The Argentina Rhodochrosite (5 page)

8

The remaining three assembled in the
living room.

Ovidio sat on the edge of a chair, leaning forward, white cup of coffee in his hand. The heels of his bare feet bounced against the carpet, as though he were waiting for a starting gun to fire.

Nadia and Ainsley sat down on the couch together. “I’ve already told her the history of your necklace,” said Nadia. “We just need her to know how you lost it.”

The athlete’s face crinkled into an annoyed smile. “If I knew that, you wouldn’t have to hire her, and I would be playing right now.”

“Just tell us.”

He blew an exasperated breath. “It disappeared from a hotel room, three weeks ago. El Hotel Perdido.”

“Was it your hotel room or someone else’s?” said Ainsley.

“Mine. The girls always come to me. Always.”

“I understand.”

“It was in a box, the same box I have kept it in since childhood. Not a fancy box with decorations.” He shaped an imaginary rectangle with his hands. “Just a simple cigar box.”

Ainsley carried on with the basic questions. “Who could’ve gotten in?”

“The maid.”

Ainsley hadn’t heard about that. Nadia explained further. “The maid hasn’t shown up to work since the day after the theft.”

“Then she seems a logical place to start.”

“Exactly,” said Ovidio. “That’s what I’m saying. But this one…” He pointed at Nadia and clucked his tongue.

The manager ignored him. Ainsley guessed that she’d had years of practice doing this. “My theory,” she said, “is that it was a targeted theft, since nothing else was stolen. So my opinion is that you should investigate his friends instead.”

Ovidio threw one arm over his head. It was an expression of disgust.

“But it’s true!” said the manager. “Your friends are lowlifes!”

“I’m not disputing that,” he said. “But they are
my
lowlifes. They wouldn’t steal from
me
.”

“Lalo did.”

Ovidio became agitated. Ainsley was noticing how visibly all of his emotions passed across his body.

“Remember?” Nadia said, pressing further. “You caught Lalo selling stories about you to the tabloids.”

“Of course,” the superstar explained. “But it’s Lalo. You know? That’s something Lalo would do. He’s an asshole.”

“You are too generous.”

“It’s only money, I can forgive that.” He wagged a finger at both women. “I can tell you this. Lalo wouldn’t steal my mother’s necklace. Nobody I know would do that. It’s not possible.”

Nadia kept her composure. “I think Ainsley should talk to them anyways.”

The superstar bolted to his feet, upset. “But the maid is so obvious. We know she lives in Villa 27, we just need to go—”

“That’s why it’s wrong,” said Nadia. “It’s
too
obvious. She would’ve taken your jewelry, your gold, everything.” She turned to Ainsley. “Forget the maid. Start with his friends.”

Ovidio pulled a toffet in front of Ainsley and sat on it. He placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. The brown irises were flecked with green. Ainsley felt herself hypnotized by him.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You should forget my friends. Start with the maid.”

Both people, the athlete and manager, were looking at her. Ainsley realized that she had the responsibility of casting the deciding vote.

“You both have valid points,” said Ainsley, “but I’m going to agree with Nadia.”

The superstar stood up, aggravated. He waved Ainsley away with his hand. “Gemstone detective, bah. You don’t know my country. You don’t know my life. You probably don’t even know jewelry.”

That got Ainsley’s goat. She fought down her anger and followed him over to the window, approaching him from the side. She had learned to do that with certain men when they were upset, so as to not seem confrontational.

“
Señor
Angeletti,” she said, “there is not much that I am able to do well. I have quit or been fired from almost every job in my life. But this, this I can do. I’m
good
at this one thing. You know what it feels like to have a calling. Don’t you?”

He nodded.

“You play football. And I find gemstones. I will get your mother’s necklace back. And you will play again. Just let me
try
.”

He turned slightly towards her. Ainsley noticed that there were tears in his eyes. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Everybody thinks I am so powerful. I’m not powerful. That necklace, my mother… it gives me everything that people expect to see.”

“Then let me help.”

Ainsley waited for an answer. She saw Ovidio’s heavy eyebrows crinkle in suspicion as he looked out the window. “Who is that man?” he said.

“What man?”

“That one.” His forefinger stabbed the windowpane. Ainsley looked down to the street. At a bus stop was an ordinary guy wearing a gray hoodie and a pair of headphones.

“The one waiting for a bus?”

“He’s been there five minutes.”

“Yes, he’s waiting for a bus.”

Ovidio’s eyes narrowed. “I think he’s monitoring me.”

Ainsley tried not to roll her eyes. “No, you’re okay. Don’t worry.”

He rubbed his palm on his cheek. “I don’t like how he looks.” Agitated, Ovidio turned to his manager. “Nadia, I need to change hotels. They’re watching me—”

Nadia answered before he’d even finished. “It might be a long-distance bus. If he’s still there in ten minutes, we’ll investigate.”

Ovidio walked to the other side of the suite. He stared at the floor, deep concern etched in his face. His mood had changed yet again.

“So Ainsley’s going to start with your friends, okay?” said Nadia.

Distracted, Ovidio mumbled a noncommittal response. Ainsley was impressed. Nadia had waited for the perfect moment to tell him how things would be. She handled her client the same way women have handled difficult men everywhere in the world. Timing was crucial.

“You’re good,” Ainsley said, “like a mother.”

“It’s true,” Nadia replied, “I coddle him the way his mother never did. Now, are you ready to meet his entourage?”

“You bet.”

Nadia lifted a finger. “In this way. You’ll go to the
puerta cerrada
tonight. Ovidio will be there with his entourage. Meet us at this address.” She handed Ainsley a scrap of paper with an address scribbled on it. “The host will be expecting you. His name is Facundo. Remember, you’re a journalist.”

“Yes I am.” Ainsley turned to the athlete. “Ovidio, it was nice meeting you.”

He was crouched in the corner now, still shirtless, his gray slacks strained against his powerful hamstrings. His lips had worked themselves into a frustrated little ball. He looked like an orangutan.

Nadia cut in. “Did you hear her,
mono
? She’s going to help you.”

He lifted a finger in response. That could mean anything.

She exchanged knowing glances with Nadia. The superstar’s mood had changed yet again.

Ainsley slipped into the elevator, and as the doors closed, she closed her eyes and exhaled loudly. She suddenly felt grateful for many things in her life.

Most especially for the fact that she didn’t have Nadia’s job.

9

In the lobby, Ainsley sauntered past
the expensive shops again. Then she heard the distant sound of tinkling glassware and the murmur of conversation. She followed the sounds. She had nothing else to do for several hours.

Turning a corner, she came upon an enormous tearoom. White-linened tables quartered by high-backed wicker chairs. Gleaming silver pots and lacquered porcelain teacups. The far end of the room was a glass wall laced with black wrought iron. Green ferns hung in globes from the ceiling.

It was like a giant birdcage. For very rich pigeons.

The maitre’d, a woman in a starched shirt, looked up from her podium. “Can I help you?”

“I’m just admiring,” said Ainsley. “It’s enchanting.”

She could see the Anglophile foodstuffs, the scones, the jams, the pots of cream, the watercress sandwiches. And the tables were packed with the predictable clientele: wealthy old women, hair feathered and plumage up.

Except for one. A thin man, wearing a sky blue shirt, orange scarf, and a touch of makeup. He was waving at her.

Horacio.

He wanted her to come over. Ainsley decided to ride the wave. She entered the tearoom and wound her way through the tables.

“There’s my girl,” Horacio shouted, as though they were old friends. “How did your meeting with my brother go?”

Ainsley remembered the code. “He’s got a lot of problems,” she said.

He was sitting with three old women who were crusted in blingy jewelry. They looked like living museum pieces. They didn’t wear much makeup, but their overwhelming floral perfume assaulted Ainsley’s nose. It was fragrance abuse, pure and simple.

“These are the ladies who lunch,” he said.

“Nice to meet all of you.”

The women nodded at her. She could feel their eyes scrolling up and down her body.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” he said.

“I don’t know,” Ainsley replied. “I’ve never been to this city before.”

Horacio tossed down his napkin and stood up. “Ainsley, you’re going out for
parrilla
. For a real Argentine steak.”

“With who?” she said.

He looked offended. “With
me
. I can’t bear to think of you eating some cold empanada all alone in an ugly cafe because you don’t know any better.”

That was generous, but Ainsley didn’t want to step on anybody’s toes. “Only if these women will let you go.”

“Them?” he said. “They would take you out themselves, if they knew the right places. Right dears?”

The elderly waxworks were impassive. Ainsley knew the type. They were the type of wealthy old people upon whom nothing seems to register, who have drowned their personalities inside their pools of money. They become like heavy luxury automobiles, laden with decoration, that never feel any bumps in the road.

She watched the taster zip up his leather jacket and kiss each of the three women on both sides of their faces. He made small talk with each. To Ainsley, it sounded and seemed very much like open flattery.

“Come on, skinny,” he finally said to her, “let’s plump you up so these women don’t have you murdered.”

He left the tearoom, Ainsley following, striding past the stone pillars of the lobby, and out the front door onto the sidewalk.

Outside, she struggled to catch up. “You don’t have to do this for me,” she said. “I don’t want to interrupt a perfectly nice lunch—”

He waved the comment off. “Those old hags. They’re always on me to come to tea because I entertain them. They see me like a little goat that brays and stands on its back legs and makes them laugh.” He scrunched up his face. “Fuck them. I’m glad to get away.”

The air was as brisk as Horacio’s pace, and Ainsley struggled to keep up. “So where are you taking me?”

“La Cumparasita.”

“It’s really good?”

“Trust me,” he said, “the steak I’m showing you is so good, you’ll be writing about it for years. What magazine do you work for?”

Ainsley felt her throat go dry. She’d forgotten to fabricate a cover story.

Thinking quickly, she said, “
Laddie
.”

“
Laddie
magazine?”

“Yes.”

“Who reads it?”

Ainsley’s eyes darted around. “You know, lads. Boys.”

“I get it,” said Horacio. “It’s one of
those
magazines. Wet women in bikinis on the cover. Why did they send a woman to meet our brother?”

“Magazines always use female writers for these assignments,” she said. “We girls know how to talk to men.”

The traffic had been rushing along the street past them, each car ignoring the lane markers as it jockeyed for position. Then a Mercedes slowed to a stop along the curb.

The back window, tinted nearly black, rolled down. It was Ovidio.

“Ladies,” he said, “I can’t decide which one of you has the nicer ass.”

Ainsley was annoyed. Her new boss didn’t respect her boundaries.

“Keep talking like that,” Horacio replied, “and I’ll forget what arsenic tastes like.”

Ainsley could see Nadia on the other side of the backseat. She looked pissed, probably because Ovidio was showing his face in public. She tugged on the superstar’s sleeve and whispered something.

Ovidio looked at the taster. “Friend, can you cross the street for a minute? I need to speak to Ainsley alone.”

“Fine,” Horacio said. He tapped on his phone as he walked proudly into oncoming traffic. A single car blew its horn as it careened around him.

“
Sin vergüenza
,” said Ovidio, “
sin vergüenza
.”

Ainsley didn’t understand that phrase, but she guessed that it was respectful. Then she felt Ovidio’s forceful hand catch her own. Urgency came into his eyes.

“The necklace,” he said, “I forgot to tell you something important about the necklace.”

“Tell me.”

“It has a special mark. A distinguishing characteristic.”

“What is it?”

Ovidio gestured to Nadia. She handed him a piece of paper and a pen. “It has a Z,” he said.

“The letter Z.”

“Yes. Like this.”

He used the pen to draw a wobbly but legible Z. It was kind of adorable, Ainsley thought, the effort he was putting into making sure that she knew what a Z looked like.

He handed her the paper. “It’s called a Zorro rhodochrosite. It’s very rare.”

“I appreciate it,” she said. “See you tonight. Right?”

The superstar smiled mysteriously at her as the window rolled up. As Ainsley watched the Mercedes accelerate into traffic, she finally understood something important.

Ovidio wasn’t just a nice guy, or a mean guy, or a happy guy, or a frightened guy, or a pensive guy, or a crazy guy.

He was
all
of those guys.