King of Her Desire

2

What I loved about Miramar was I almost never had to cook anything but the simplest stuff from time to time.

These people from the village walked the beaches all day and night selling burritos and tacos and seafood, fresh and cooked. They even had soft drinks and beer and sweets and stuff. Whatever you wanted, they had it or would get it.

You also could pay them to shop, clean house, run errands—point was to let us gringos kick back on the deck and watch the waves go in and out all day. Or it had been for ages before the plague and the damned cartels.

I had standing orders for meals and big pitchers of horchata and "jamaica." One is this rich rice "milk" and the other is hibiscus tea. They refilled this plastic pitcher for me at meal time.

I don't think I drank a soda of any kind the whole time I was there, except if I went out somewhere. They spoiled me. I wanted good, homemade stuff. No chemicals.

If I did cook, it was fresh seafood. They used to bring it by the buckets for these big parties the guests used to have on the beach. Everybody brought what they'd bought. Everybody ate and drank together 'til the sun peeked up over the water.

So they babied me, the locals, when I showed up and started hiring people to help me with the repairs. They wanted us back. They needed us back.

There were some people, people who'd thrown in with the local thugs, who weren't so sure. But of course, having us there would be good cover for all the shit they were up to.

They could hide their boats and water scooters amongst our boats and water scooters. The local cops didn't want to take a chance on boarding the wrong boats. Bad PR.

So, the next morning, I was sitting on the deck chowing down when this little pear-shaped woman with curly grey hair came padding up the steps from the beach. Shading her eyes with a CD.

She was wearing one of those one-pieces older women like. And I liked that she didn't seem the least bit self-conscious about the lumps and bumps and cellulite and stuff. Just came walking right up. Big old smile on her face.

I knew who'd sent her. And I smiled and said, "Hey there! Had breakfast yet?" Cause they'd given me some extra stuff that morning.

"Nah, I gotta run right back. Boy, you are a looker, huh?" she said, setting the CD on the deck. "Cannot believe she didn't ask you your name."

"Shoshoni King. Shoni, they call me."

She raised an eyebrow and said, "Well, you're ready for prime time, huh? I'm Gerri."

"And your friend's name is...?"

She said, "You'll see," and nodded to that CD before strutting right off again. But she looked back and waved.

And I went and grabbed the CD. And my brow went up.

I knew her. Or I knew the name. Because I'd seen it on that same CD, on a rack in some used bookstore or something. I remembered how the name, Elliott Weston, didn't match the face.

The little cover bio said she'd been "Elli West" early in her career, but she went back to her original name once she started doing the kind of music she really wanted to do.

That's just what it said, "the kind of music she really wanted to do." Didn't explain. I guess they figured the people who knew her would know what that meant.