INFORMANT (15 page)

Day Sixty-Two

Night

Ricco is in a great mood. Bouncing off the walls happy. Latin music drums a frantic beat through the speakers in his car stereo. His fingers dance on the steering wheel, keeping time to the music. It’s Friday night and he’s ready to play. We’re cruising in his eighty-thousand dollar Mercedes, taking San Francisco’s famous hills at a fast enough clip to catch air. We come down hard, the car bouncing up and down as we land. Ricco lets out a gleeful shout, but I shake my head. He’s going to blow out the shocks if he’s not careful.

“Better watch it,” I say, “or the cops will pull you over.”

“Cops?” he echoes with a laugh. “
La Policia, la policia!
Let them try to arrest me!”

My eyes narrow as I study him. “Are you on something?”

He shoots me a sideways glance and smiles. “On something? You mean drugs? No. I don’t do drugs. Only weak men need drugs.” He taps the brakes and we slow to a reasonable speed. “There. Satisfied,
armorcito
?”

“Thanks. I was hoping to live through the weekend.”

Some of my tension can be attributed to Ricco’s driving. The bulk of it, however, is due to the fact that I’m miked. Once again, a tiny high-tech microphone is affixed to my bra strap. I’ve got the DEA eavesdropping on every word we say. This is just a precaution. I don’t expect to see Miguel Diaz tonight, but it could happen. As a result, I’m nervous, on edge.

Ricco reaches for my hand and brings it to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on the back. “Relax,” he says. “We are going to live—but we’re also going to enjoy ourselves.”

I force I smile I don’t quite feel. “Sounds good.”

We swing onto Potrero Avenue and head east. We’re on our way to a block party in The Mission. The real events—the parade, art exhibits, street faire—are scheduled for tomorrow, but I’ll be working a double shift at the Karma, so Ricco and I decided to hit it tonight. I didn’t think there’d be much going on, but as we turn into
Calle
24
, I see just how wrong I was. The neighborhood’s hopping.

Imagine the craziness of Mardi Gras, then give it a tequila twist. This is
Carnaval
, San Francisco style. The weekend event showcases the very best Latin American and Caribbean cultures and traditions. Colorful lights hang from all the storefronts, musicians and dancers perform on makeshift wooden stages. There’s food and drink everywhere, artists and strolling magicians. Nearly naked street performers, both male and female, slink through the streets in grotesque masks, huge feathered headdresses, and high-heeled fringed boots. It’s loud, high-spirited, outrageous fun.

The party is already in full-swing by the time we arrive. The Mission is blocked to traffic so we park on 18
th
Street and make our way hand-in-hand through the crowds. We watch teams of dancers—dressed in brilliant costumes and moving so fast they’re almost a blur—compete to win a thousand dollar cash prize. And though Ricco and I scream and stomp our appreciation, our favorite couple doesn’t win. We shrug and move on.

We sample marinated pork with rice and black beans, yucca fries, and ham croquettes, then we share a mango flavored shake. I round a corner and come face-to-face with a bare-chested guy carrying an enormous snake on his shoulders and nearly loose it. Laughing and terrified, I hide behind Ricco until the guy leaves us alone. We stumble into a Karaoke contest. When a singer chooses
La Bamba
, the crowd goes wild. We all join in at the top of our lungs. We totally butcher the lyrics, but everyone’s having too much fun to care.

Before I know it, it’s late. The crowd starts to thin. Ricco and I share a tired, contented glance. “Having a good time?” he asks.

“It’s been wonderful,” I reply. I mean it, too. It’s been a great night. 

He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me with him to a series of tables where a few vendors remain. “I want to buy you something to remember tonight.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“True,” he agrees easily. “But it would make me very happy if you would allow me to.”

He seems so sweet and sincere, so softly persuasive, I can’t help but agree. We linger for a bit over one particular table. Bold pieces of jewelry, etched sterling silver studded with turquoise, are spread over the surface. Beautiful, but not really my style. Instead my attention is caught by the vendor in the next space.

She is selling traditional lady’s shawls. My hand goes to a black silk shawl with long fringe, richly embroidered with a series of deep red roses. It’s stunning. Ricco smiles at my choice. He pays the vendor and returns to me with the shawl. Rather than hand it to me, he lifts it and says, “May I?”

I nod, allowing him to place it around my shoulders. He starts to do exactly that, but stops with a frown. I’m wearing a simple peasant-style blouse and a black skirt. Ricco looks at my blouse and smiles. “Maybe it would look better like this,” he says. His eyes meet mine as his fingers nimbly untie the string that loops through the top edge. He eases the blouse downward, arranging it so that it’s resting off my shoulders.

Just my bra straps remain. 

My bras straps
. Fuck. The mike.  The DEA mike.

Ricco’s eyes scan my chest, and heat flashes through his gaze. I reach up and jerk down the straps, awkwardly tucking them beneath the fabric of my blouse. My breath catches and my heart hammers erratically.
Don’t let him have seen the mike. Please don’t let him have seen the mike.

His eyes meet mine. “You are very modest,” he says.

My breath comes out in a rush. My relief is so intense I’m nearly shaking. I give a jerky nod of my head. “Yeah, I guess I am. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. Modesty is a virtue in a woman.”

I don’t like the compliment. Normally I would object, just on principle, but it’s all I can do right now to get my breathing back under control. He brushes his fingers from my jaw to the base of my throat. His touch is light and feathery, yet I am pinned by his gaze. Something in his eyes rings of control, domination. 

“Particularly when the woman is someone like you,” he continues. “
Tu es
muy bonita
, Kylie.”

I’ve noticed this before. Ricco’s accent becomes more pronounced when he’s flirting. He has a tendency to slip into Spanish. Also, he’s a bit more forceful, more physically demonstrative. I used to think that was sexy, charming. Now I’m not so sure. A distant alarm is going off somewhere in my brain. A warning. Suddenly I want a little space, but Ricco won’t give it to me. He drapes the shawl around my shoulders and pulls me to him.

“
Muy bonita
,” he whispers in my ear.

He is holding the ends of the shawl so that I can’t escape. I move backward as he moves forward. My back comes up against a brick wall. Ricco braces his hands above me, trapping me with his body.  I look up, ready to object, but his mouth captures mine, swallowing my words before I can speak.

His kiss is soft at first, gently exploratory. He pulls my body against his and his kiss deepens. He sweeps his tongue into my mouth. He tastes dark and spicy and bold. He’s a good kisser—he kisses as well as he dances. Smooth, sensual, and seductive. It’s easy to get swept away. But here’s the truth: I don’t want to kiss Ricco. Everything about it feels like I’m betraying Beckett, even though I know I’m not.

It’s an impossible situation. I’m not an actress. I’m not even a good liar. But I give myself permission to respond physically to Ricco’s touch. My heart might not be in it, but it’s not hard to act like I’m enjoying this. I writhe against him, making little husky whimpers that I hope he will interpret as pleasure. After a few minutes, he breaks off our kiss with a satisfied smile. His dark eyes glow with approval.

“I like the way you kiss,
armorcito
.” His hips grind into mine. “I like the softness of your body and taste of your tongue. And your skin smells so
good
.” He takes my hand and guides it to his crotch. “Do you feel how hard you make me?”

My eyelids flutter shut. The heat of humiliation rushes to my cheeks. Beckett is listening. The DEA is listening. They are hearing every private word, every intimate sound.

Misinterpreting the cause for my embarrassment, Ricco gives a small laugh. “You don’t have to be shy with me, baby.” He brushes aside my new shawl and traces his lips across the tops of my breasts. As he does this, his hands move beneath my skirt. He runs his palms up my thighs, and then moves higher still.   

“Such a perfect ass,” he murmurs appreciatively. “I thought only Cuban girls had such perfect asses.”

“Ricco,” I protest.

He cups my cheeks and his eyebrows arch playfully. “A thong? Is that the word?
Me gusta
. I like this. A nice surprise. Maybe you’re not such a good girl after all.”

“
Ricco.”

“You need a Latin lover, eh?” He persists, grinding his hips against mine. “Someone to keep you warm on these cold nights.”

I squirm out of his embrace. He lets go of me and steps back, his smile still intact. He’s just teasing, but I’m too flustered to know how to respond. How would I react if we were on an actual date? Would I tell him off or beg for more? I need a script here, but I don’t have one. I’m flying blind. Ricco’s phone buzzes. He checks the screen, then looks at me.

“Come,” he says, “I want to say good-bye to my father before we leave.”

Surprise courses through me. “He’s here?”

“
Si,
yes. At St. Peter’s. He is waiting for me there.”

“
Now?”
It’s almost one o’clock in the morning.

“It will only take a minute, then I will bring you home.”

St. Peter’s is an enormous gothic style church situated in the heart of the Mission. It’s not a San Francisco landmark, but it easily could be. With a note of unmistakable pride, Ricco tells me that his father is one of St. Peter’s most generous contributors. He supports not just the church, but the ancillary soup kitchen and homeless shelter.

When we step inside, we find Miguel Diaz deep in conversation with a priest. Miguel looks up. His dark gaze rakes us over. He nods to the priest, dismissing him, then beckons us forward. I’m glad the DEA is recording the conversation that follows, because I don’t remember a word of it. I know that Miguel Diaz greets me politely. I know he asks me about my school work and inquires after the health of my family. On the surface, it’s all very normal.

But something about Miguel Diaz scares the shit out of me. It goes deeper than anything Beckett told me about him or what I read online. It’s the way Diaz looks at me when he speaks. Like he knows I’m lying—that I’m not who I pretend to be. Like he’s just stretching our little game out until he’s ready to kill me. A slight smile curls his lips and tornadoes whirl in his eyes. He looks completely, pathologically insane.

His gaze shifts from mine to Ricco’s and he gives a slight nod.

Ricco takes my elbow. “Wait here,” he says. “I will speak to my father alone.”

He leaves without another word. I watch as Ricco and Miguel walk toward the altar, kneel and cross themselves, and then exit the sanctuary through an alcove on the right, just past a statue of the Virgin Mary. I am alone in the vast, enormous church. Well, almost alone. Two small women dressed in black—they look like they’re at least eighty years old—sit in the pews, rocking softly as they recite the rosary.

I assume Ricco is coming right back. I take a seat in one of the long pews and wait. Twenty minutes pass, and then an hour. The two old women leave. I go from being irritated to being worried. Very worried. What the hell?

Beckett and his bosses must still be in their unmarked van somewhere nearby, wondering what’s going on. I need to communicate what’s happening. At the same time, I can’t just start talking to my bra strap. The odds the Diaz left one of his men behind to keep an eye on me are pretty good, so I don’t want to do anything suspicious.

I glance around the church, stand and move to a table near the altar. It is covered with dozens of tiny votive candles. I put some money in the donation box, light a candle, and bow my head. Hopefully if anyone’s watching me, they’ll think I’m praying.

“I’m still in the church,” I whisper. “If Ricco’s not back within the next five minutes, I’m taking a cab home.”

There. Done. I’m tired of sitting, tired of waiting, tired of worrying about Ricco. Instead of returning to the pew I walk over to inspect the statue of the Virgin Mary. It’s life-sized, intricately carved. The baby Jesus sits on her lap. He’s smiling. He has pudgy wrists and chubby thighs and is every bit as beautiful as Dally. The thought brings a smile to my own lips.

The vestibule on my right—the one through which Ricco and Miguel exited the church—leads to an alley which connects the church to their soup kitchen and homeless shelter. The door is propped open. I don’t know what pulls my attention in that direction. A noise, a light, a motion.

All I know is that my head turns and I see Miguel, Juan, and Ricco. They stand together in the alleyway, silhouetted by the streetlight. Two of Diaz’s men hold a third man by the arms. He is slumped forward, unconscious. Blood streams down the side of his head.