendor said. “A small price to pay.”
For roughly $5 USD, the dirty yellow water in the mason jar wouldn’t do anything but extend your time on the toilet. This wasn’t the kind of place where you wanted to drink tap water or eat local ice. Not if you didn’t want to set off World War III in your small intestines.
I walked past tourists and beggars as the sun angled toward the horizon. I figured the boulevard would get raucous aftersundown. The bars typically closed around 2:00 AM, but some stayed open beyond that.
I soaked up all the details, keeping an eye out for Isabella on the random chance she was just wandering around the city.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot was an overgrown driftwood shack surrounded by a bamboo fence. It wasn’t much to look at. There were tables and chairs in the courtyard. The sound of pool balls clacking greeted me as I stepped inside.
Southern rock spilled from the jukebox, and the walls were adorned with photos of Navy ships, sailors, and bits of Americana—road signs, old license plates, and neon logos of American beer.
At this time of day, it wasn’t very crowded.
Rex poured a draft beer from behind the bar and slid it across the counter to a customer. He was a rough and tumble kind of guy with short, reddish brown hair, a bushy beard, and bulging biceps, sleeved in tattoos. He wore a faded black concert T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. I hadn’t seen Rex in years, but he looked pretty much the same. Just a little older, like we all did.
I ambled up to the bar and leaned against the counter, waiting for him to catch sight of me.
“Be with you in a minute,” he said without looking.
Rex collected cash from the patron, then headed my way. It took him a second to recognize me. “Holy shit! Tyson Wild. How the hell are you?”
