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

by Melissa Bourbon Ramirez

  The car’s digital clock read 5:10. The dinner shift had already begun. “Why? Isn’t Chrissy working tonight?”

  “She just quit.”

  I dropped my forehead against the steering wheel. “Damn it, Tonio, did you go to bed with her?”

  “Of course not!” Antonio’s voice was indignant, and almost sincere, but my attention was split. Jack’s gaze was on me, the phrase “going to bed” swirling around in the car between us. “I didn’t do anything,” my brother said. “Abuelo scared her.”

  “How?” I managed to focus on the restaurant drama. “What’d he do?”

  Antonio grumbled. “He banged his cane on the table and ordered more salsa. Then, when she brought it”—he paused, sucking in a breath as if he still couldn’t believe it—“he tasted it and cussed her out.”

  “In Spanish or English?” I asked absently, suddenly distracted by Jack’s arm stretched across the bucket seats of the car. His fingertips lightly touched my hair.

  “Both,” Antonio said.

  My head grew fuzzy. I really didn’t want to work at the restaurant tonight. Not with Jack right here next to me, bed on both of our minds.

  “Cranky old man is losing his marbles,” Antonio added. “I don’t know why he torments the waitresses.”

  “Chrissy really quit?” I asked, praying Antonio was just messing with me. “You couldn’t talk her out of it?”

  He scoffed. “She ran into the kitchen crying—totally hysterical. Said she couldn’t take the abuse anymore.”

  “Anymore? It’s only been a couple days!” I groaned. “She didn’t really try!”

  “Ornery viejo,” Antonio said, but I could tell he was biting back stronger words to describe our grandfather. “Come on, Lola. I need you.”

  “You need me,” I muttered under my breath. But there was no point in arguing. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on Jack needing me if I knew Antonio was scrambling and understaffed at the restaurant. I sighed. “Okay, but you owe me.”

  He heaved a sigh of relief. “Gracias. I’ve got another interview lined up tonight at seven. If this one’s any good, I’ll pick her up and you’ll be off the hook for tomorrow.”

  “Oh no. I am not working tomorrow. I have things to—”

  But Antonio had hung up.

  I turned in my seat, one hand on the steering wheel, the other shoving my phone back into my purse as if it had betrayed me. “I have to work the dinner shift.”

  “So I heard. No problem. I’ll work on my column at the restaurant. I haven’t even interviewed you yet. We have all night.”

  All night. I chewed on my cheek. Jack had looked up the newspaper subscriptions for me and dropped everything to bring them over. He’d spent the afternoon illegally entering a dead woman’s apartment to help me. I could answer his questions, and in the process, I could learn more about Jack Callaghan, the adult.

  I nodded. “All night, huh?” I asked coyly. I was over his disappearing act.

  He grinned suggestively. “All night.”

  Before I could bail out Antonio, I had to let Detective Seavers know about Rosie’s apartment and her missing son. I phoned him up, and—what a guy—he agreed to meet us at the restaurant.

  “So what about your column on identity theft?” I asked as we drove to Abuelita’s. It was the one thing we hadn’t yet talked about, and the reason Jack had tagged along. Supposedly.

  “Tough to write. I can’t reveal anything about the case, but it’s an important topic.”

  “Your source, the guy in Grass Valley, does he have something to do with the column?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Some sources are confidential,” he finally said. “Let’s just say he’s been involved in identity theft, but not on the victim side.”

  Ohhhh. So he was like Rosie. His actions had contributed to destroying someone else’s life.

  Jack didn’t want to say any more. We arrived at the restaurant, Detective Seavers right behind us.

  We sat at a table and I filled him in on my discoveries, starting with the storage unit and ending with Rosie’s apartment and the missing boy.

  Seavers stepped outside, returning a few minutes later. “I’m sending a team over there,” he said, not bothering to sit. “You said the door was open?”

  “One of the neighbors was concerned about Rosie’s son. He decided he didn’t want to wait for you.”

  “So we’ll find your fingerprints in the apartment, Ms. Cruz?”

  He obviously didn’t think very highly of my skills. “No, you won’t. We didn’t disrupt the scene.”

  “I certainly hope not.” He started to turn, but stopped, looking me in the eyes. “I understand your desire to investigate this, Ms. Cruz, but don’t interfere.”

  “I want to help,” I said. “She stole my identity, and now her son is missing.”

  “Keep me informed.” It was a command, not a request.

  “I will,” I said, and the detective left. A sense of relief filled me. The police were on the case, they knew about Rosie’s child, and they’d do everything they could to find him. I could relax. As much as my obsessive personality would allow me to.

  A little while later, I was waitressing and Jack was hunkered down at a corner table. His notebook was open, his laptop was fired up, and a steaming plate of chiles rellenos sat in front of him. He tapped away on the keyboard, pausing every now and then for a bite of food before losing himself in his writing again. His concentration was impressive, and not something I was currently able to mimic. I forced myself to be busy, not wanting to be caught watching him.

  Mondays were slow in the restaurant industry, and Abuelita’s was no exception, even with my “death” to drum up business. There were only a handful of diners, all of them taken care of. “I’m taking a break,” I told Antonio, bringing a glass of water with me to Jack’s table.

  “How’s the column coming?” I asked.

  “Slowly,” he answered, eyes riveted on the monitor. “I need to do more research.” He looked up at me. “Can you give me a quote? How does it feel knowing that someone was out there using your name—pretending to be you?”

  I idly picked up his discarded fork and pushed the rice around his plate as I thought about his question.

  He took the fork from me, filled it with a helping of egg-battered pasilla chili and cheese, and propelled it toward me. My mouth opened automatically, and he gingerly placed the fork inside. He watched me intently as I closed my lips around the tines. He gently pulled the fork back out, and as I used my tongue to catch a stringy piece of cheese caught on my lip, Jack’s eyes seemed to darken to a deep sapphire.

  I quickly swallowed and took a drink, washing away the food and the intimate moment. Now was not the time. And Abuelita’s was so not the place.

  “So?” Jack said after a long ten seconds.

  My racing heart had me flustered and off center.

  “About the identity theft,” he reminded me.

  Right. “Well—” How did I feel? “I’m angry. I’m worried about how much she might have messed with my credit. And I’m mad that I have to deal with straightening it all out.” Jack scribbled rapidly as I spoke. “I want to know how she got my information. She knew things about me that she shouldn’t have known, and that makes me feel uncomfortable. Violated. I’m wondering why me, and what happened to her—”

  His cell phone cut me off midsentence. He held up a finger. “Hold that thought.”

  I forked another bite of chiles rellenos while he answered his phone. It better not be Sarah, I thought, watching him for signs of past-girlfriend familiarity.

  “Actually, I’m in the middle of dinner,” he said into his black phone a second later.

  His radiant blue eyes were piercing against his honey-colored skin. And they were focused on me even as he spoke to whoever had called him.

  I took another bite of his dinner, sauce dribbling onto my lip. My gaze steady on him, I pulled my lower lip into my mouth and sucked off t
he red sauce. Jack lips parted. His chest rose as he sucked in a deep breath.

  That’s right, Jack, you’re with me tonight.

  “Hold on,” he said after another few seconds, not sounding happy. He put the phone on his leg. His voice was low when he spoke to me. “How late are you working tonight?”

  “No waitress,” I said. “I’ll be here till closing.”

  Jack thought for a second, sighed, and muttered, “Damn.” Then he put the phone back to his ear. “Okay,” he said, and he gave directions to Abuelita’s before hanging up.

  “Problem?” I asked.

  He smiled, and my gaze drifted to the dimple that etched into his cheek. “Only that you’re stuck here tonight.” He finished the last bite of his dinner and closed down his computer.

  I’d just sat down, and it looked like he was packing up. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “But the interview… ,” I said, though my tone sounded more like, But you didn’t kiss me yet.

  “I’ll take a rain check.”

  “Your car’s at Camacho’s.” I felt like I was grasping at straws, trying to get him to stay.

  “Don’t worry about it.” His eyes flicked to the restaurant’s window. “I’ll pick it up.”

  An uneasiness crept into my body. Call it intuition. “So where are you off to?”

  He balled up his napkin and dropped it on his plate. “There’s an intern at the paper. She needs to interview someone for an assignment. She’s been bugging me about it for weeks, and I keep putting her off.”

  She? “Oh, yeah?” My eyes narrowed. “What kind of interview?”

  He laughed. “Relax. It’s just an intern. She’s got to write a paper about the career path for a writer or something.”

  “There’s no such thing as just an intern.” Not after Bill Clinton.

  He clasped his notebook and computer under his arm. “Lola, you have to trust me. You’re working tonight and you are far too distracting for me because all I want to do is tell Antonio that it’s his fault for losing another waitress and take you away from here. To hell with the restaurant. But I can’t do that, and you wouldn’t let me anyway. So I’ll go, let you work, and get this interview over with.”

  He checked the window again, and his face registered recognition as a gleaming white Corvette pulled into the parking lot. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lola.” He flashed me his charming smile, bent, and lightly kissed my cheek.

  That’s not the kind of kiss I want! But he didn’t hear the scream in my head. He just headed toward the door.

  “Thanks for your help today,” I called after him.

  He lifted his arm in a wave as he pushed out into the parking lot. Beelining to the front window, I saw a young redhead bounce out of the car and flash Jack a toothy smile. I cringed when I saw her fake boobs filling a too-tight shirt. I automatically looked down at my outfit—and my puro natural breasts—and frowned. Just what kind of breasts did Jack like?

  Stop! I scolded myself. He’d asked me to trust him. She was just an intern—I cringed at the phrase. Antonio walked up behind me, and we stood there in silence until the Corvette sped out of the parking lot. “Who was that?” he asked.

  “Someone Jack works with,” I said.

  “Hmm. I didn’t know he worked with a redhead.”

  I punched his arm. “Why can’t you stay away from the waitresses?”

  “Guess I’m addicted,” he said.

  Him and me both. My eyes burned with the sudden onslaught of emotion that I’d kept in check all day. Every thought I’d had about Rosie living her life as me tumbled out, wrapped in a neat little package that was suddenly directed at Jack. He’d spent the day charming me, being helpful, making me forget my doubts about him, and then he’d up and left with someone else.

  I wanted to trust him. But I knew I should have kept a lock on my heart.

  By seven forty-five, the restaurant was still slogging through the dinner shift. Trying my hardest not to think about Jack, the redhead, Rosie Gonzales, or my credit, I warmed up a flour tortilla and made myself a burrito. Piled on cheese, sour cream, salsa, and guacamole. It was comfort food at its best. I leaned against the wall in the corner of the kitchen, eating away my sorrows. Not a proud moment, but my jeans and I would worry about that tomorrow.

  Antonio sauntered up to me, an attractive woman by his side. “Lola, meet Sylvia Johnson, our new waitress.”

  I froze, an oversized bite in my mouth. The woman looked at me like I was a movie star, all wide-eyed and amazed.

  I swallowed with a heavy gulp, waving at her. My half-eaten burrito collapsed in my hand, and I scrambled to catch it before it dropped into the garbage. Too late. It was a gooey mess.

  When I looked up again, Sylvia was still staring at me, her expression disbelieving.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She shook her awed expression away. “Sorry. It’s just, I saw your story on the news. I’ve never met anyone who’s been on TV before, even if it was just a picture of you.”

  Great. Another death groupie. “I’m really a ghost,” I said with a wink. “Ask my grandmother.”

  Sylvia laughed, apologizing again. “When my ex-husband showed me the ad for the waitress position here, I told him it couldn’t be the same place. Not the restaurant where that dead girl who’s not dead is from, I said. I was sure it couldn’t be, but then I saw the banner outside.”

  I’d been bobbing my head as she spoke and gave a final rounded nod as she wrapped up her speech. “Right,” I said, throwing a quick and pointed glare at Antonio for the banner he still hadn’t taken down. “Well, nice meeting you, um, Sylvia. Are you starting tomorrow then?” Please start tomorrow.

  “I told Antonio I’m available first thing. My ex-husband has our kids tonight, so I can stay and get a feel for the place. I can shadow you, you know?”

  I nodded approvingly. Sylvia seemed insanely eager, and I loved her for it. I even fantasized that she might hold her own against Abuelo. If nothing else, she’d probably confuse him with her fast talking.

  I crooked my index finger at her. She leaned in, and I pointed across the dining room. “Steer clear of that booth. The man there thinks he’s the head of the Mexican Mafia. Sounds just like Marlon Brando, only with a Spanish accent. Ignore him, okay?”

  Sylvia nodded knowingly, as if she knew hundreds of old men in the Mexican Mafia. “Hey, I deal with my ex every day. If I can handle his insanity, I can handle anyone.” She had a slight accent, her pronunciation of words a smidgen off.

  I pegged her as a first-generation immigrant, born in Latin America somewhere but raised here. Her shoulder-length light brown hair was thick and a little unruly. I looked at Antonio to see if he would tell her to wear it pulled back, but he had moved on to check the status of the salsa vat.

  “How many kids do you have?” I asked, thinking casual chitchat might win her over and compel her to stay. I wanted her to be a keeper. She had to commit herself to Abuelita’s, body and soul.

  “Four. Oh, well—” She broke off, a crack in her voice. “T-three. Me and Guillermo, we lost our youngest.”

  “Oh, Sylvia.” I wanted to kick myself for being nosy. I squeezed her shoulder.

  Her face had lost some of its color. “It’s been a year now. He was just an infant.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “It tore our family apart. We got divorced,” she said, adding, “Guillermo—he still hasn’t accepted that the baby’s gone.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, realizing how lame that sounded. I was speechless. What did you say to a woman who’d suffered like Sylvia had?

  She pushed her hair back behind her ears, and we gave in to the awkward moment of silence. “Let me show you around,” I finally said. Aside from her electrified hair, she looked professional in black slacks and beige sweater. She followed behind me as I moved through the dining room, checking on customers and refilling water glasses. We made idle small talk as
I worked. I moved to the busing station and began folding the red cloth napkins, stacking them under the counter.

  “You have to wear black pants,” I said as my eyes flicked to hers. “Those are perfect.” I plucked at my white peasant blouse. “Antonio will give you a shirt tomorrow. You’ll have a locker upstairs in the break room to store your things during your shift.”

  She nodded. “I’m grateful for the job, you know. My ex loves this place. Says the fish tacos are out of this world.”

  “¿Hablas español?”

  She nodded. “Sí. Soy de Venezuela.”

  “¿Y su esposo, tambien?”

  “William? He’s a gringo.” She smiled wanly. “I still call him Guillermo. Old habits die hard.” She folded napkins as she spoke, copying exactly what I did. “So did that woman actually steal your name?” she asked, awe slipping into her voice. “Do you know why?”

  I grimaced. “Yes, she did, and I have no idea why.”

  Sylvia concentrated on stacking her napkins right alongside mine. I sneaked a glance at her. Poor woman. Hearing about her child had put things in perspective for me. My problem could be solved. It would take time, but I’d get my credit situation back under control and I’d find out why it had happened. Sylvia couldn’t reclaim what she’d lost.

  She folded the last napkin, and we moved on to the salt and pepper shakers, unscrewing each lid and filling them to the top using a funnel.

  “Scary what people do,” Sylvia said.

  “It sure is,” I agreed.

  Chapter 8

  Bright and early the next morning, I called the phone number from the birthday invitation I’d found at the apartment. I tried to time it so I’d reach them before they left for work or school or whatever. After fifteen rings and no answering machine, I finally hung up.

  The dog days of summer were wearing on me; I longed for fall, so I dressed in a straight brick-red suede skirt, a lightweight cream blouse, and two-inch heeled brown boots. Who cared if it was barely September? Maybe my sheer will would bring in a cold front from the Pacific.

  With my hair piled on my head in a loose half bun and half ponytail, tendrils falling around my face, I headed to Camacho and Associates. I immediately recorded my new information on the whiteboard and was standing back reviewing it when Manny came in.