The Argentina Rhodochrosite (17 page)

33

Ainsley watched Simón Fe’s slow progress
through the chairs. He moved with an odd grace, lumbering but fluid, like a walrus in a lagoon.

As he approached, she could see something else. Simón Fe was as ugly as a sack of rancid butter. Ainsley figured out her approach. She would choke back her disgust, dance with the man for the remainder of the
tanda
, then push away and try to maneuver off the floor to a place where they could talk. At a greater personal distance.

When he arrived at the table, however, he ignored Ainsley. Instead, he took Valentina’s hand and kissed it.

“That is for being beautiful,” he said, “and for loving tango.”

“Are you asking me to dance?” said Valentina.

“You look very talented,” he said, “and I would only disappoint you. So, no.”

“You’re a charmer,” said Valentina.

“With a face like this, I’d better be,” he quipped. Then he turned to Ainsley. “Lovely, I would caution you to avoid the street. A face like yours will cause a thousand automobile crashes.”

That was slick. “Thank you,” she said.

“Would you like to dance? I can teach you some new moves.”

“Yes.”

The hand was proferred, Ainsley accepted it, and a moment later she had followed Simón Fe to the dance floor.

She assumed the proper position. His hands found their way to her waist and hand. He smelled like a cologne bath, which made her choke a little.

But as they began to move, Ainsley could feel just how powerful a lead Simón Fe was. Following him was extraordinarily easy. It was as though someone had replaced her clumsy feet with agile ones. And he wasn’t speaking, or even making any special movements. Just the right touch on her hand, or at her waist.

Then Ainsley felt herself falling, his hand supporting the small of her back. She felt her arm arch out dramatically. Then she was yanked up to a standing position.

Wordlessly, Simón Fe had just dipped her. She hadn’t even thought about it. It’d just happened.

Ainsley was breathless. She had never felt exhilaration like this before.

She didn’t know how long the tango lasted, but she did know that when another prerecorded skit came on the speakers signalling the end of the
tanda
, she felt disappointed. Simón Fe was living proof that she should never judge a book by its cover.

“Thank you,” she said.

Her amazement must’ve shown, because he quickly replied, “I think we should talk somewhere else.”

“Absolutely. But first I need to know your name.”

“Simón Fe. And yours?”

There it was: a positive ID. Ainsley’d been honestly dazzled by the experience, but another part of her was aware enough that she could exploit this situation to find his wife, the maid who had potentially stolen Ovidio’s rhodochrosite. That, however, was still going to take some effort.

“Not yet,” she said.

She followed him off the dance floor and wended her way through the crowd towards her table. She took her purse from her chair, then leaned over towards Valentina. “I’ve got my man. We’re going to leave.”

“Be careful that he doesn’t get you,” said Valentina.

“Only on the dance floor.” She kissed the older woman on the cheek. “Thank you for your help.”

“Don’t agree to take any lessons,” she said. “The taxi dancers are all the same. But if I don’t get a
cabaceo
soon, I may have to order some whiskey.”

Ainsley chuckled. She retrieved her coat from the check girl and followed Simón Fe out onto the sidewalk.

He was waiting for her. He took her hand and kissed it theatrically. “Lovely, are you sure this is new to you?”

“Yes.”

“You dance like a natural Argentine.”

She smirked. He’d probably used this line hundreds of times on hundreds of
turistas
. But part of Ainsley was hoping that it was the truth.

“I can say that you are honestly the best dancer I’ve ever been with in my life,” she replied. “How long have you been coming to
milongas
?”

“My whole life,” he said. “This is more than just my home. This is me. It’s my identity.”

There was the opening.

“I would love to see where a dancer such as yourself rests,” she said. “You must get your energy from somewhere.”

He waved it off. “Let’s go have coffee.”

Simón Fe offered her the crook of his arm. Ainsley accepted it, and they began to move down the street. She struggled to keep a smile on her face. His dance skills aside, she didn’t know which was more repulsive: his appearance or his disregard of marriage.

But she needed to follow this lead to the bitter end.

It was three o’clock in the morning now, and he led her to a late-night cafe nearby. Simón Fe chose a discreet table in a corner. He ordered an ice cream with two spoons.

“Tell me where you come from,” he said.

“The United States.”

“Which part?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m kind of travelling right now.”

“You’re a free spirit,” he said. “Or maybe rich.”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Maybe I’m just kind of lost. But tell me more about you.”

“I teach tango to women who deserve it,” he said. “You are one of those women. Your legs are so long. You move naturally for this dance.”

“I’m usually terrible,” she said.

“It’s true,” he said, “I can’t imagine you dancing salsa. Only the women with the big hips do that.”

She laughed. “Are you saying I have unattractive hips?”

“Not at all,” he said. “In fact, I would love to get a closer look between them tonight.”

Ainsley blanched at the come-on. That was pretty bold. She thought that he’d been merely angling for tango lessons.

The server arrived and placed the ice cream sundae between them, a gorgeous pile of swirled cream and sugar, with
dulce de leche
crisscrossing its slopes. The X-rated conversation had just received a G-rated prop.

“I’m sure that I would be more open to that idea,” she said, “with better jewelry.”

“Most women are,” he said.

She decided to launch another trial balloon over his head. “In fact, I’ve been looking for a rhodochrosite necklace.”

The man’s doughy face betrayed nothing. “Those are worth very little. Maybe I should teach you about gemstones too.”

Then he took a spoon, dug it into the ice cream, and moved the scoop towards Ainsley’s face. “Nothing is sweeter than you, but taste this anyways.”

She rolled her eyes but opened her mouth. He was spoonfeeding her. That had never happened to her on a first date before. It had probably worked for him with many foreign women in the past. Maybe she was just the latest data point in a decades-long experiment investigating the exact combination of behaviors that led
turistas
to open their wallets and legs for him.

“It’s delicious,” she said, feeling like she was playing a part.

He agreed, and scooted his chair around the table. “If you agree to my earlier suggestion, we can go around the corner. There is a place called a
telo
. You will see that the tango isn’t my only talent.”

His beefy hand landed on the inside of her upper thigh. Ainsley felt her blood suddenly turn to ice water. She had zero interest in learning what a
telo
was.

She felt all the murky lies evaporate from her mind, leaving nothing but the dry powder of truth.

“I know your son,” Ainsley suddenly blurted.

The man removed his hand. His nostrils flared out, and his beady eyes became suspicious.

“His name is Pedro,” she continued. “I met him today in your
villa
.”

Now Simón Fe was staring at her, aghast. “
Puta madre
,” he said. He began to scoot away.

“Don’t be angry,” Ainsley said. “Pedro is a wonderful boy. He said I could find you at this place.”

Most of the color had drained from the taxi dancer’s face. He was becoming aware that the tables had turned, that the predator had become the prey. And as an alpha male, he didn’t react well to this realization.

Ainsley knew she’d better make her offer quickly. She reached into her purse and unrolled two hundred pesos. She laid them on the table and moved the ice cream sundae on top of the money.

“That’s for taking me to meet your wife.” It was her turn to pin her gaze upon him. “You know why. We don’t have to say it.”

Simón Fe pursed his lips. He had the twitchiness of someone caught in an offer for which there was no good answer. He couldn’t say yes, but he couldn’t say no.

“I want two hundred more,” he said.

She’d expected this. “You’ll get two hundred more when we arrive at your house. Then you’ll get another hundred when you return me to the city center. That’s five hundred total.” She paused. “It’s easier than giving tango lessons. Right?”

Simón Fe threw his hands into the air. “Sure, why not.”

“Good,” Ainsley said. “Let me call my friend.”

“Why?”

“So we can leave.”

“We’re going right now?”

“Right now,” she said. She saw him reach for his phone and quickly took it from him. “Don’t call your wife either. This is going to be a surprise.”

He sat back with a miserable expression on his face. On her own phone, Ainsley dialed Gabriel’s number. She felt an excited tingle race through her belly.

She was one step closer to accomplishing her mission.

34

They took Gabriel’s car, a small,
worn Peugeot. The assistant sat behind the wheel and Ainsley beside him in the passenger seat. In the back, like a felon being transported by law enforcement, sat Simón Fe.

“So what is your job?” said Gabriel.

“You must be simple,” came the reply. “I’m a tango teacher.”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, what is your
real
job?”

“Tango teacher. That is all.”

Ainsley knew what Gabriel was getting at. Simón Fe was wearing several gold chains and a gold watch, a little more bling than you might expect from someone scamming tourists. Neither of them decided to push the question any further.

Ainsley switched subjects. “Tell me about your wife. Her name is Maria?”

Simón Fe sighed. “She is a good wife,” he said. “She is excellent at laundry and cooking.”

“You have just the one son? Pedro?”

“No, we have four.”

“That’s why she works at the hotel.”

“Yes. She’s only been there for a few months.”

Ainsley swallowed hard. “There are people who think that she stole something.”

“Are you working for these people?” he said.

“No.”

“Then who do you work for?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Ainsley peeked at her notes. “The hotel says that she’s been absent from work for two weeks.”

“She’s been very sick.”

“With what?”

“Bronchitis. It’s impossible for her to change sheets. Because of the coughing.”

“Isn’t she afraid that she’ll be fired?”

“There are other hotels. And she’s dependable. Like I said, she’s a good wife. She’s good at laundry and cooking.”

Ainsley couldn’t tell from his voice if he was lying. “Some people think that she’s scared to report to work.”

“Maria is very scared,” he said. “Because she knows that there has been a misunderstanding.”

So, according to her husband, innocent Maria the maid was just going to play turtle, wait for everything to blow over, then meekly go back to work. That story may be true. But this strategy ignored the fact that she was a prime suspect in the mind of the victim, a victim with a lot of resources, and that he would use those resources to hire people like Ainsley to actively search for her.

And Ainsley was determined to find out what exactly happened to Ovidio’s necklace.

The car was travelling down a darkened two-lane road. A long wall stretched on the left. Ainsley recognized the area: this is where she had parked the car with Sebastian yesterday morning. Or was it this morning? The distinction between days was blurring.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “Villa 27 is up ahead, but I don’t know where to go exactly.”

Simón Fe pointed towards the left. “That gate.”

Ainsley recognized it, even in the dark. It was where she’d been sucked into the
villa
with little Chiche.

Gabriel turned left. Instantly they were in the same lane that Ainsley had run down that morning away from the mob, the little boy clinging to her body. It was totally dark, there being no public streetlamps, no legal electricity even. She rolled down the window and looked at the vague shapes, the broken walls and windows of the hovels, whizzing past in the darkness. Somewhere along this street was Pedro’s house. It was almost impossible to spot the home in the dark.

Simón Fe directed them: left here, right there, then a quick hairpin left, go straight. They drove for several minutes through the twisty lanes. The structures grew taller, the lanes narrower. They were plunging even deeper into the back alleys than she had gone before.

Then the lanes shrank to mere alleyways, wide enough to accomodate only one car at a time. The sound of the Peugeot’s engine doubled off the walls of the dwellings, amplifying itself. “It’s up ahead,” said Simón Fe.

“How far?”

But there was no answer from the backseat. Ainsley glanced back at their passenger. He had edged forward on the seat and was peering at something.

Ainsley followed his gaze. Ahead, three cars had turned their headlights onto a home. A mass of people were milling around in the white beams, their legs and waists illuminated.

“That’s my house,” he said. “That’s my house.”

Ainsley was growing angry. “I told you not to tell anybody we were coming.”

“I didn’t. Stop the car. Please.”

Gabriel pulled over and killed the engine. The three opened the doors and stepped out. They were mere inches from a nameless family’s window.

Someone ahead noticed Simón Fe and shouted his name. The tango teacher broke out into a run towards the small crowd. Ainsley traded glances with Gabriel. They both trotted after him.

The faces that greeted Simón Fe outside his home were mournful and empathetic. Arms and hands tried to comfort him, but he was having none of it, and pushed his way through the people. Whatever had happened, it was bad news.

“We couldn’t stop them, Simón—”

“They had guns—”

“They were so fast, those
cabrónes
—”

Ainsley paused outside the circle of headlights. She glanced at Gabriel again. He nodded.

She stepped into the crowd. She didn’t object when Gabriel cast a protective arm across her shoulder. At times it helped to have a man on your side, especially during what felt like a volatile situation in an alley of a pitch-dark shantytown.

They quietly followed Simón Fe through the small group of people. Nobody paid too much attention. It was easy for Ainsley to thread her way through the few clumps of people towards the door and into the home.

The interior was similar to Hugo’s home that afternoon: unfinished flooring, no running water, threadbare furniture, picture of Che Guevara above the couch.

The difference was that this home had been shredded by what appeared to be a team of commandos. The cushions had been torn open, the drawers cast across the floor. Plates, dishes, cups had been flung onto the floor. The intruders had clearly been looking for something.

Maybe a necklace.

“What happened?” said Ainsley.

Gabriel was eavesdropping. “They’re saying that Maria Jose was taken from her home this evening. Four men in a truck, with guns.”

Ainsley began to notice the children crying. Near the stairs, Simón Fe’s four kids had been gathered. Several adult women were circled around them, trying to comfort. Ainsley heard the word
mama
over and over.

The smallest one was Pedro. His eyes were frozen into perfect circles of terror. His gaze had fallen upon Ainsley, but he didn’t seem to remember her. She could see the dissociation happening. He was out of his body, finding a happier place.

She couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to see his parent ripped away.

“Maria Jose was kidnapped?” she said.

“Yes. Keep your voice down.”

Ainsley shushed herself, but she was still baffled. “Does this happen a lot? Just sometimes?”

“Almost never,” said Gabriel. “The neighbors are saying that this was so clean, it had to be the military.”

Ainsley felt the unspoken being passed around the room: The techniques of the dirty war were still here, thirty years later, in this very room.

She looked at Simón Fe. He was walking around the room, wailing, his hands theatrically clapped over his eyes. A circle of neighbors were following him, touching him, consoling him.

He may be a shitty husband, Ainsley thought, but nobody deserves this.

Her own mission had just ended. The rhodochrosite necklace wasn’t here, not any more. Not if a team of professional criminals had just ransacked the house, presumably looking for the same object. And now that someone had taken Maria Jose, Ainsley had no one to interview.

There was only one thing left to do.

Ainsley reached into her purse and unrolled a thousand pesos. She scanned the room and saw that Simon Fe had thrown his overcoat onto the kitchen table.

She slipped the bills into the inside pocket. She put his phone in there too.

Then she motioned to Gabriel with a sideways nod of her head.
Let’s go
.

He nodded back, and followed her out of the house.