Dial (3 page)

“Your hips should move
naturally
,” Jo explained. “You two look like you're being jerked around by a sadistic puppeteer.” Losing herself in the music of her childhood, Jo continued to dance.

“I think I'm getting it!” Caylin yelled after a few minutes. “Samba, samba, samba.” She moved across the carpet, swaying her hips as if she were in a music video.

“Great!” Jo laughed as she watched Caylin get into the Latin groove.

“How am I doing?” Theresa asked. She still looked as if she were dancing with a straitjacket on.

“Uh . . . more hips.” Theresa was never going to be able to put the samba on her dance resume, but Jo admired her effort.

“Like this?” Theresa thrust out her left hip. Too much. Her feet flew out from beneath her, and she landed on the carpet face first.

“Um, no, not exactly.” Jo tried to hold back her giggles as she helped Theresa stand up.

But there was no stopping the laughter. First Jo, then Caylin, then Theresa gave in to a fit of hysteria.

“You better tell people dancing is against your religion,” Caylin advised. “Otherwise we're going to get kicked out of the club as a health risk.”

“I'll just stand to the side and look sultry.” Theresa pouted her lips and let her eyelids droop. “Is this sexy?”

“We'll find out soon enough,” Jo told her. “The witching hour has arrived.”

They headed out to the Alfa Romeo, still giggling. “Drugs, money, beautiful clothes. I feel like I've walked into a movie about shallow twenty-somethings trying to quote unquote find themselves,” Caylin commented as she slid into the car.

“Well, at least we look our parts,” Jo said, getting behind the wheel. “We have never been hotter babes than we are right now.”

“As long as my role doesn't require the samba, we'll all be up for Academy Awards,” Theresa predicted.

Jo stepped on the gas. If it turned out that this informant could lead them to a drug lord, she could
guarantee
an Oscar-winning performance. “Next stop, El Centro.”

•  •  •

“Talk about living out our lives as if we were on the set of a movie! This place is truly outrageous.” Caylin had to shout over the music in order to communicate with her fellow Spy Girls. They were standing pressed against the bar, waiting for a round of nonalcoholic piña coladas from the oh-so-very-cute bartender.

Theresa gazed around the crowded club. “One thing is definite. Any gray-haired dude roaming around this place is going to be easy to spot.”

“No kidding,” Jo agreed. “I think we've walked into a Beautiful People's Anonymous group.”

El Centro was packed with young men and women, all dressed to the hilt in outfits that looked as if they had sprung fully accessorized from the pages of
Vogue.
Caylin couldn't see anyone over the age of twenty-five in the whole place.

“Maybe our informant got spooked,” Theresa suggested. “This could turn out to be nothing more than a night out on the town.”

Jo picked up one of the large, frosty drinks the bartender had placed before them and took a long sip. “I have to admit that I'm starting to enjoy myself.”

Caylin felt as if she were on the spring break trip of the century. Pounding music, hot guys, tasty drinks . . . all sans parents. If it weren't for the fact that they were very possibly on an incredibly dangerous mission, this scenario would be too good to be true.

“I'd like to offer a suggestion,” Jo announced, raising her drink.

“Be our guest,” Caylin said. She wanted to hear what Jo had to say, but she also wanted to engage in flirtatious eye contact with a gorgeous blond guy who was dancing a few feet away from them. Oh, well. Who was to say she couldn't do both? “Proceed.”

“I move that we split up, search for hotties, and enjoy ourselves,” Jo suggested.

“What about the informant?” Theresa asked.

Jo shrugged. “If he's here, we'll find him.”

Caylin glanced at the babe to her left. “Jo's right. I mean, as long as we keep our eyes open for a geezer holding a red flower, I don't see what else we can do.”

Theresa took a sip of her piña colada and stared off into space for a long moment, thinking. “Okay. But if we do spot someone who seems like he could be our informant, then we drop Operation Scam immediately.”

“Of course,” Jo agreed. “We'll do the texting thing, then meet back here to consult before proceeding.”

Caylin set her drink on the bar. “Happy hunting, girls.” Without a backward glance, she glided toward the dance floor. The mission might be a bust, but if blondie was half as sweet as he looked, the night was going to be an unqualified winner.

“Baby, baby, baby . . . oh yeah, baby, baby, baby.” Caylin sang slightly off-key to the pounding music.

She wasn't doing the samba, but her hips had definitely found a life of their own. Unfortunately, the blond had been a dud. But Caylin had discovered that dancing with herself was just as fun as the partner thing.

“You dance very well, pretty lady.” A deep but oily voice interrupted her solo groove.

Caylin moved her head to take a gander at her new admirer. Yikes! He was older, and his hair the kind of salt-and-pepper look that was commonly referred to as “distinguished.” Could it be?

“Hello?” Caylin responded. “Um, are you looking for someone?”

“I think I've found her.” His English was perfect, and
the suit looked expensive. The man had definite informant possibilities.

“Tell me more.” Caylin moved closer, her nerves jangling.

In a flash, the man's hands encircled Caylin's waist. He pulled her close, pressing his hips against hers and breathing hot, stale air into her ear. Yuck. This wasn't dancing; it was wrestling.

“Whoa, tiger,” Caylin shouted over the music. “The forbidden dance really ain't my style.”

“Ah, yes, I see the lovely girl is a bit shy.” He winked and grabbed a long-stemmed silk rose from a small bud vase on a nearby table. “If you will allow me, I'll buy out an entire florist's shop and offer its contents to the lady who smells as sweet as a rose.”

Ooh. Caylin had heard of going deep undercover. But this was beyond any superspy stuff she had ever seen. There was simply no way this Ricardo Montalbán look-alike was any kind of informant. He did, however, redefine the term
cheesy.
Exiting the situation seemed like a primo idea.

“Adios, amigo.” Okay, so her limited Spanish wasn't
Portuguese. At least she was
attempting
to blend. Caylin saluted Rico Suave and melted into the crowded dance floor. Next!

•  •  •

El Centro was brimming with guys who looked as if they might have at one point posed for
GQ,
but Jo couldn't focus on finding a hot Brazilian guy to show her the sights of Rio. Everywhere she looked, Jo saw possible informants. So what if their hair wasn't gray and there were no signs of a telltale red flower?

And there, by the bar, was another likely prospect. Aha. There was some actual gray hair on his head. Finally she was getting warmer. Jo sauntered toward the bar, rehearsing her opening line. Excuse me, sir, have you informed on any drug lords lately? Hey, dude, how about telling me what Rio is
really
about? Hmmm. Maybe a bit more ­subtlety was in order.

“Hey, there,” Jo greeted her prey. “Come here often?” Okay, she wasn't going to win a lot of points for originality, but Jo thought her voice was sounding fairly smokin'. She would certainly get the guy's attention.

The gray-haired daddy stared at her in confusion. “Eh?”

Interesting. The man didn't speak English. Good thing Jo was the one who had spotted him. Caylin and Theresa would have been at a loss for words—literally.

“Are you looking for someone?” Jo asked in flawless Portuguese.

He nodded. “I'm meeting a woman here. But we've never met before.” His eyes scanned the crowd as he spoke.

“Are you two going to have a
secret
rendezvous?” Jo asked, fluttering her lashes.

He raised his rather bushy gray eyebrows. “Secret? No.”

Jo bit her lip, wondering how to proceed. The old dude wasn't jumping at her bait. Then again, a lot of people had a hard time digesting the notion that spies could be as young as the Trio Grande. She would push further.

“Do you have a flower to give me?” Jo whispered. “If so, we could go somewhere private and . . . uh . . . talk about it.”

Mr. X frowned, squinting his bright green eyes at Jo. “Young lady, you are an affront to your generation.”

“Uh, what?” Jo was accustomed to being described as one of those rare sterling examples of America's youth.

“I'm old enough to be your grandfather. These flirtatious comments are simply outrageous.” He was getting more and more worked up as he spoke. Uh-oh. If the man had a heart attack, Jo had no one but herself to blame.

“Sorry, I, uh, didn't mean . . .” Her voice trailed off as she felt her face turning crimson. Flirting with a geezer—talk about mortification!

“You Americans don't know where to draw the line!” the man finished. “Now go home and wash that revolting paint off your face.” He pivoted away from Jo and strode toward the other side of the club.

Jo stared at the man's retreating back, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. This night was going absolutely nowhere at the speed of light.

•  •  •

Theresa twirled a miniature parasol between her fingers and mentally recited the entire times table. She had been officially bored for over half an hour. Sure, the fellas here
were oh-so-fine to
stare
at, but she hadn't had much success with actual conversation. The guys either didn't know how to speak English or were only interested in discussing various parts of her anatomy.

And there was
no
way Theresa was going to hit the dance floor. There weren't enough strobe lights in Brazil to make her dancing look anything but totally embarrassing. She had finally resorted to sitting at a tiny table, hoping against hope to catch sight of someone with gray-streaked hair and a red flower.

“I'll get another drink,” Theresa said to her parasol. “Maybe a virgin strawberry daiquiri this time.” The parasol didn't respond. Typical.

Theresa relinquished her chair, wondering how long spy protocol dictated that the trio hang out at El Centro. This pounding music was giving her a major headache. She glanced toward the source of the music, a large glass-­enclosed DJ booth on the second level of El ­Centro. Huh. There was someone dancing in the window of the booth. Someone with gray-streaked hair and a red silk shirt.

Theresa squinted, staring at the booth. Wow. The hair was now obscured, but even from where she was standing, Theresa could make out that there was a flower pattern covering the shirt. Alert! Alert! This was not a test!

Theresa pulled her tiny ever present cell phone from her small purse. “Sorry to interrupt your scamming, Spy Girls, but Trixie may have hit the jackpot.”

•  •  •

“Are you sure you saw the informant?” Jo asked Theresa five minutes later. “Because I've had a few bum steers.”

Theresa shrugged. “I'm not
sure.
I mean, I didn't charge up there and say, ‘Hi, are you the anonymous informant I'm looking for?' ”

“It does seem weird that the guy would be hanging out in the DJ booth,” Caylin commented, glancing toward the large window.

It was empty. “Still, we might as well check it out.”

“Gee, thanks for your confidence in my ability,” ­Theresa responded. “I'm telling you, I saw gray-streaked hair and I saw a red flowered shirt.”

“So what's the plan?” Caylin asked.

“I'll do the talking,” Jo offered. “We don't know how much English the guy is going to know.”

“Sounds good to me,” Theresa responded. “I'll be ready with the mascara cam in case photos seem like a good idea.”

“And I'll keep my eyes open for suspicious underworld types hanging around,” Caylin said. “We have to be extra vigilant about possible traps.”

“Wonder-triplet powers activate!” Jo said. “Let's get this thing over with.”

The girls walked single file up the wrought iron staircase that led to the DJ booth. Caylin's heart hammered in her chest. If Theresa's instincts were correct, then the girls were about to start their mission for real. The idea was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

At the top of the narrow flight of stairs, Jo knocked on a heavy, metal door. “I doubt anyone can even hear us in there.”

“Unless the person inside is
waiting
for our arrival,” Theresa pointed out.

Jo shrugged, then pounded on the door for several seconds. “I guess there's no one—”

Suddenly the door flew open. Caylin peered over Jo's shoulder, her heart thumping wildly. But the guy at the door didn't have gray-streaked hair. He was tall, cute, and very blond. The guy was also wearing a pair of huge headphones. Aha. The DJ.

“False alarm,” Caylin said to Theresa over her shoulder. “But hey, I think we just found the best-looking guy in the place.”

Then the guy moved aside, revealing a young woman who was sitting in a plush armchair. Caylin's eyes lit on her hair, which was very coifed and very black—aside from a two-inch-wide skunk streak straight down the middle. And yes, she was wearing a red flower-patterned shirt.

“False alarm?” Theresa whispered. “Doesn't look like it to me.”

“Wow . . . he's a she,” Jo said. She seemed powerless to walk into the booth and begin questioning this latest candidate. “And she's no older than we are.”

The young woman stood up and walked toward the trio as the dude with the headphones retreated to the high-tech sound board lining one end of the small room.
Skunk Chick didn't seem surprised that three American debutantes had arrived, unannounced, at the door of the DJ booth. In fact, she wore a welcoming smile.