Curveball (19 page)

Standing next to a life-size nativity scene, a security guard greeted each member
of the family in front of her before turning to her. She smiled. He did not.

“Oh
señorita
, no. I cannot let you enter wearing that.”

Cat looked down at her capri pantsuit. As far as outfits go, she wasn’t really a fan
of bottoms that couldn’t decide if they were shorts or pants either. However, it was
going to hit eighty-five today, and even with the shade of a thirty foot tall Christopher
Columbus that meant that clothing with an identity crisis was a must.

“Either you’re the Dominican answer to Richard Blackwell or my pants are too short.”

He shook his head and pointed to a sign behind him.

Cat translated the dress code and hung her head. “Only skirts?” She searched his face
for any sign of leniency. “Really? It really makes a difference if a little thread
separates each leg?”

His implacable expression showed no mercy as he lifted a limp finger up to point across
the pavilion to a pushcart. “You can rent a skirt over there.”

Cat took one last look at his determined face before deciding there was no sense in
trying to bargain. It was either rent a skirt or don a fake mustache and try to enter
as an
hombre
. Unfortunately, Benji still had yet to come through with the fake mustaches and passports.
She gave the guard a polite nod and made her way to the vendor.

The woman behind the booth lit up when she saw her pants.

She
’s got a live one
.

“You want skirt, yes?”

“Yes.”

She sized her up and down. “I am to guess you are a … small.” She gestured to the
many brightly colored cotton skirts on the table. “What color you like?”

Cat surveyed the collection. The table of full skirts looked like the wardrobe selection
at a community theater production of
Brigadoon
. She pointed to a dark green one. “That’ll be fine.”

“Oh yes, a pretty skirt indeed. It match your eyes.
Verde
. Fifty pesos.” She waited for Cat to place the money on the table before gingerly
handing the skirt over. “You bring back here after
Catedral
.”

Cat shimmied the skirt over her capris. It swallowed her hips, cascaded over her legs
and hit right at her shins. “I will.” She closed her eyes and gave thanks that Paige
was not around to mock the low-rise moomoo.

This time when she met the security guard, he smiled and tipped his head. “
Señorita
.”

While the outside of the five-hundred-year-old cathedral gave you a sense of its former
stoic grandeur—its golden-tinted coral limestone façade was regal without being flashy—the
inside of the historic cathedral was nothing short of magnificent. She shivered with
pleasure as she walked through the massive gothic doors. Grams used to take her to
the church down the road from their trailer park at Easter and Christmastime but it
was nothing like this. Squeezing between neighbors on one of the fifty pews inside
the old schoolhouse had always struck her as a dreary way to spend a Sunday morning
better suited to watching cartoons. Here, the vaulted ceiling soared fifty feet above
the seemingly infinite rows of mahogany pews. Tree-trunk molded columns reached up
to the ceiling and spread into limestone palm leaves, with chandeliers dangling from
the branches. A placard on the wall explained the purpose of these details was to
recall the church’s first days as a modest hut. Chapels lined the walls below countless
stained glass windows. The marble floor led up to the high, hammered-silver altar.
Across the church, a tour guide pointed out the mausoleum of the Archbishop Geraldini
Bastidas and the tombstone of Simón Bolívar. The field trip schoolchildren crowded
around a touch stone on the wall that guaranteed people of the Colonial City refuge
in the cathedral.

She approached the painting of
La Virgen de la Altagracia
.

“
Ay! Que linda!
”

(“Oh! How beautiful!”)

A man sidled up to her, immediately pulling a digital camera out of his fanny pack.
Cat nodded in agreement, sharing a smile with the enthralled sightseer. The painting
was beautiful; however, it was not what she was hoping to find. She glanced around
the church once more. This situation didn’t sit well with her. After what happened
in the alley, she found it hard to believe that Cristian had merely stood her up.

La
Tambora
was becoming a regular stop on her daily commute. She stepped out of the taxi and
pulled the glass door open. The smell of celery and garlic smacked her before she
even stepped inside, no doubt from the chef whipping a pot of beans—
Habichuelas—
for the day. This time she wasn’t looking to order off the menu, despite her stomach’s
instinctive growling response to the kitchen’s lunch preparations.

The waiter from that first night with Chance and Paige greeted her. If he recognized
her, he didn’t reveal it on his blank face.

“I’m sorry,
señorita
. We do not open until eleven o’clock.”

She smiled and looked behind him and around the room. “I’m actually looking for somebody.
Cristian, the busboy?”

The waiter shook his head.

Cat mimed carrying a bus tray and placing dishes in it.

“
¿Cómo se dice ... ayudante de camarero?
”

(“How do you say it ... busboy?)

He chuckled. “No I understand what you say, but I do not know who you mean.”

Cat’s head spun around the restaurant again. “Cristian. He works here. I’ve seen him
here numerous times. He was supposed to work the lunch shift.”

The waiter continued to shake his head. “I am sorry, no.”

He started to walk off and she reached her arm out, tugging on his long white sleeve.
“He’s tall. Likes baseball, he’s a pitcher.” His clueless face was beginning to irk
her and the annoyance came out in her strained voice. “He was working the night you
were my waiter. I came in here with the obnoxious blond guy. “

“Excuse me. Is there a problem here?”

Cat turned around to a heavyweight in a tan linen suit and blue tie. “Can I help you?”
He gave her a warm smile and curious look.

“Yes, I’m trying to find—” She stopped, cocking her head. “Do I know you?”

It was fleeting, but his eyes darkened before a smile extended across his face. “Icaro
Mendoza. I own
La Tambora
.” He extended his hand. “You have seen me around, yes? I have noticed you have become
quite the regular, Miss …?”

His dark, unwavering eyes probed hers. She slid her hand out of his.

“McDaniel.” She gave him a curt smile and broke his intense stare. “That must be it.”
It wasn’t, but her intuition told her to back off, and intuition is a lot louder than
memory.

“Anyway, I’m looking for my friend, he works here. His name is Cristian.”

“Hmm …” the man pressed his lips together. He looked around the empty restaurant.
“No, no Cristian here. We had a Cristobal once, but he has not been of our employ
for some time now.”

Cat looked over to the waiter she had initially questioned and he quickly averted
his eyes. She felt like a guest star on the first five minutes of the
Twilight Zone
. Then she knew why the man was so familiar: she’d seen him only last night, about
to run his mitt-sized fist into Cristian’s stomach. Her heart leaped into her throat;
she had to swallow hard to force it back down.

“Oh.” One last emotion fought for the roster spot and it was a clear winner—fear.
She fought to stay composed. “I must have the wrong restaurant.” She tried to bat
her lashes like the Southern belle she wasn’t. “I’m new here and it’s so easy to get
confused.”

He studied her for a second. “Yes.” Then he smiled. “I am sure it is.”

To her own ears, Cat’s giggle emerged as a high-pitched rattle. She backed away toward
the exit. “Thank you for your help.”

Scurrying down the boardwalk, Cat steadied her heels on each uneven wooden plank.
She paused on a sandy slat to allow two surfers to cross out to the beach. The teenage
boys carried their boards over their heads and gave her an acknowledging nod.

“
¡Buena suerte a mis amigos!
”

(“Good luck, my friends!”)

They’d need her good wishes if they planned on catching any surf. The late morning
sun bounced off the endless water but alas, didn’t bring any waves with it. Seagulls
screamed over them as the boys charged across the sand. The boardwalk passed over
a dune and the hotel parking lot came into sight. The red convertible was still in
the same spot as yesterday, which meant “sleeping in” was Paige-speak for taking a
half-day off work.

Cat picked up her pace, hoping to have the brat behind her desk by noon, just in time
for her to take a two-hour lunch.

The blow dryer shut off as she opened up the hotel door. That was a good sign. In
the long game of Paige’s beauty routine, hairstyling was the ninth inning. Paige burst
out of the bathroom. Her high cheekbones cut through the shiny straight hairstyle
she’d just perfected. Her eyelids were dusted with a soft gold eye shadow, a perfect
complement to her Dolce & Gabbana leopard print miniskirt. Cat knew it was a D&G because
she’d spied it in the closet, along with its four-digit price tag—double the per capita
household consumption of an average family in this city. She’d made a mental promise
then and there that when she and Benji struck it rich on the Strip, they would continue
shopping at the outlet mall and donate the difference to UNICEF. After all, the dress
wasn’t
that
much nicer looking than anything in Cat’s tenth of the closet.

Paige twirled in the bathroom doorway. “What do you think?”

She lacked only a runway and a wind machine.

Well,
maybe UNICEF wouldn’t mind if I bought one designer dress
.

Cat blinked. “Wow. I guess eleven hours of sleep really agrees with you. What’s the
occasion?”

Paige threw her hair over her shoulder. “No occasion. I just want to look my best
in case a certain agent stops by.” She flung open the closet door and eyed the crowded
pairs of shoes on the floor before deciding on the red Manolo d’Orsays.

Cat ignored her primal urge to grab the pumps and run, focusing instead on the issue
at hand.

“Paige, we need to talk.”

“Uh-oh. Between that phrase and those creases on your forehead, you might as well
be my dad.”

“I need to tell you something that I saw last night at the club.”

That got her attention. Paige perked up. “What?”

“You remember that busboy client of Chance’s, Cristian?”

She groaned. “Not him again. Jeez, Cat, just let it go already.”

“He was there last night. I saw him in the alley out back getting roughed up by Chance’s
friends.”

Concern flickered across Paige’s face and she plopped down on the rumpled bed.

“Is he okay?”

“I think so.”

Cat sat down next to her.

“But that’s not my point.
Chance’s
friends were beating up
Chance’s
client. Operative word there?
Chance
.”

“Well, did you see Chance out there?”

‘No. But these were the same people he was with all night.”

“So?”

“So, if they are his friends—”

Paige bounded off the bed.

“Is this where you lecture me about being judged by the company we keep?”

“Well … yeah.”

“They’re not his besties, Cat, they’re just business associates. They had a box at
the game and invited him to join them.”

“Cristian is Chance’s business associate, too.”

“What’s your point?”

“It’s not good to be in business with Chance Hayward.”

Paige shrugged. The little interest she’d shown before was gone and her attention
turned back to her closet. “Lucky for me then. Chance and I are no business and all
pleasure.”

Cat sighed.

“Are you sure he’s not … dangerous?” She had hesitated to use that word, for the privileged
Paige seemed like the type of girl for whom “dangerous” would be a turn-on.

Instead, she burst out laughing. “Dangerous? Have you seen him? Chance wouldn't dare
engage in any activity that could jeopardize his pretty face.”

She had a point there. Chance was a Ken doll, not a G.I. Joe. At any rate, Paige was
going to solid evidence to drop her boytoy.

“If you’re so interested in Chance, then why do you care if I was dancing with Junior?”

“That’s just the rules, McDee.” She double-checked her flawless look in the mirror,
puckering up her lips for effect. “How would you like it if I was sniffing around
your ex-sausage, what’s his name? Benji?”

“There’s no
ex
. You know he’s my current saus—er, boyfriend.”

“We’ll see.” Paige opened the hotel door and sashayed out.

Cat nibbled on her
sandwich de aguacate
they’d picked up on the way in. Joe had turned his nose up at the vegetarian sandwiches,
saying he only ate avocados when they came in guacamole form with a side of nacho
cheese. Paige had surprised them both by announcing his was made “
y tocino
” (with bacon).

Little
Miss-Anthrope can’t say gracias to the colmado clerk, but language is no barrier when
it comes to adding bacon to an already obese man’s lunch
.

She shook off her annoyance and pulled her keyboard closer. She’d searched
La Guia Telefonica De Republica Dominicana
in an attempt to locate Cristian’s address to no avail. Sighing, she rested her wrists
on the desk. Judging from her results, looking for Cristian Encarnación here was as
productive as Yellowbooking John Smith in the U.S. She opened up a new tab and Googled
Chance Hayward. With the exception of many fine restaurants and businesses located
in the East Bay of San Fran, she found bupkis.