Melissa Bourbon Ramirez - Lola Cruz 02 - Hasta la Vista, Lola!

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  The more I thought about it, the more one thing kept spinning through my mind. I’d been assuming that Rosie Gonzales was one of those stupid criminals radio DJs talk about. Use someone else’s name, but leave a mile-long trail of bread crumbs leading to the truth. I mean, she’d linked her name and my name at the storage facility. But she’d also given her address as an empty lot and hadn’t left a phone number to trace.

  In the end, I couldn’t quiet the nagging feeling in my gut that the woman who’d stolen my identity might not be quite so lame as I’d originally thought.

  Chapter 5

  It was raining black at Mass the next morning. My mother, grandmother, and grandfather all mourned me in theory—and were dressing the part. Didn’t make a bit of difference that I stood right next to them. My grandmother refused to walk by my side. She muttered obscure prayers to la Virgen de Guadalupe and called on even more obscure saints to give us guidance through our family tragedy.

  I lit a candle for Rosie Gonzales, then spent the rest of the afternoon surrounded by food and family—in that order. Except for Chely, who was like my shadow and hardly let me out of her sight. If I reached for a tamale, she reached for one, too. If I poured myself a glass of soda, she poured herself one, too. If I muttered to myself about the fact that Jack was a no-show, she muttered about it, too.

  Finally, deciding that a dead-me was plenty and that I didn’t need a mini-me, too, I pulled her into the laundry room. “Prima, you have to snap out of this.”

  Tears instantly pooled in her eyes. “But I can’t!” She sniffled, then dragged the back of her hand under her nose. “I just keep hearing that news announcer saying that you’re dead!”

  “But I’m not dead, Chely.” I’d been over the I’m not a ghost thing with my grandmother too many times to count since Friday night. Chely was much more sensible than Abuela. I didn’t think I’d have to do it with her, too.

  She dried her eyes, nodding her head until I was dizzy from watching it go up and down, up and down, up and down. “I know. You’re not dead,” she repeated it.

  This was good. “Right. Otra vez,” I said. If she repeated it aloud enough times, maybe she’d believe it.

  “You’re not dead,” she said. “You’re not dead.”

  “Good. Feel better?”

  She gave me a half smile. “I guess.”

  Now I just needed to distract her. “Tonio made guacamole, did you see? A huge bowl, and it has your name on it.”

  Chely’s eyes got big and her smile went from partial to complete. “Want some?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.” She hesitated, but I hurried on. “Hurry! Go get some before Miguel eats it all. You know Tonio’s guac is the best.”

  Finally, Chely scurried back into the kitchen, and I gave myself a mental high five. One down, the rest of the family to go. Getting them to deal with the fact that I wasn’t actually dead seemed harder than them dealing with their grief if I had really died. Twisted, but what could I say? The Falcón–Cruz familia thrived on drama.

  With Chely otherwise occupied, my mind went straight to Jack. He’d called to say he couldn’t make the Back from the Dead Party. He’d read into my silence. “Don’t worry, Lola,” he’d said. “This is not an emergency. It’s just work. I’m on deadline, and I have to go talk to a source in Grass Valley. If I get back early enough, I’ll stop by.”

  What could I say? His work ethic was solid, and I respected that 100 percent. But it sort of felt like I was one of those cyber terminator people and a hole had been blown through my gut. Only Jack’s presence could mend me.

  “Have you heard from him?” I asked Antonio halfway through the afternoon.

  My brother shrugged. “Nope.”

  “He said he’d try to make it.”

  Antonio raised his eyebrows. “If that’s what he said, hermana, then stop worrying about it. He’ll be here if he can.”

  I flicked my hand through the air dismissively. “I’m not worried,” I said, but despite the fact that Jack was working, visions of Sarah spun through my head.

  The party wrapped up at nine o’clock. Jack was still a no-show. He finally called at midnight, just as I was drifting off to sleep. “Sorry I didn’t make it back. I had a hot lead. You have to strike when it’s hot, you know?”

  Of course I knew, but the seed Sergio had planted was sprouting roots, and a little part of me wondered if Jack had been following a hot ex-girlfriend instead of a hot lead. “No es problema, Callaghan,” I said. “Did you get what you needed?”

  “Part of it,” he said. The unspoken innuendo was that I was the part he didn’t get.

  “Talk to you tomorrow?” I asked sleepily.

  “It is tomorrow.”

  “Then later today.”

  “Sweet dreams, Cruz.”

  My lips curved into a small smile. I loved the deep rumble of his voice. My dreams would be more than sweet. They’d be smokin’. “Back at you, Callaghan.”

  By ten thirty the next morning, I was knee-deep in fraud alerts and credit reports. After three hours on the phone, it was pretty clear that Rosie Gonzales had racked up a truckload of debt in my name. My stomach ached from the discovery. The woman and her gall enraged me, but she was dead. Damn it, why’d she have to die?

  I filed a complaint with the Federal Trade Commission, ordered credit reports from the other two major consumer reporting agencies, and filled out an identity theft affidavit to submit to companies, just in case.

  None of it made me feel any better.

  With the Zimmerman case all but wrapped up, I didn’t have anything else to do at Camacho’s. Manny had given me the green light to be my own client, and that’s just what I was going to do. First on my list: Find Rosie’s real address.

  Easier said than done. I got nowhere fast. Rosie didn’t seem to exist. Without some starting information about her like her date of birth or her Social Security number, I didn’t have anything to go on and couldn’t find anything more about her. Thanks to high school English, I knew what I was facing was a real catch-22.

  By one o’clock I was starving. Or I was just in serious need of comfort food. I headed to Abuelita’s. The benefit of my fifteen minutes of fame, even if I’d been dead for only a few hours, was that business had picked up. The family restaurant was teeming with customers. My death was bringing in hordes of people, but a customer was a customer—and even the morbidly curious had to eat.

  I kept my head down and burrowed through to the door. Once inside, I waded through the crowd in the lobby. My foot landed on someone’s lumpy toe.

  “Ow!” a woman screeched, glaring at me as I pulled my foot from hers.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Watch where you’re—” She stopped, peered at me, then whacked the guy standing next to her with the back of her hand. “It’s her!” She pointed at me as the man rubbed his arm. “You’re her, aren’t you? You’re—”

  Her voice was swallowed up by the low buzz that started in one end of the lobby and traveled like a stadium wave. “It is her!” someone said. “Dolores!”

  This is what it was like to be a rock star? Yikes. I’d take undercover work any day. I liked my anonymity.

  “Psst. Dolores. Over here.”

  Brushing off my death groupies, I searched for the source of the summons. Every table in the place was occupied. No one flagged me down. They just stared. I turned my back on the dining room and froze when I saw the banner that was slung across the outside of the front window. The sunlight allowed me to see through it enough to recognize… my photo!

  I pushed back out the door and through the line until I could get a good view of the banner. I just stared at it. It said:

  ABUELITA’S: HOME OF THE REAL DOLORES CRUZ!

  Unbelievable! Fuming, I marched back inside, angling my head as I searched for my no-good, unscrupulous brother. I was not an advertising slogan!

  He was nowhere in sight.

  In the dining room, hands on my hips, I waited. An
tonio could run, but he couldn’t hide.

  “Psst! Ven aquí, Dolores.” There was that whispery voice again.

  My head swiveled to follow the sound. My grandparents’ regular booth. Aha! The Godfather. Abuelo stuck his cane out, motioning me forward. The new waitress Antonio had hired managed to dodge the cane, her hands barely holding on to plates of tostada salad, fish tacos, and enchiladas.

  My stomach growled. Having my identity stolen and being pimped out to drum up business had made me famished. I’d deal with Antonio when he showed his face.

  Abuelo flung his cane around again.

  “Cuidado, Abuelo. You’re going to scare away the new waitress!” I knocked the walking stick out of the way and slid into the booth next to my grandmother.

  Abuela dropped her knitting into a heap on the table, eyeing me suspiciously and poking my arm with a padded fingertip.

  “¡Déjame en paz, Abuela! Stop doing that! I’m real.” I scooted out of her reach and she dropped her hand to the table, fingering the heap of variegated yarn in front of her. Abuela was forever knitting baby blankets, but so far, Zac and Lucy were the only ones in the Falcón–Cruz clan to have kids.

  “¿Cuando te vas a casa? Queremos bisnietos,” Abuelo said.

  “One, I’m not going to get married any time soon, so you can just get rid of that idea. And two, you have great-grandchildren,” I said, speaking in English. It kept them on their toes.

  At least he wasn’t talking about the “death,” but my providing him with great-grandchildren wasn’t a much better topic.

  Abuelo peered at me. “Y where your boyfriend yesterday?” he said in his broken English.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said, trying to keep the regret out of my voice, “and his name is Jack.”

  “Sí. Jack,” he said, though it sounded like Yack. “Tú y el van a tener hijos bonitos.”

  I choked on a chip heaped with the last of the salsa. “I’m not having children with Jack Callaghan,” I said after swallowing. At least not yet. It was true that Jack and I would have beautiful children. I bit purposefully on another chip and tilted my head. “In fact, I may not have children at all.” I munched away, ignoring the sharp inhalation of Abuela’s breath. Payback for the fantasma thing.

  “What?” I asked, leaning the empty molcajete on two legs to search for any remnants of tomato or chili. Antonio’s new waitress was already falling behind on salsa duty.

  Abuelo poked a finger into his ear. “¿Qué habla? No children?”

  Of course I wanted children—what, were they really that gullible? “I’m a career woman. You should be proud of me for that.”

  Abuela’s knitting needles clicked together again. “You will have his children.”

  A naked half-eaten chip turned to mush in my mouth. My grandmother was speaking English again; the world was going crazy. I shook my head. “What if I don’t want kids?” I asked. My irritation flared. “My sole purpose in life is not to give you great-grandchildren. And just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I have to hunt for a husband. Why don’t you harass Gracie for great-grandkids? She’s already married. Plus you have Zac’s kids, and—”

  My grandfather looked at my grandmother and translated what I’d said. Ha, as if she didn’t understand. Faker. She muttered in Spanish, clutched her rosary, and prayed unintelligibly. For my salvation or for a man for me, I wasn’t sure which. Though I was pretty sure it was for my soul.

  Abuelo pulled his mouth into a frown at my insolence. I shoved a bare chip into my mouth as the waitress nervously approached the table. She did not have salsa.

  “Mr. Falcon,” she said in a small quavery voice. “Would you like to order?”

  “It is Falcón,” he barked. “Fal-cón.” My grandfather waved his hand in dismissal and she scooted away, spooked by his outburst.

  “You need to be nice to her,” I scolded.

  He grunted. “So you can be a detective.” He waved his hand across the table, as if shooing away the idea. “Pfft. The girl is—is—no es fuerte. And you”—he wagged his finger at me, clearly struggling to find the English words—“belong at this restaurant.”

  “No, I don’t. And what do you mean she’s not strong? Give her a chance.”

  “Pfft,” he said again, almost whistling. He threw his arms out, flailing his cane around again. “¡Muchacha! ¿Necesitamos mas salsa, eh?” He wasn’t going to give anybody a break, least of all a timid waitress who he’d have to see daily.

  Of course, I wanted the salsa, too, so I prayed she’d gather up her courage and face the Godfather.

  He gave a heavy sigh when she didn’t materialize. “Enough of this. Mi’ja,” he said to me, “you must help your primo.”

  “Which primo?” He needed to be a tad more specific, as I probably had fifty cousins.

  “Zacarias.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He is—” He broke off, slowly turning to the waitress, who had finally come to our table.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. It’s just, Antonio said we need the table.” She breathed in shakily. “Unless you want to order.”

  He turned to me, barking, “¿Que dijo?” The girl had raced through her words, slurring them together so that he’d been unable to catch them. I translated, and he growled at her. “I want salsa!”

  Abuela clicked her knitting needles together with her clawlike hands as my grandfather stood up. It was a rite of passage at Abuelita’s. You had to earn the respect of Pedro Falcón, and the sooner this girl figured it out, the better.

  I jumped out of the booth, grabbed her by the sleeve, and quickly pulled her aside. She was pretty—and innocent. I laid it out for her. “You have to be strong with him. That’s the only way he’ll respect you. You can’t let men walk all over you. Especially an old man like him. You’re a woman! Be strong!”

  She stared at me, her eyes watering and her lower lip quivering.

  “Dolores,” my grandfather hissed. “¡No mas!” He leaned over on his cane. “Bring to me the manager,” he said to the waitress, his words twisted with his frustration.

  Her eyes grew round, and tears pooled on the lower rims. She turned and scurried back to the kitchen.

  I shook my head, knowing I hadn’t gotten through to her. Pobrecita. A moment later, Antonio sauntered out from behind the swinging kitchen door, the timid girl hiding behind him. I felt sorry for her. She wasn’t going to last long. Then I felt sorry for myself, realizing I’d be working the lunch shift again while Tonio tried to find yet another waitress.

  The only person I didn’t feel sorry for was Antonio.

  Abuelo still stood, both hands cupped on the carved falcon that perched on top of his cane. Antonio stopped in front of him, standing more than a head taller than the old man. “Are you going to order, viejo?” Antonio demanded, barely keeping a straight face. It was all a demented game to him. I wondered if he and Abuelo spent hours playing chess and discussing just how they were going to haze each new waitress.

  I crunched another naked chip, watching the show. The girl stared doe-eyed at Antonio. Her hero, poor deluded girl.

  “This table I own.” My grandfather nodded sharply to drive his point home.

  Not surprisingly, Antonio didn’t give in. “Look at the lobby. Lola’s death has brought in a crowd!”

  “Thanks to your little banner,” I said.

  Tonio flashed a smug grin. “A stroke of brilliance, don’t you think? It’s a twisted world we live in.”

  “It’s a twisted family I live in,” I said. “Take it down.”

  Antonio looked at me for a beat, then, totally ignoring me, he turned to Abuelo. “Chrissy can’t earn a tip off this table if it’s not usable.”

  Ah, so she had a name. My grandfather glared at Chrissy. “You will have your tip, pero leave me alone. ¿Entiendes?”

  She nodded, her face flushing. “Yes, sir, Mr. Falcón, sir.”

  She rushed away, my grandfather yelling after her, “Bring mas salsa!
”

  “You two are so cruel,” I said, shaking my head as Antonio and Abuelo slid back into the booth. I glared at my brother. “You, especially.”

  Antonio flashed his Cheshire cat grin. “She’s cute, eh? We have to see what she’s made of.”

  “She’s too young for you, Tonio.” I had officially made up my mind. I wasn’t going to be my brother’s safety net anymore. I was a woman, too, and I had to be strong. For Chrissy’s sake. His days of tormenting waitresses for sport were over. “And for the record, I’m not going to fill in if she quits, so you better figure out how to keep her.”

  He smiled. “She’s not going to quit.”

  Right, I’d heard that before. “Just stay away from her. And take the banner down.”

  “Hey, just ’cause you’re uptight—”

  I bristled. “I am not uptight.”

  Antonio gave me an exaggerated wink. “Right. That’s just what Jack said.” Indignant, I kicked Antonio under the table. “Ow! Why’d you do that?”

  “Don’t talk about me with Jack. You’re my brother. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  My grandparents looked from me to Antonio and back again. Abuela’s wrinkled face pinched.

  “You need to have a little fun, Lo.” He turned to our grandparents. “Right?”

  My foot shot out again, catching Antonio’s shin. “Leave them out of this, and I have plenty of fun.”

  Antonio rubbed his shin. “Stop doing that,” he said, more seriously this time.

  “Then stay out of my love life.”

  “You don’t have a love life,” he said. “That’s the point. You’re too obsessed with being a detective to have any fun. And now all you’re doing is trying to figure out who killed some innocent woman instead of you. You might as well have a bull’s-eye on your back.”

  “You—you—” He had some nerve! “You’re using my death to promote the restaurant so—so that bull’s-eye is helping you!”

  “I’m not stupid, Lo.” He shrugged, but gave a resigned frown at the same time. Small consolation that he seemed to feel at least a little bit bad at his self-serving action. “I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. It happened. If it can help business, who am I to discourage that? It is what it is. Now Jack’s—”