GRINGA (34 page)

*
             
*
             
*

The FBI – gotta keep my eyes opened, peeled, so I can report to them, remember?

             
I see a man frequenting the ranch – spending umpteen hours locked away with Diablo. Senor Vito. He’s dapper, 60ish and seems to be giving Christa a peptic ulcer as she’s always threatening to kill the poor bastard.

             
Who is he? Why’s he stressing Christa? How come he’s Diablo’s new best friend? Diablo seems to lose interest in me these days – has Senor Vito anything to do with it? Imagine me reporting back to the FBI:

             
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but Diablo is no longer interested in me and spends all his time with an older man these days.’

             
‘You mean he’s gay? Big scary beast prefers older men, Payton?’

             
‘I don’t think so.’

             
‘Maybe you need more hi-lites. Some teeth whitening?’

             
‘If it’ll help.’

             
‘Maybe, it’s time to send someone pretty in place of you. Like
Paris
.’

             
Maria and Rosa appear to know what role Senor Vito plays but are mum about it, piquing my curiosity further.

             
I make mental notes about Senor Vito for the FBI – white hair, shiny shoes, gleaming buttons, a mole on his chin ... probably a big drug dealer – cocaine, crystal meth, crack – who knows? 

About two weeks later, Maria accosts me. ‘Diablo, he want you to get dressed nicely. He taking you somewhere tonight, Senorita.’ 

     
             
‘Taking me whe…? Maria, listen to your English. You finally got it!’

             
S
he beams.  ‘Off course Senorita. I teach you English all the time.’

             
Premature celebration on my part. Still progress, if you know what I mean.

‘Finally, I get to go somewhere, huh?’ I’m really bored most days and
boring
, I suppose. Diablo hasn’t been at the ranch for the last three days – gone with Senor Vito somewhere. Frankly, I’m wondering why he bothers to even have me here. I’m just sitting on his shelf like a trophy. I prefer to liken myself to an Oscar or a Golden Globe. ‘Where’s he taking me?’ 

   
             
‘I don’ know Senorita, but you will see, eh?’ She opens my closet and scans it. ‘He say you must look veeerrry nice.’

    
             
‘Oh he did, did he?’

             
She’s doing it again – she’s getting it right. 

   
             
Remembering my mission, (because I chose to accept it) I start to stress over my dress and make-up. Tonight, I want to look breathtaking, fantastic, jaw-dropping. I want him to just stare and be at a loss for words the moment his bloodshot eyes rests on me.

             
Me – I’ll be cool, nonchalant, appear not to notice his ... his enthrallment. The more I think about it, the more I like the idea and the tighter my sweater becomes. My top is snug and sexy, my skirt is short, flared, allowing glimpses of thigh as I move.  

    
             
I spend hours doing my hair and make up and when I feel everything is almost perfect, I back away from the mirror and listen out for Diablo.

             
At around six, the men, as usual gather in my villa for dinner. But tonight they are edgy and keep looking out the window. They hover in the entrance instead of making their way to the dining  room, arousing my curiosity further. 

    
             
Even Maria and Rosa are behaving oddly – giggling and talking in whispers. What the hell’s going on?

             
At the sound of a car, everyone rushes to the window. Two men alight from the Jeep and walk slowly towards our villa - Senor Vito and another gentleman, a well dressed one at that, who’s swagger happens to be vaguely familiar.

             
I glance at my watch and frown. Where’s Diablo? Any more waiting and I’m gonna have to re-apply my lipgloss.

             
The men enter our villa and the room erupts.

             
It’s Senor Vito and … Diablo!

             
The dashing stranger is none other than my Devil himself, Diablo.

             
‘Ohmigod!’ I cry, my jaw dropping and ruining the cool, composed look I practised in front of the mirror.

             
He flashes me a long, cool look. ‘Payton,’ he says.

             
‘Your beard …’ I touch my chin, ‘it’s like, gone. Your face …you look like
Troy
.’ Actually he looks more handsome than
Troy
– fuller, more manly, rugged.

             
He lifts and drops his shoulders.

             
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Aftershave! You’re wearing aftershave?’

             
More shrugging.

             
I touch my eyebrows. ‘The rings ... your eyebrows ... they’re gone!’

             
More shrugging with a little shifting.

 
             
My eyes dart over his clothes. Immaculately dressed - navy pants, powder blue striped shirt, dark blue casual, but tailored jacket - expensive.

    
             
‘Wow!’ I whisper, openly checking him out.
             

             
Awkward under my scrutiny, he continues shifting in his expensive shoes and self-consciously touches his face. His dreadlocks are sleeked back into a neat ponytail, and I don’t see any of his tattoos right now. Even his eyebrows are groomed.

    
             
‘Wow! All
my
plans for a dramatic entrance disintegrate when I see Diablo’s transformation. His entrance cannot be topped. Never in a quadrillion years did I expect to see him looking like this – like he just stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine.

             
Everyone’s complimenting him.

             
Even Santana – she stares and shakes her head. ‘Diablo …is really you, Diablo? You look nice.’

             
Diablo smiles and strokes his chin several times.

             
Some of the men get over the shock of seeing Diablo and start heckling.

             
I shake my head and smile.
‘Diablo you do …’

             
Suddenly we hear, ‘No! No! No!’
It’s Christa threatening to need a bypass some time soon.

             
‘What you do Diablo?’ she screams. ‘No! no!’

             
Diablo’s face falls at her chastising.

             
‘Why you do thiiis? Huh? Why you shave and you … you … I am your mooother. You talk to me before you do thiiiis. You look terrible! What you do to me? You send me to my grave! You kill me!’ She turns to Senor Vito. ‘You! Youuuu!’

             
Senor Vito quickly moves behind Diablo.

             
Diablo’s shoulder droops and I see confusion in his eyes.  

             
I quickly step forward and tug at his sleeve. ‘I think you look …’ I bat my eyelashes several times at him and smile, ‘handsome, Senor Diablo.’

             
His eyes crinkle and he blushes.

             
Thankfully, Pedro and Rocky lead a protesting Christa away.

             
The men resume their heckling and cackling adding to Diablo’s discomfort. Although he’s trying hard to ignore them, he’s distracted by their comments. Suddenly, he whips out his gun and points it randomly at the men and the laughter abruptly ceases.

    
             
‘Diablo!’ Senor Vito chides.
‘What are you doing? Put that gun away.’

             
I expect Diablo to shoot Senor Vito for chastising him but instead, he says, ‘
Lastimoso
,’ and hastily holsters his weapon.

             
Looks of disbelief are exchanged between everybody - Diablo actually apologising? Unheard of.

             
Seeing the gun in his hand reminds me that beneath the smart clothes and extreme makeover lies the bad-boy Diablo.

             
When my smile waivers, Diablo quickly moves towards me. ‘Shall we?’ he says in perfect English. I suspect he may be showing off. I like it.

             
’Um …eh …y …yeah!’ I allow him to usher me into his Jeep, which
h
e is driving today. I’ve never been in a car with Diablo before so I wonder about his driving. In fact, I didn’t even know he could drive since he’s always on horseback. Wherever we’re going must be really important for him to take such pains with his dress and grooming.

             
Senor Vito shouts out to Diablo and to my astonishment, Diablo rushes to open my door for me.

             
I smile my thanks. What a gentleman. Even if prompted.

             
Still in shock, I climb into the passenger seat. The Jeep is spotless and smells of leather polish – masculine. We drive in silence while I steal glances at him. I steel myself not to stare and fail miserably - I’m simply mesmerised by the stranger next to me. Actually, it’s like staring at
Troy
now - with dreadlocks.  If I had my own way, I’d stop the car under some bright street light, lower my seat and just ogle him.  

    
             
We arrive at the city centre and he parks outside a restaurant. I glance around for signs of a party or a wedding, but see nothing. He alights from the car, opens my door and leads me into a plush restaurant and immediately, we get a table. Still no sign of a function - where are the others?  

             
Then I get it – it’s just him and me.

             
Diablo is taking me out on a date.

             
I’m stunned. Why? I think about all the horrible things I said to him at the rock pool – I didn’t like hairy men, I hated piercings, he was a lousy lay – cringe-worthy stuff, but obviously poignant enough to elicit an extreme makeover.

             
All this to impress
me
?
Me
– someone whose own father can’t love her enough? Impossible.