Mariachi Meddler Page 11

  “Dummy,” Sergio said. “He managed to get himself into some deep shit.”

  “Abroad where?” I asked.

  “Colombia,” said Pablo. “Probably the usual drug dealing routine.”

  I ran my finger over the strings. My A string was starting to unravel, which meant that I could probably get by with another couple of hours on it. “You’d think they would have questioned Rolando.”

  Sergio frowned. “He wasn’t sleeping with the guy.”

  “Does Rolando know that his wife was?” I asked.

  “We’ve been trying to decide,” said Sergio.

  “Has she been here tonight?”

  “I think she’s upstairs,” said Pablo. “You know the weird part? Yiolanda and Rolando act as if nothing happened.”

  I fingered a scale. “I guess there’s no telling about people.”

  Pablo regarded my cheek. “I guess not.”

  “It was a hard curb,” I insisted.

  “I’m sure it was.”

  Sergio handed me a bottle of water and nodded towards my volunteer chaperon. “I thought you guys were through.”

  “I did too. She showed up at my place this afternoon.”

  “You had a nice afternoon nap, then?”

  “Since I did such a good job of banging myself up last night, that’s the most I could do.”

  “Maybe you’ll have more energy by the time you get off work,” said Sergio. “The way she’s watching you, she’ll want something.”

  “She always wants something.”

  “Whatever she wants, it won’t be what you want. I promise you,” Pablo said as he genuflected.

  “You need a night on the town,” Sergio told Pablo. “I can take you to a little club I know.”

  “No. My luck, my wife would find out, my parents would disown me, and my kids would pretend we’d never met.”

  “Come on, Mr. Daredevil,” said Hernando, preparing his guitarrón. “Sing us a song.”

  “Sure.” I plucked the beginning to La interesada, and the guys lit into it. For once the Chava Flores song poking fun at women who were opportunists didn’t seem exaggerated at all.

  Yiolanda appeared a few songs later. A short, black dress hugged her torso while a strand of pearls circled her bare neck. As she sauntered past the side tables on her way to the cashier’s desk, she focused on Stefani. For one second Yiolanda looked my way, frowning. Then her eyes went back to Stefani until a customer’s question broke her gaze.

  For the next strange, brief hour, I was the focus of two women, one seemingly ready to forgive me despite not sharing her life vision, and one who, while the legal and public consort of another, expected my attention.

  Stefani watched me with doe eyes, amazed that despite my lethargy of the afternoon, I could carry on at all. Twice, when men tried to pay attention to her, she answered politely and shyly pointed at me. From the way they melted away, I understood what she’d said.

  As Yiolanda marched between her cashier’s perch and the kitchen, the events from the previous night washed away until I was tempted to disbelieve them. She acted as if she’d spent the last two nights at a fine hotel and could plow straight ahead with her life without looking back.

  I wanted her to teach me how to do it.

  ***

  At the beginning of our final break, Yiolanda went to sit at the far end of the bar.

  “You guys want anything to drink?” I asked.

  “Bring me a 7 Up,” Pablo said. “I could use the sugar.”

  “Mineral water for me,” said Sergio.

  I pushed in next to Yiolanda, pretending to be impatient to get the bartender’s attention. “You might have called to see if I were still alive.”

  “Hush. Someone will hear you.” She walked away.

  I delivered my companions’ drinks at the back corner of the stage and joined Stefani. She reached out to hug me, and I complied.

  “You’ve been doing a great job.”

  “I missed a few notes.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “You weren’t listening. You’ve been studying clothing styles. If you’re getting bored, you can always go back to my place.”

  “Bored? Of course not. I like being here with you.”

  Yiolanda passed behind Stefani and signaled for me to meet her outside the back door. I shook my head. She’d had her chance to talk to me at the bar, and I wasn’t feeling cheerful enough to engage in any of her mind games. A few minutes later Yiolanda passed by again and made the same signal, but I bent my head closer to Stefani’s and ignored everything else. A few minutes later I went back on stage and resumed playing. For the rest of the night, I didn’t look up from my fingerboard. I drifted through songs not noticing which ones we were playing, relying on Pablo to do most of the melody lines. Given how bad I looked, he didn’t mind.

  Several groups of Mexicans trooped in late, so we didn’t wind things up until after one o’clock. That was late even for us, and by then my back hurt again, and I’d noticed a strain in my right wrist.

  “Have a good time tonight,” Pablo said under his breath as he wiped off his instrument.

  “Don’t let her hurt anything!” Sergio gave me a hard wink, which meant the same thing.

  On our way out of Noche Azul, Rolando cheerfully invited Stefani to come back more often. As we passed the cashier’s desk, Stefani meekly wished Yiolanda a good night. I said nothing, avoiding eye contact.

  Stefani and I had gone a few steps down the street when Yiolanda shouted my name. She stood in the middle of the street, waving dollar bills.

  “I forgot to give you some tip money,” she shouted.

  Usually people who were motivated enough to tip handed us a few dollars themselves. Occasionally they left money with the staff. Yiolanda had chosen a credible ruse, but I didn’t fall for it.

  “Sergio’s already gone home. Keep it for us until tomorrow.”

  Stefani and I resumed our journey. I was more thankful than ever that I lived so close to the restaurant. Even though we walked at a slow pace, we reached my apartment in fifteen minutes. I wasn’t trying to save my strength, however, and I climbed the five flights acting more tired than I was. Rather than answering questions, I wanted to pretend I needed to sleep right away. As it turned out, I didn’t have to pretend.

  A few hours later, Stefani woke me to say that the phone was ringing.

  I left her side and stumbled to the kitchen, cursing the fact that, again, I’d forgotten to turn off the ringer.

  “I told you not to answer the phone in the middle of the night,” Joey said.

  Daylight peeked through the blinds and tinkered with the metal trim of the sink.

  “It’s morning already.”

  “Ha! You can’t fool me. It’s still the middle of the night for you. But I guess you got through last night okay.”

  “Barely.”

  “Find out anything?”

  “Stefani’s here.” I wasn’t sure if she was listening. Joey paused before exhaling.

  “Isn’t that over?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, get rid of her and meet me down at the office. I’ve got something you need to see.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Stefani had already fallen back to sleep, so I left her a note: “Promised to chauffeur Joey’s kids. Don’t wait. Help yourself to coffee. Leave the keys with Mrs. Sfirakis next door.”

  While I waited for Joey, I studied the downtown street in its early morning light. It would be another hour before the business district would come alive, before the locked doors would contain anything real. In the meantime, the sterility matched my mood.

  Joey pulled up on his shiny green Vespa. Mine was several generations its senior.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Can you believe there was traffic at this hour?”

  “Accident?”

  “A car had overturned, and three ambulances arrived.”

  “Strange things happen at dawn.”


  “Yes, I suppose that’s when most strange things happen.” He examined my cheek from different angles. “I suppose you will look even worse before you look better.”

  He unlocked the front door and we traipsed up to his office.

  “Coffee?”

  I nodded, following him to the mini-kitchen at the back of the suite. He busied himself in front of the sink, opening and closing containers, turning on the espresso machine.

  “And Stefani?”

  “I left her sleeping.”

  “That’s one way to avoid conversation.”

  “Yesterday she came over unannounced. One look at me and she wouldn’t let me out of her sight. She spent the whole evening at the restaurant.”

  As soon as the orange light went off, he tapped the button and waited until the machine spit out enough for both demitasse cups.

  “This should be strong enough to help.”

  I followed him back to his office. He flicked on the computer, and I sat across from him while we waited for it to fire up. “Break up with Stefani.”

  The computer whirred.

  “You can’t dislike her if you haven’t met her.”

  “Me? It has nothing to do with me. You’re the one who doesn’t like her, or anyway not enough.”

  “What makes you say so?”

  He fiddled with the position of the computer screen, adjusting it to eye level. “You’re never excited about her. You don’t seem to have good times, only bad. Or was last night an exception?”

  “I fell asleep as soon as we got to my place.”

  Joey reached for a pencil and bounced its eraser tip on the desk. “Unless I have your girlfriends mixed up, you went from interest to hesitation without any of the pleasures that should have come in between.”

  “Last night she was on her best behavior.”

  “Considering your condition, I’d have behaved myself.”

  “She tried to talk me out of going to work, but—”

  “I know. You don’t let anyone talk you out of what you want to do.”

  If I’d felt better, I might have challenged his remark even though I knew it was true. “Sometimes that’s a good trait.”

  “Uh huh.”

  But I knew he was right. I was too stubborn for my own good. I’d noticed the fault on other occasions.

  Joey waved me towards the screen. “Come on around.” He pulled up the zine Southern California Now on the Internet and flipped to the archives. “Here. Read this little item from three years ago.”

  San Diego, May 5th. News update. Shipping baron Esteban Gutiérrez was murdered in his bedroom late last night by two intruders. Robbery is thought to be the motive: jewelry was among the items found missing. His son, Marco Antonio Gutiérrez, declined to speculate on possible perpetrators.

  “How is an item found if it’s ‘missing’?”

  “That’s a technicality.”

  I stopped to clear my throat. “Our boy didn’t get to enjoy his inheritance very long. Yiolanda should have married him. She’d have her hands on all his money by now.”

  “Not so fast.”

  With a click, Joey flipped to a San Diego website and scrolled down until he found an obituary. “Listen: ‘Esteban Gutiérrez, shipping magnate, survived by a son,’ blah blah. ‘His estate will be awarded, as per his wish, to Child Opportunity, an organization that reviews the needs of orphans around the world.’”

  “What?” I read the news lines over his shoulder. “Marco Antonio didn’t inherit a thing?”

  “I don’t know. The International Phone Directory gave me a number in Belgium for Child Opportunity. When I called last night I got an answering machine. We should find out more today.”

  “Think it’s a front?”

  Joey stroked his chin. “Could be. I searched Child Opportunity on the Net, but I didn’t find any listings. The organization might have been set up for money laundering or something. No one gets as rich as Gutiérrez Senior did without bending the rules. The question is which rules he bent and with whom.”

  “And whether his actions played into his son’s death.”

  “Or whether his son’s actions played into his. If Marco Antonio found out that his father intended to give everything away, he would have been furious.”

  “Or he would have tried to change his mind.”

  Joey leaned back until the chair tottered. I lunged forward, thinking I’d catch him when the chair fell, but from his composure, I realized that he knew how far he could safely lean. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked.

  “That Gutiérrez Junior had something to do with his father’s death?”

  “Maybe he had some help.”

  “Yiolanda?”

  Joey shrugged without answering. “I can’t fathom it.”

  “Neither can I. But then again, we don’t know the men involved. Gutiérrez Senior could have been a louse.”

  “Maybe the son was. I never knew much about his personal life.”

  “True. For all we know, he promised Yiolanda money for helping him, not knowing he was cut out of the will. Junior didn’t have any way to pay her back and finally she got tired of waiting. Something like that.”

  “Or maybe out of remorse, she killed the son who killed the father.”

  Joey rocked in the chair. “Now you sound like a Greek chorus.”

  “Maybe the father’s death was a coincidence.”

  Joey tapped his fingers together. “Maybe Yiolanda signed on for an adventure, and when things went wrong, she got pissed.”

  “She’s pissed most of the time.”

  “So it’s easy to imagine.”

  ***

  “Mrs. Sfirakis?”

  My neighbor instantly opened the door. “Andy—oh, dear! Should I call a doctor?”

  I tapped the part of my cheek that didn’t hurt. “Nothing lethal. Tumbled off my motor scooter.” I couldn’t tell whether she believed me or not. Usually I told her the truth.

  “Those things are dangerous. Perhaps you’d like a coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Fanning herself, Mrs. Sfirakis waved me towards her balcony while she trotted off to the kitchen. Even though our balconies were side by side, the few feet of difference afforded a new view. From mine I could watch the tourists who hugged Adeline Lane so they wouldn’t get lost on their way to the beach. From hers I could look around the corner to the strip mall where local housewives crossed paths with the business crowd.

  Mrs. Sfirakis had created a haven on her ten feet of balcony. Her flower boxes were filled with bougainvillea plants that thrived despite the summer heat. The lounge chairs had armrests and soft cushions. The table was covered by a hand-embroidered cloth that she—or perhaps her mother—had stitched decades earlier. Her coffee was much better than Joey’s, and she remembered how much milk and sugar I took. By the time Shadow jumped on my lap, I knew I belonged.

  “She prefers men. She always favored my husband over me, but I never could understand why.”

  Shadow poked around my lap to find the most comfortable position. There were a number of stray, hungry cats in the area, but this one lived in luxury.

  “You’re lucky she keeps you,” I told the cat.

  “She thinks she’s a watchdog. She heard you just now.”

  “Oh?”

  “She was standing at attention moments before you knocked.”

  “I’m lucky she didn’t growl.”

  “To tell you the truth, she’s not so particular.” Mrs. Sfirakis reached into her housecoat, pulled out my keys, and set them on the table. “By the way, your girlfriend is sweet. You should have introduced us weeks ago. How are things going? Any wedding bells ringing?”

  I stirred my coffee though it was already perfect. Had anyone else asked the question, I would have changed the topic, but Mrs. Sfirakis could get away with asking personal questions because she never used the information as an excuse to offer advice. She had zeroed in on an issue that confused me. I d
idn't want to be lonely, but I hardly needed a girlfriend who was as clingy as a wet Speedo. If I couldn't find an appropriate companion, I was better off without one.

  “I’m not sure I want to marry.”

  Mrs. Sfirakis nodded several times in a steady, slow motion. “If you have doubts, then you don’t.”

  “It’s that simple, isn’t it?”

  “Most things in life are.”

  I didn’t believe anything could make the situation involving Yiolanda simple, but I didn’t have the energy to explain it.

  I tried to uncross and then re-cross my legs without disturbing the beast, but Shadow lost faith and jumped down. “There’s a woman at the restaurant who flirts with me. Whenever I see her I forget all about Stefani.”

  “What does she have that Stefani doesn’t?”

  I stared at the bright pink of the bougainvillea. Yiolanda was sexier but not prettier. More difficult. More alluring. “I don’t know.”

  I could read Stefani like a glossy magazine. She got excited by little things such as a bouquet of fresh flowers or a box of chocolates or a new bracelet. I never had to stop to think about how she would react.

  Deciphering Yiolanda was like reading a kaleidoscope. You could gather clues from familiar signs but never complete the picture. I’d been watching her lunar mood swings for five years without understanding what pleased her other than attention.

  “What do you feel for this restaurant woman?”

  “I try not to feel anything. She’s the boss’s wife.”

  “Ah. That is a complication. Perhaps the attraction is physical?”

  “Good chance.”

  “Are we talking about the woman who spent the night on Sunday?”

  I jerked my saucer, and the spoon flew to the ground. I slammed my foot down so that the utensil wouldn’t slide off the balcony.

  Mrs. Sfirakis nodded graciously. “Sounds like a physical attraction to me.”

  Awkwardly, because I didn’t want to knock anything over, I picked up the spoon and set it on the table. I wondered if blushing could show through a bruise.

  My companion smiled as she poured me the rest of the coffee.

  “Thank goodness I don’t have better hearing. You were awfully loud.”