The Argentina Rhodochrosite (20 page)

40

Ainsley followed Nadia around the terraces,
down two sets of stairs, past three checkpoints, and into the basement tunnels, the very bowels, of La Bombonera. She could still hear the rumbling, roaring, and cheering of the thousands of people above her. It evoked all sorts of thoughts about the madness of crowds.

But she pushed such philosophy out of her mind as they arrived at a heavy blue-and-gold door. A tall man in a business suit, flanked by several assistants, was deep in concentrated conversation. He carried an unmistakable air of authority.

“Patricio is the team manager,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything.”

The manager glanced up at Nadia. “You know,” he said, “I was thinking about it, and it’s really not a good idea. Your presence would disrupt the players. Plus we’re making progress with Ovidio anyways.”

“He’s my client,” answered Nadia. “I have the right to see him.”

Patricio patted her arm condescendingly. “We’re feeding the baby his bottle. I think he’ll stop crying for his mother soon.” He turned away to discuss something with an assistant.

His callousness shocked Ainsley. To her surprise, Nadia clapped her hands three times directly in the manager’s left ear. His shoulders jumped. He whirled on her.

“I wasn’t finished talking to you,” she said.

Ainsley tried to hide her smile. Patricio was steaming mad, but now at least he was listening.

Nadia continued: “If you let us into the locker room, I guarantee that Ovidio will play in the second half tonight. And for the rest of the season.”

That was gutsy. Patricio struggled with the question. His eyes bounced around, searching for the best way out.

Finally he succumbed. “Okay. But we’re getting close, even without”—he pointed a thumb at Ainsley—“your tricks.”

“Trust me.”

“I trust nobody,” he said. “Go on.”

The men standing guard on either side of the locker room pulled the door open and gestured for Ainsley and Nadia to enter.

The smell assaulted the two women as they stepped inside the men’s locker room. It was a deep man-stink, blooming with the sweat, the hair, the dirt, and the blood of a group of very healthy male specimens who spent their most of their waking hours exercising their bodies.

It made Ainsley’s head spin. Even Nadia seemed a little cowed, and she’d probably been here before.

The floor of the locker room was bare linoleum; the walls were average plaster. Overhead florescent lights lent a ghastly look to the scene. Several icons of the Virgin Mary were affixed to lockers. Of course, the room didn’t need to be much. Ainsley had learned from someone in the executive suite that the Boca Juniors spent most of their time at a plush practice facility elsewhere.

The most interesting aspect of the room were the thirty players, all standing around in various states of dress. Some were splayed across benches, others leaned against pillars. A couple were getting their legs rubbed down by trainers. One was sitting in a bubbling therapy tub with his hands across his eyes, grimacing in pain.

Ainsley noticed something else too. Up close, almost every one of these men was attractive. Not gorgeous to die for, but nobody below a seven. Definitely enough to cause some heart-fluttering amongst girly-girls.

A girly-girl, however, Ainsley certainly was not. She put on her game face and steeled herself for major
piropo
. Sure enough, as she and Nadia walked through the locker room, the players started to notice their female visitors. There were a couple of catcalls, a kissyface or two. Those were probably the substitutes with nothing better to do. Most of the others—the sweaty ones—were too focused on each other, and their own bodies, to care.

“Where is Ovidio?” she said.

“In the back,” said Nadia. “He has his own changing room.”

Of course, Ainsley thought. Why would Ovidio
not
drive a unnecessary wedge between himself and his teammates by demanding special treatment? It was totally in keeping with his character. He would hate to disappoint them with cooperative behavior.

Nadia approached a blue door and rapped on it firmly. “It’s Nadia,” she said. “Let us in.”

Ainsley heard a muffled moan inside. Nadia traded glances with her and pushed through.

The private room was about the size of a bedroom. There was a table holding lotions and bandages, a freestanding closet, a small refrigerator, and photos of himself wearing various team jerseys posted proudly on the walls. Ainsley noticed that he had been given the number 9 throughout his entire career. The
El Mono
photo was conspicuously absent.

The superstar himself was stretched out on a padded massage table near the wall. A trainer was hunched over his foot, kneading Ovidio’s big toe.

“Does that hurt?” said the trainer.

“Like a dragon breathing fire,” said Ovidio.

Then he noticed the visitors. “It’s a disaster, Nadia. Look at my toe.”

Nadia had the air of someone who’d been through this routine many times before. “It looks fine.”

“It’s not. Something is wrong with it.”

He leaped off the table and paced the room. “See, I can’t walk right.”

“You’re walking perfectly,” she said.

“No, there is something wrong with me.”

“You’re good for the moment,” said the trainer.

Ovidio lifted a finger. “But there
will
be something wrong soon. I can tell. I am not at my peak of health.”

Nadia had zero patience for this. “You imagine an injury almost every week.”

“No,” the celebbrity protested, “this time it’s for real.”

She rolled her eyes and carried onwards. “We have news for you.”

“What kind of news?”

“Big news.”

The trainer, sensing the climate of the room, zipped his bag shut, and slipped out the door.

41

Quick as a thunderclap, Ovidio’s spirits
had changed. He hopped back onto the massage table. He looked at the two women, his eyes bright and lively. “Is it good news? I can never tell with you women.”

Ainsley felt her heart racing. This was the moment. She decided to let Nadia do the talking.

“Someone in this room,” Nadia said, “has found your necklace.”

Ovidio’s mouth opened slightly as he regarded his American visitor. His eyes roved up and down Ainsley’s entire person, almost as though he was making sure that she wasn’t an apparition.

“How?”

Ainsley had rehearsed this in advance with Nadia. “I found the maid. She’d stolen it.”

He clapped his hands, rolled onto his back, and kicked his feet in the air. “You see what this means?” he said. “It means, don’t ever doubt me. I know my friends.”

Then Ovidio grabbed his manager’s face and kissed both cheeks. Nadia tolerated it.

“Say I’m sorry,” he ordered.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Say I’m sorry for ever doubting you.”

“I am sorry for ever doubting you,” she repeated, “your majesty.”

He didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm. Ainsley admired Nadia’s pretended humility. She didn’t think she could’ve pulled that off, but that’s why she wasn’t a celebrity manager.

Ovidio turned to Ainsley, his chest up and proud: “Okay,
yanqui
. Let’s see it.”

Ainsley fumbled in her purse with trembling fingers until she found it. She handed the box to Ovidio. Her stomach was in knots. Her breaths were coming quicker.

“That’s pretty,” he said. “It didn’t come in a box the first time.”

“Ainsley is an amazing detective,” said Nadia. “I knew from the moment I saw her.”

Ovidio had opened the box. He pulled the rhodochrosite necklace from the black velvet backing and draped it across his fingers. His eyes were narrow with concentration as he studied the necklace.

“We changed the chain,” said Nadia.

Ovidio looked at her. “I see. Do you know what else you changed?”

“What?”

“The stone.”

Ainsley wanted to form words. She really did. But they wouldn’t come out of her mouth. She’d been struck mute.

Nadia quickly explained. “Ovidio, it’s your stone. We found it in the maid’s house. In Villa 27. Ainsley found it.”

But the superstar’s eyes were burning into Ainsley over his manager’s shoulder. “This isn’t my rhodochrosite.”

Ainsley sunk her head. She was trying not to let her body language betray her, but there was no denying it. She’d been caught lying.

But Nadia was still pushing for it. “No, Ovidio, it’s your stone, believe me, I know the Z too—”

“This Z is different,” he said. He picked up the rhodochrosite and pointed at its delicate veining. “Here. See those lines? Not like mine. And see those? Not mine either. Believe me, I have looked at this necklace for my entire life.”

“That’s nonsense,” Nadia said, “you just—”

“That’s enough,” said Ainsley. They both turned to her. “Ovidio is right. It’s not the real necklace.”

Ovidio drew himself up to his full height, which was still three inches less than Ainsley’s own. “Why would you lie to me?” he said.

“Because you demanded the necklace and I wasn’t any closer to finding it.”

A tyrannical darkness settled over his eyes. Ainsley supposed that it was useless to look for sympathy from him, especially at this moment.

Nadia had retreated to the corner of the room. The panic was plain on her face. Ovidio was her best and only client. She couldn’t afford to piss him off this badly. They’d taken a gamble, and rolled badly.

Ovidio rubbed his hands together. “Now I need to ask a question. What do you do when someone lies to you?”

Ainsley shrugged. Nadia tried to interject: “Ovidio, please—”

He held up a hand. “No, I am addressing
Señorita
Walker.”

Ovidio approached Ainsley. His nose was almost touching hers. His eyes bore into her own. She’d never stood this close to a man without kissing him.

“I know what to do,” he said. “The situation is well-known to me.”

“Tell me,” Ainsley said.

He shaped his hand into a gun. Then pointed it at Ainsley’s head.

“You’re fired,” he said.

42

The small room was dancing with
negative electricity. Nadia looked stricken. Ovidio looked like a raging bull.

And Ainsley looked for a way out.

Her mind raced through all the possible scripts. She could say that the maid must’ve given her a fake rhodochrosite, but then there would be more lies to invent, more investigation, more backtracking, more coverups. Ainsley had too much pride for that.

Another possibility was to pin the blame on Nadia. After all, the trick had been the manager’s idea. But Ainsley wouldn’t turn on anybody like that, not someone who had trusted her, who had hired her with almost zero experience. That would kill future recommendations, which were the lifeblood of small agencies. After all, it had been slowly dawning on Ainsley that a becoming a self-employed gemstone detective was not a total impossibility.

No, she would fall on her sword. It was the right thing to do. It was the only thing to do.

“You’re right,” said Ainsley. “I deserve it for trying to trick you.”

Ovidio thrust the necklace at her. “With this piece of shit, you erase my only connection to my biological family. It’s horrible. What you did is like
murder
.” He paused, seized with a better word. “No, it’s even
worse
than murder.”

Ainsley wasn’t sure what exactly could be worse than murder. But she was sure of something else: The cliché of the passionate Latin male was alive and well, living right here, in this room. As his tirade grew longer, he became more victimized and embittered. He blamed her for everything short of the Incan genocide and continental drift.

She stood there and calmly took his ranting. She agreed with him at every turn, you’re right, Ovidio, absolutely right.

Of course, Ovidio was justified in his anger. Ainsley
had
stabbed him in the back. But it was by his request.

When he had finished, Ainsley swept up the shards of her dignity and dumped them into her purse. “Should I leave now?”

“Go.”

Ainsley turned towards the door, and Nadia started to follow. “But not you,” he commanded.

Nadia nodded to her.

Outside the room, Ainsley saw all thirty members of the Boca Juniors soccer team staring at her. They’d been listening to his ranting through the door. It would’ve been impossible not to.

“He’s very angry,” she said.

“He’s always angry,” said one player. “What was it this time?”

“A broken shoelace,” said a second.

“A papercut,” cracked a third.

Ainsley smiled. Their sympathy was helping her feel a little less miserable. But she wasn’t sure what to do next. So she moved towards a bench to wait for Nadia.

The players cleared some space for her, kicking aside jockstraps and wet towels. One handed her a paper cup with Gatorade. She caught a glimpse of her own face in a mirror opposite. It looked ashen.

She kept quiet, huddled on the bench, while the players slowly returned to their stretching and chatting. There were a thousand thoughts scurrying through her mind.

At last Ovidio’s door opened, and the superstar himself came swaggering out. She noted how the temperature of the locker room changed, how his teammates paused their conversations, how they stepped aside for him.

He waltzed past Ainsley as though she didn’t exist. She was expecting that. Then he tipped his chin to Patricio.

“So?” Patricio said.

“Not yet,” Ovidio replied.

“Keep this up,” said the team manager, “and ownership is going to end your contract next month.”

“I’m thirty-five. This is the end anyways.”

“Is this how you want to go out? Like a scoundrel?”

He shrugged. “People can watch the video of my better seasons.”

“But all of Argentina wants you to play.”

“Argentina can fuck itself.”

Then Ovidio flipped up the hood on his warmup jacket, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and turned away.

Seething with frustration, the manager turned away. Then he banged his clipboard against his thigh and called a team meeting.

Ainsley watched the Boca Juniors gather around. He delivered, in rapid Spanish, a quick outline of the strategy for the second half, along with potential substitutions. Then the players kneeled on the floor for a quick benediction from a priest. Lastly, they ran out of the locker room and back towards the field.

Ainsley heard the thundering of the crowd as the team reappeared on field. Only then did Nadia emerge from Ovidio’s private room. She was wiping her eyes with a tissue.

“We gave the baby the wrong toy,” she said, “and he didn’t like it.”

“I’m sorry.”

The manager clutched her head. “That was the worst professional move of my entire life.”

“Did he fire you too?”

“No. But he’s going to talk to my company, and they probably will.”

The two women sat side-by-side on the bench. The locker room was empty now, except for a janitor hurriedly cleaning the floors and benches before the players returned in forty-five minutes.

“And there’s something else,” she said.

“What.”

“I can’t pay you.”

Ainsley felt alarm race up the back of her legs. “But the first half—”

“You didn’t return the contract to me. And Ovidio is forbidding it.”

“He can’t do that.”

“Without a signed contract, he can do whatever he wants.” She took Ainsley’s hand. “It’s not my decision. I would like to honor our agreement.”

Ainsley swore to herself. That would teach her not to drag her heels on getting contracts back to people. Now it was going to cost her thousands of dollars.

“So what do we do now?”

Nadia shrugged. “There isn’t anything left to do. My career is finished.”

Ainsley suddenly felt very vulnerable. “But what should I do?”

Nadia looked at her in the eyes.

“Go home,” she said.