South by Southeast (13 page)

“You could say that,” she said blandly. She looked away from him as if he were crowding her. Their avoidance of Maria was excruciating.

“Don't you remember me?” he said. “I met you the other night. With your friend.”

“I remember you.” Thank goodness he had finally brought up Maria. Chela stared at the floor, allowing sadness into her face. “I guess you heard.”

He clucked. “She was a lovely girl. But I don't think she was careful.”

If Raphael were a doctor, he would have terrible bedside manner. He barely sounded sympathetic. All of the lights and sounds in the room sharpened as Chela's heart sped.

“No one is careful all the time,” Chela said.

He winked at her. “But you are. I saw that from the start. Maria took too many chances, but not you. You would never swim alone at night.”

Whether or not Raphael was a suspect, he was pissing her off. He had a lot of balls, considering that he might have introduced Maria to the man who'd killed her—if he hadn't killed her himself. “So that's still the story? She went swimming and drowned?”

She couldn't swim, jerkwad. You didn't know that?

He conceded by canting his head. “Whether it is literally or not. My only point is this: I admire your . . .” He paused, searching for a word. “Discretion? I share it, in fact. I apologize if I've spoken too harshly of your friend. I did not mean to offend. And I apologize for my behavior when we met. It is not my nature to approach a stranger that way. Who can blame you for not wishing to speak to a stranger?”

His jade eyes bored into her. Chela looked away and noticed Enrique staring at her from the huddle with his friends. Enrique shook his head slowly back and forth, like a disappointed older brother. The way Ten would have.

Chela didn't look away quickly enough, and Raphael followed her gaze.

He smiled gently. “That one is a schoolboy,” he said. “Spending Papa's money. A waste of your time.”

“I think I should go,” Chela said. She blurted the words so unexpectedly that she wondered if she meant it. Her proximity to Raphael warmed her skin in a way she didn't like. His scent was pleasant bath soap, more intimate than cologne.

Raphael held up a hand as if to stop her in her path. “Again, I apologize. I am too blunt. But Maria was an associate of mine, and I know she cared for you . . . so I can't help the urge to give you advice. While you are enjoying yourself on holiday, be careful while you make friends. Many of the friendliest men in here carry badges and handcuffs.”

“And you're my friend?”

His smile radiated kindness. He leaned close, as if to combat the throbbing music, but in reality to create a false intimacy. “I could be, if you were receptive to friendship.”

“No offense, but Maria was your friend, too.” Chela held her breath, waiting for his reaction. Maybe she shouldn't have said it, but it was a fair observation.

Raphael didn't blink. “True—and I will forever be haunted by my last words to Maria,” he said. “I asked her to stay here with us. With the other girls. I asked her not to go out alone.”

Bull
, Chela thought. Why would Maria have left the gold mine inside Club Phoenixx? Maria's last conversation with Chela had been all about what a great connection Raphael was and how she'd hoped to make a play for that horrible guy with the big nose.

A more terrible thought came. What if Raphael was telling the truth? Maria might have left Club Phoenixx to go look for her or to make sure she made it to Julio's van. Mouse Girl had told her that Maria had hung out with them to drink champagne for a while, and then she had disappeared, leaving her phone and purse behind. Maria's death might have nothing to do with Raphael and the man he'd tried to set her up with.

Chela needed more information, and she could only play hard to get for so long.

Raphael leaned forward with both of his elbows across the bar, staring straight ahead as if he weren't talking to her. “An intelligent girl like you will want to weigh her options, of course, but I would like to make an invitation, Chela.”

She hadn't reminded him of her name, so he had remembered. Raphael was probably a genius with names. “Freedom of speech,” Chela said. “Go on.”

Almost imperceptibly, he brushed a single fingertip across her knuckle, and her hand was aflame. The effect surprised Chela so much that she stared at her hand. Raphael's sensuality was so quiet she hadn't noticed it until he touched her.

“You are very beautiful, and I like to spend time with beautiful women,” he said. “It is, in fact, my greatest weakness. I have friends who share my weakness. You are free to take your chances with schoolboys and undercover police here at Club Phoenixx . . . or you may accompany me to a private party with my friends who have too much money in their pockets, and join some other girls. These are girls you have met—girls, like you, who cared very much for Maria. We can all drink a toast to her. And then, I hope, we will no longer be strangers.”

Chela's pounding heart shook her toes. The scenario he'd described was so perfect that it seemed too good to be true. Now she would have no reason to wait around the club until Mouse Girl arrived at midnight—if she really was planning to come meet her. Chela clasped her hands behind her back, both to prevent more touching and to keep Raphael from seeing her fingers trembling. She was more frightened of herself than she was of Raphael.

“But you're still a stranger,” Chela said.

“This is true,” Raphael said. “But we would never be alone—not for an instant.”

“Where's the party?” Chela said.

“Not ten minutes from here. At a very nice luxury hotel friendly to me and my girls.”

“Tell me the address,” Chela said. “I'll meet you there.”

Raphael's smile grew.
Gotcha
, his eyes said.

“Nonsense,” Raphael said. “My driver will take us.”

Although it was parked in a row of stretches, Chela had no trouble finding the black Mercedes limo across the street from Club Phoenixx with the sign taped to the windshield she'd been told to look for:
M. GARCIA
. In Miami, that was like saying the car was for J. Smith.

Raphael must have phoned ahead to his driver, because a white-haired, white-bearded man in a formal black uniform appeared as soon as she saw the vehicle, opening the rear door with a grin. His face was so wide and jolly that if his beard had been longer, he'd have been a ringer for Santa Claus. She'd wanted to take a photo of the license tag, but she couldn't now.

“Evenin', miss,” the driver said. “My name's Ian. Pleasure.”

He even had a British accent. Not English, though. Ireland or Wales or Scotland. His attention awakened a familiar feeling in her, the notion that she'd earned her membership in a special, secret society. Only suckers took cabs or paid for their own drinks or meals, or lived life any other way.

The limo was an older model, probably Raphael's personal property; it was immaculately kept, the seats as soft as baby skin. She guessed that it might seat eight people with room to spare. An open bottle of Cristal cooled in the gleaming silver ice bucket, so she helped herself to a glass for the sake of appearances, only filling it halfway. No way was she getting buzzed tonight. A tentative sip told her it had been freshly uncorked. She'd always liked champagne, since it reminded her of soda pop.

“Forgive me,” the driver said, “but I'll need to drive you around the block. Traffic is a nuisance, but I can't stay parked now you're here, or I'll get a ticket.”

Chela knew that Raphael had sent her out first so he wouldn't be seen leaving the club with her—a precaution that probably helped him stay in business—but in the ten minutes Ian took her in
a circuit around the block, she forgot her anxiety and made herself at home. She turned off her phone, since she didn't need Mouse Girl anymore. When she noticed a television monitor, she found the remote beside the champagne tray and flipped the channels until she found BET, a rerun of
Black Girls Rock
. She stretched out her legs and watched the blur of neon lighting up the crowded streets of the Magic City. She remembered M.C. Glazer and the parade of celebrities who had treated her like a queen. Until now, it had all seemed like a faraway dream—but the dream had been waiting for her in Miami.

Then the limo pulled up in front of the club, and the dream ended.

Raphael opened the door and climbed in beside her. He didn't speak to the driver, only gesturing, and the limo took off again as quickly as it had stopped. Chela muted the TV so she wouldn't miss a word he said.

Raphael's features were more severe in the light from the TV monitor, his pockmarks like craters, and he seemed taller in the car beside her. Chela felt self-conscious at how high her black mini-dress was riding on her thighs now that she was sitting down, but she couldn't show modesty now. Her beach wrap was crumpled on the seat beside her, useless.

“Good, you found the champagne,” Raphael said. He poured himself a glass. “Let's have our first toast, then—to new friendship.”

She pasted on a smile and clinked her glass with his. “To new friendship.”

She was glad when she saw Raphael take a thirsty sip. She'd sipped twice already during the drive, forgetting Ten's warning not to take drinks from anyone. And from an open bottle! This time, she kept her lips pursed, only pretending to drink. She promised herself that she wouldn't make any more stupid mistakes.

“You look like an angel, Chela,” Raphael said. “You can be royalty here. So . . . untouched. So . . .”

“Fresh,” she said, Mother's word for her.

Raphael's smile became a grin. “Yes,” he said. “A fresh flower.”

Slowly, he took off his jacket and laid it on the empty seat an arm's length from him. He moved with grace. From habit, Chela sought out things to like about him: his fluidity, his manners, his swirling curls, his Italian accent. There was nothing wrong with Raphael. Yet.

“I intend to show you that I do not make empty promises,” he said. “I am a man of my word.” He gestured toward the side pocket of the door closest to her.

The limo was so old-school that Chela could see that her door was still unlocked, a silver pin standing at attention. With traffic crawling so slowly, she could open her door and jump out at almost any time. They hadn't left Ocean Drive. She could find her way home. Reassured by her escape plan, Chela reached into the pocket and found a sealed white envelope. It was thick. Chela recognized the weight and shape of its contents.

“Go on,” Raphael said. “For you, my flower. Open it.”

With the envelope in her lap to disguise her unsteady hands, Chela tugged at the seal, which gave easily. She knew the scent before she saw the crisp stack; the visible bill pictured Benjamin Franklin, and she guessed he had twenty twins. At least. It had been years since Chela had held two thousand dollars in her hands.

“Before you accompany me to my party,” he said, “I would like to know you are someone who keeps her word as well. Who is what she seems to be.”

The door remained unlocked, but Raphael pushed a button, and a dark panel began its silent, seasoned slide across the front seat to give them privacy from the driver. Ian was only a few yards away, but now a gulf separated them. Chela's heart clogged her throat, but the tightness went away when she stared at the carnival of muted lights through the tinted window.

Raphael had promised they would never be alone, after all. He was a man of his word.

Chela closed the envelope without counting the bills. Her purse was small, but the bulk fit inside when she folded it, nestled outside the compartment where she'd stashed Maria's license. She tried to think of a plan, but some part of her had known the plan from the start.

When Raphael's smooth hand found her thigh, Chela did not flinch away.

She smiled.