A Cut Above (9 page)

“Well, then. When in Colombia, do as the Colombians do.” I close my menu and smile up at the waiter who’d materialized at my side. “I’ll have the
ajiaco
.”

Hey! I can’t be making a mistake. Gladys orders the same thing. Then she focuses all her attention on me, and I realize how much she reminds me of Miss Mona—minus the wacky quotient, that is.

“Tell me all about your trip, Andie. I’m just here to meet my husband. He’s on a buying trip too, but he buys boring stuff like ores and minerals. Even though I’m not crazy about emeralds, wheeling and dealing for gemstones has to beat ores any day.”

I don’t know about wheeling and dealing, but I do tell Gladys about Mr. Cruz’s visit to the S.T.U.D., and while I have no idea how my negotiations will go in the morning, I can share details of my last two disastrous trips. I do skip over those scary parts I can’t turn into Calamity Jane comedy bits.

As I finish the last bite of
arepa
, a soft cornmeal flat bread, delicious when dripping with sweet butter, the maître d’ approaches and tells Gladys someone’s waiting for her at the front desk.

“Oh my,” she says. “I can’t imagine who’d come to see me here. It can’t be Howard. He’s not due back from the interior until tomorrow afternoon. I wonder if he finished early. That’d be nice. We can start our little holiday sooner.”

She stands, takes a bill from her chic brown handbag, slips it under her empty plate, and then, on her way out, lays a hand on my left shoulder. “I’m sorry about this, Andie. I had a lovely dinner, and I certainly hope I have the opportunity to introduce you to Howard before you go back home. We’re planning to spend a week visiting the city once he’s back. Have a good night and a very successful day tomorrow.”

When Gladys hurries off, I lean back in my chair, take another sip of the finest Colombian coffee I’ve ever tasted, and again admire the view from the wall of windows at my right. Red-tiled roofs, many over a century old, spread in a carpet of age-softened red for many blocks. In between the tiles, a handful of church domes rise, their crosses reaching for the sky. As the sun drops farther down on the horizon, more lights flicker on.

Another sip . . . this is the life.

Briiiing!

I pull out my cell phone. “Hello?”

“Andie, dear!” Miss Mona says. “How was your flight? Did Rodolfo find you at the airport? How’s the hotel?”

Shocked, I drop the coffee cup onto its saucer. “Is everything okay at home? This call’s costing a fortune. Why are you calling? What’s wrong?”

“Now, Andie. Why would you think I’d only call if something’s wrong? I just wanted to see how you got there.”

Hmm . . . “I’m fine. The plane didn’t crash. The hotel’s wonderful, and local food rocks. How’re you, Aunt Weeby, the S.T.U.D., and everyone else
really
doing?”

Silence. Then, “No need to get smart, young lady. I’m just thinking about your well-being.”

“Uh-huh.” Something tells me there’s more behind her call. Chalk it up to knowing the woman all my life. But I give her the time and silence to hang herself.

“Are you and Rodolfo heading out to the mine in the morning?”

“It’s me by my lonesome, Miss Mona. Mr. Cruz left a message for me at the airport’s information counter. He had some kind of scheduling conflict, so he arranged for a cab to bring me to the hotel. And the hotel’s the most amazing place I’ve ever seen. Think museum crossed with palace.”

“He stood you up? What’s wrong with that man? We don’t send our number one host to do business with him, only to have him stand you up.”

My thoughts exactly, but it’s not good to give Miss Mona any fuel. “I’m fine. And his arrangements have been wonderful. I’m going to go back to my room as soon as I finish this super cup of coffee. I’ll go meet Mr. Cruz in the morning.”

“Coffee? At night? And you with that hole in your gut? Now, Andrea, dear . . . how wise is that?”

I sputter.

Miss Mona ignores me. “Now you be careful, you hear? You’re all on your own, and maybe I shouldn’t have pushed you to go in the first place. Or maybe I should send Max, like he’s wanted all along—”

“Whoa! No need to rehash old stuff. We settled that before I left. Okay?”

“I don’t know how okay I am on all this, but I’d sure feel better if we prayed.”

“Now there’s the best idea you’ve had in a long time.” I’m not about to confess how weird I feel about Mr. Cruz’s absence at the airport; if I did, she’d have Max at my side faster’n I can spit. “I’d like to pray too.”

We do, in spite of the distance between us, and as soon as we bring God into the picture, I feel better, far more confident than I’d felt before. “Thanks, Miss Mona. And please, don’t worry about me. I’ll be back before you know it. In one piece—you know?”

“Well, honey, I have no doubt God loves you and will do everything he can to protect you, but there’s all that free will he gave some pretty rotten characters . . . well, before they chose to become such rotten characters.” She falls silent. Then, “And there’s those crazy choices you’ve been known to make too.”

Me?
She’s
calling
my
choices crazy? Who insisted I had to come to Colombia? Good grief. “I’ll be careful, okay?”

“Of course you will.” There’s a distinct lack of certainty in her voice. “And have fun, you hear?”

Fun. On a business trip. Yeah, right. “Okay. Love you. And bye.”

I reach for my purse to stash my phone away, and grab air. Uh-oh. I look at the chair back, where I’d hooked the purse strap, and feel every last chance for fun on this trip disappear.

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. No purse.

I push away, look under the table, check the floor close by. I could probably crawl to check under other diners’ chairs, but you know they’d object, and the dread in my gut tells me I wouldn’t find anything there even if I did. Then I spot a young man darting out of the restaurant. As he whips down the hallway, I see a blur of familiar black leather.

“Hey!” I point. “Stop him! He stole my purse.”

The maître d’ glares. “I’m sure there must be some mis-take—”

“No mistake.” I bust out of the restaurant after the wretched thief. In the hall, I spot the top of his curly-haired head descending the stairs. I follow, at a clear disadvantage in my high heels and skirt.

I pray for ankle strength, for my skirt to stick to my thighs, and hit the lobby running. I keep my eyes on the little creep as I dart between clusters of other guests, all of whom stare as though I’ve escaped the nearest loony bin. And who can blame them?

You know they can see the plume of steam spewing out of my red head. I’m mad, and, if nothing else, my anger’s sure to show on my face. They, on the other hand, are enjoying a beaucoup-star hotel like normal humans have a habit of doing. Me? I’m charging after a crook, rudely shoving them all out of my way, yanking my creeping skirt down from my butt, yelling for help—you get the picture.

“Sorry,” I yell and give another yank.

Then the scrawny kid whips out the front door. I follow. At the entrance, the doorman steps into my path. “
Se-ñorita.
No puede—”

I shift to his left.

He follows.

I dip to the right.

So does he, concern on his kindly face.

“Please! That guy . . .” I point. “Has my purse. My bag.” Where’s my skimpy Spanish when I really need it? “
Bolsa!
That’s it. That kid stole my
bolsa
! I have to catch him.”

The doorman steps aside.
“Policía!”

“Thanks!” I give chase. But in the precious few seconds I lost dancing with the doorman, my quarry seems to have vanished into the shadows. A handful of pedestrians, none with my bag, continue to meander down the cobblestoned street.

But then I spot a whisper of movement in a shadowed doorway about thirty yards away. I give chase.

He takes off again, darting, casting looks over his shoulder.

“Give me back my purse!”

My cry acts like gas on flames. He’s fast. And now runs faster.

I’m out of shape. I’m wearing heels. And I just finished downing a huge meal; let’s not mention the instant case of indigestion I’ve developed. But I’m not going to let him get away with my bag. Not if I can help it.

The twerp turns a corner.

I do the same, and soon realize we’re in a dark alley behind the glamorous hotel. Let me tell you, alleys are short on glamour these days. This one’s lined with aluminum trashcans and scented with dead dog. At least Eau de Alley’s what I figure dead dog must smell like. Not that I’ve smelled a dead dog, but I’m sure this is close.

Gag.

I fight back the urge to barf, and keep after my quarry. He’s got to get tired sooner or later, right?

Eyes glued to his scrawny back, I spot a welcome sight right in front of him. “Aha!”

A wall. The alley ends no more than twenty feet ahead. He’s got nowhere to go. And then I realize that, even though he’s skinny, he’s young and male. Probably a whole lot stronger than me. Even with hands tied behind his back any day of the week, maybe even in his sleep. Who am I kidding?

I can’t fight him for my purse.

And what am I doing in a back alley, anyway?

Out of a normal sense of self-preservation, I slow my pace. But, since things rarely ever go my way, my shoe catches on one of those oh-so-historically accurate cobbles, and I wrench my ankle. But instead of crying, I grin.

Guess what? I have two weapons.

In seconds, I have one of my stilettos in hand, rage in my belly, determination in every inch of my being. That’s when the thief skids to a stop right smack up against the wall.

I come up behind him; raise my shoe; give him my fiercest glare. In a flash, the surreal nature of the moment flits through my mind. Andrea Adams, Wonder Woman? Not likely.

My stomach twists. I tremble.

But, hey. The kid still has my bag. “Give me my purse, you little brat!”

Fear darts across his face. I approach.

He snarls.

I wince. He sounds serious. Am I nuts? Do I really think I’m going to get my purse back?
I’m
going to wrestle him for it? What alternative universe did I just barge into?

But my adrenaline is pumping, my heart is beating faster, and my determination hasn’t quit.

Then everything goes downhill. The creep lowers his head and runs straight at me. Before I can jump out of his way, he smashes into my very
ajiaco
-and-
arepa
-full gut. “Oooof.”

I stumble backward. My bare foot lands on something wet and squishy. As ooze works through my toes, the other high heel skids out from under me, and I go flying through the air backward, my arms windmilling, my legs trying to regain footing.

CRASH!

Of course. You know it. I smash into the aluminum trash-cans, which happen to be full to the brim. With an earsplitting clatter, they fall over, dumping their contents everywhere.

Yeah. On me.

I did say everywhere.

The stench of dead dog seeps way down to my marrow.

I gag.

Tears pour down my face.

I gag again.

Why do these crazy, miserable, awful, and now disgusting things keep happening to me?

I look up at the black sky, but its winking stars have no answers. I don’t need to check for the thief. While sprawled out on my odoriferous bed, my dinner about to make its abrupt and unceremonious exit, I know the wiry teen has disappeared. My purse, passport, money, and Miss Mona’s bottomless American Express card with him.

“Fun, Miss Mona?” I wail. “Is this what you call fun? ’Cause it sure isn’t in my book.”

The
ajiaco
erupts.

600

How did I wind up here? Flat on my back in a dark alley.

Sick, slopped, and stinky.

Out of the country.

Minus passport.

And license.

But with a glob of shredded lettuce that’s more than halfway to the state of brown slime impersonating a brooch on the front of my formerly nice cream-colored top.

Oh joy.

Up a creek without a paddle sounds just dandy about now.

“Why me, Lord?”

I go up on one elbow, and realize I’m still clutching my cell phone in the stiletto-free hand. Too bad I don’t know if 9-1-1 works in Colombia. But what I do know works is to alert Miss Mona of incoming charges on that American Express card.

“Andrea?” my boss asks, her voice rising. “Why are you calling so soon after we talked? Are you all right? What’s wrong? I’m going to have Rodolfo’s hide. What did he do to you?”

The love and concern in Miss Mona’s voice breaks open the floodgates, and I start to sob. I tell her Mr. Cruz had nothing to do with my misadventures, and then, in spurts broken by sobs and sniffles, I relate the events of the past few minutes.

I hate blubbering. But I can’t help myself. Even though it gives Miss Mona more reason to insist on my return.

“Now you just pay no never-mind to those emeralds, Andie, dear. You come on home where we’ll take care of you. My goodness. Who’d be thinking emeralds at a time like this? I tell you. A body never can tell what’s what when one’s not under Uncle Sam’s beady ole eyes. Come right on home tomorrow, you hear?”

“But I can’t!” Fresh tears flood my face, and in the midst of the burgeoning hysteria, it occurs to me the salty tsunami could do some good and wash the trash muck off my cheeks.

It’s a good thing the Daunting Duo can’t see me now.

Miss Mona makes sympathetic noises. “Of course you can. I don’t even want those emeralds anymore—”

“It’s not the emeralds, Miss Mona. It’s my passport. That stupid kid got away with it. I
can’t
go home.”

And that reality brings on yet another briny flood.

Dead silence.

Until footsteps run into the alley. Fear, gut wrenching and icy, claws through me.

“Gotta go.” I clap my phone shut and scramble up to a sitting position. I can’t just splay on antique cobblestones like a beached whale. That’d make it too easy for the approaching runner to plug me.

Okay. So I watch too many black-and-white B movies. They give me ideas. Like this one:
move
. Question is, can I?