The Jade Notebook by Laura Resau Read Free Book Online Page A

Mexico City and then return to invest their money. Is that why your José Cruz left?”
    I shrug, searching my memory for something useful. “He ended up in Europe at some point,” I offer.
    She nods, considering this. “Well, I suppose some do.I’ve never been farther away than Mexico City, so America or Europe—it’s all the same to me. Could be the moon!”
    As I jot down notes, Doña Elisa asks Wendell if we’re here on vacation.
    “No,” he says. “We’re living at the Cabañas Magia del Mar near Punta Cometa.”
    A sudden shadow passes over her face. She presses her lips together, says nothing.
    “How much do we owe you,
señora
?” I ask, filling the awkward silence.
    “Eleven pesos,” she answers, her voice tense. She adjusts the shawl around her shoulders, pulls it tight, as if protecting herself from a chill.
    As she makes change from my twenty-peso bill, Wendell gives me a confused look.
    Before we leave, Doña Elisa leans toward us and says, “
Pues
, good luck to you.” She leans in farther, wraps her shawl more tightly at her neck. “And be careful up there, you two.
Tengan cuidado
.”
    Careful? Flustered, I lift my hand in a small wave, then turn to go, digging the shopping list from my pocket.
    “Weird way to say bye,” I murmur to Wendell.
    “Maybe it’s a custom around here,” he says unconvincingly. After a silence, he eyes the list in my hand. “So, what’s next, Z?”
    “Fish.” I turn my attention to the fishermen lining the curbs with coolers of shaved ice and freshly caught fish, all silver and rainbows in the sunlight. We stop by the cooler ofan aging hippie beach bum who we’ve come to think of as our fish guy. On our first day here, we saw him fishing off Playa Mermejita in his little boat with peeling pink paint. Of course, Layla loves the idea of buying the most local fish possible, from “our own little piece of sea.” So she insists we buy from this guy … but secretly, I think she just likes to patronize any disheveled vendor with such wild hair.
    Finger-length dreadlocks sprout from his head like it’s a crazy agave; in front, they hang in his face, hiding his eyes. His skin is a deep mahogany color, probably from the hours he spends on his boat every day. His clothes are always a mess, carelessly thrown on; half the time his T-shirts are inside out.
    He greets us with a subdued smile. He’s listening to music in his earphones, so I don’t try to get into a long conversation.
    “Qué onda,”
I say in greeting.
    He grins at my Mexican slang, and nodding at Wendell and me, echoes,
“Qué onda.”
    As he wraps my order, he asks us in a raspy voice, “How’s life up there near Punta Cometa?”
    “Bien padre,”
Wendell answers.
    The fish guy nods in approval at our mastery—or maybe butchery—of local slang, then hands me the package of fish. He’s fairly quiet, harder to engage in conversation than Doña Elisa.
    Taking the fish, I introduce myself and Wendell, and ask his name.
    “
Pues
, people around here call me El Loco,” he answers with a soft smile.
    El Loco. The crazy guy.
    I raise an eyebrow. “Any special reason why?”
    “Quién sabe,”
he says with a light in his eyes. Who knows. He tugs on one of his dreadlocks. “Maybe my hair? Or maybe my beachside mansion.”
    “Beachside mansion?” Wendell echoes.
    Fish guy chuckles. “My old pink boat. I just turn it over at night, sleep underneath it on the beach.”
    Unsure how to respond, I smile, and then get to the point. “
Oiga
, do you know a José Cruz around here?”
    He puts his hand to his stubbled chin. “José Cruz. I know many of them.” He sweeps his arm toward the market stands. “Maybe a quarter of the men here have that name.”
    I swallow my disappointment and dig some pesos from my pocket to pay for the fish.
“Gracias.”
    “Gracias, señorita.”
Then, he adds,
“Tengan cuidado, muchachos.”
Be careful, guys.
    The same farewell as Elisa. Is this the first time