The Argentina Rhodochrosite (8 page)

14

Ainsley stepped onto a patio that
overlooked a small but gorgeous backyard garden. Globe lights hung from the jacaranda trees. In the gravel, tables and chairs had been planted beneath stylish white canvas umbrellas. A few people stood chatting around some tea lights on high tables.

To her left was a long stone staircase, lined with balustrades, that led to the second floor of the mansion. And coming down that staircase was a man in a suit. His hand was extended towards her.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said. “I knew you were coming.”

Ainsley couldn’t find the right words, the man was so impeccably turned out. Probably fifty years old, he boasted teeth whiter than the snowcapped peaks of the Andes. His hair was gelled into a conch shell. He could’ve made the cover of any fashion magazine. Maybe he already had.

“Ainsley Walker,” she said.

“Yes, I knew it,” he said. “When I saw you enter, I said to myself, that is an American.”

There it was again. Ainsley wondered if someone had pinned a sign on her back announcing her nationality.

“You are the journalist who is here with Ovidio,” he said.

“That’s me,” she said. The cover identity felt good.

“What publication do you write for?”

Ainsley had thought ahead this time, and had already prepared a better explanation. “I’m doing this assignment freelance,” she said. “The profile is going to be sold to the highest bidder.” She turned the tables on him. “And who are you?”

“Facundo Fuentes,” he said, kissing the back of her hand.

“Nadia said you were an important person.”

“I’m not,” he said. Then he twinkled all ten of his fingers, then intertwined them. “I just
connect
the important people. Like a grandmother weaving a sweater.”

“That’s what you’re doing tonight.”

“Yes. Everyone here wants to help Ovidio achieve his ambition.”

Ainsley was still skeptical. “Is it really possible for a soccer player to run for president?”

“Anything is possible in Buenos Aires,” he said, “to those with the connections.”

“But is it a good idea? Is he really a politician?”

“I think so,” he said, smiling. “Ovidio is charismatic, shrewd, and dedicated to his club.”

“Many would disagree with that last point.”

“Trust me. He’s dedicated to everything he does.”

“But he won’t play. The people are getting angry.”

Facundo patted her arm condescendingly. “Ovidio will play soon,” he said. “He’s not stupid.”

Ainsley bore in a bit harder. “But he is emotional, isn’t he?”

The man shrugged. “Yes, of course, he is a genius. That’s the way geniuses are.” He thought for a moment. “So I’ve been told to introduce you to some people who will help you understand Ovidio.”

“You have,” she said.

“Yes, a little penguin came and told me.”

“Was this penguin’s name Nadia?”

He nodded and beckoned for her to follow. He seemed to have grown skittish, probably from her questioning.

Ainsley followed him up the staircase, marvelling at the crisp, moonless night sky overhead. At the top Facundo leaned into a conversational group, made a quick quip, and got a huge laugh. He kept walking. This man was a social butterfly, a born schmoozer.

Then he was off again. Ainsley followed him into the second floor of the mansion, where she found herself in a small lounge with a gorgeous wooden bar beneath a classic chandelier. Facundo was busy joshing with a group of men in business suits, all nursing glasses of beer.

He returned to Ainsley. “What would you like?” he said. “No, never mind. I know what you need.” He snapped his fingers towards the bartender. “Torrontés,” he shouted, pointing at his guest.

The bartender quickly poured a glass of white wine and handed it over. Ainsley took the glass and sniffed it. Not too bad. Then she sipped the liquid, rolling the intoxicant around her tongue. It tasted light, floral, and complex. She tried more.

There was no doubt. Torrontés was delicious.

“It’s an Argentina varietal,” he explained, “from Salta.” He pointed to his left, which is presumably the direction of that area, as though Ainsley were lacing up her shoes and preparing to sprint there at that very moment.

Ainsley followed Facundo through the old mansion. She swung her gaze, from the wainscoting, to the high ceilings, down at the squeaky wooden floors. The floor lamps, the modern red furniture with its clean lines.

“This is gorgeous,” she said. “I’ve never seen a club like it.”

“You should come here when it’s full,” he said.

They circled up the inner staircase to the third floor, then the fourth. “This used to be the attic,” he explained, breathing hard, “but now it’s very different.”

Ainsley stepped onto the landing. Straight ahead, through a doorframe, was a dance club. Bright green and red neon lights were flashing. A young barman in a vest stood behind the bar counter.

And in the middle of the dance floor stood a group of four guys.

The men looked scuzzy. Ainsley had had years of experience in weeding out such types. Their chests were absurdly puffed out. Their heads were turned sideways, avoiding eye contact with one another. Three of the four were muscled beyond belief, and wore tight v-neck t-shirts. They were trading shoulder punches.

Ainsley saw the problem: Too much testosterone. That was, reliably, the main cause of scuzzy men worldwide.

“Who are they?” said Ainsley.

“Those,” replied Facundo, “are Ovidio’s friends. Let me introduce you.”

15

The upstairs dance club was tiny,
as befits an attic, no larger than Ainsley’s entire apartment back in the U.S. Throw pillows had been tossed onto a pair of couches along the wall.

The scuzzy guys were the only other people in the room. Ainsley watched their eyes dismantle and remove the pieces of her outfit.

Evidently they decided that she was passable, because the group sauntered over. As they approached, Facundo placed his hand on the back of Ainsley’s neck. Normally she would’ve knocked his hand away, but in this instance she was grateful for the protection.

“
Che locos boludos
,” Facundo said. “
Ustedes molestamos
?”

“
Buenisimo
,” one replied. “
Que es vos mina
?”

They kept talking, and Ainsley kept listening, but the slangy Rioplatense was too unfamiliar and too fast. She only understood about half of the chatting.

Then Facundo gestured to the shortest man of the group. Shorter than average, he wore a skintight blue polyester shirt, a jungle of gold necklaces, and a sleazy smile.

“Let me introduce you to La Ainsley,” Facundo said. “She’s a journalist from the United States. Ainsley Walker, this is Lalo.”

She recognized his name: Lalo had been caught stealing from Ovidio. Nadia had called him a lowlife. Ainsley instinctually decided to avoid touching him.

Too late. Lalo had already caught her hand. Now he was coming in for her cheek like a predator. Ainsley closed her eyes and waited for it to be over.

“
Mucho gusto
,” he said.

“
Igualmente
,” she replied.

“You’re drinking wine?” he said, looking at her glass. “Let me get you another drink.”

“I’m good,” she said.

“No, I insist.”

Ainsley realized that she didn’t have a choice. The other three guys were smirking, amused. She sensed that she had stumbled onstage and was acting a part in someone else’s play. Guys like this always made her feel a couple steps behind the real story.

Lalo came back from the bar with a tall, ice-filled glass with an inch of brown liquid in the bottom. “Fernet,” he said. “Pour the Coca-Cola into it. This is the taste of the real Argentina.”

She set her wine glass down. She’d promised herself to solve the mystery of the disappeared rhodochrosite, and the first step in doing that was to earn trust.

With the guys watching, Ainsley popped open the can and poured the soda into the glass. When the foam had subsided, she took a spoon from the bartender and swizzled the liquid. Then she drank.

It was horribly bitter. Not even the syrupy Coca-Cola could disguise the sharp bite of Fernet Branca.

Lalo was smirking. “It’s a good try,
che
,” he said. “Next time you’ll suck it down like a man.”

The scuzzy guys laughed at his choice of verb, but Ainsley ignored it. “Does Ovidio drink this?” she said, wiping her eyes.

Lalo waved his hand dismissively. “That
pelotudo
won’t touch anything except
milanesa
and
papas fritas
,” he said. “He won’t even eat
bife de lomo
.”

“How long have you known him?”

“What is this, an interview?”

“I am a journalist,” Ainsley reminded him.

Lalo tossed his drink down his throat, then threw the empty glass to the bartender, scattering ice all over the floor.

“Okay,
periodista
, since you didn’t do your homework, I will tell you. Ovidio and I have known each other seven years.”

“How did you meet?”

“Guess.”

“You used to date him.”

The other guys snickered. Ainsley figured she needed to show them toughness.

“This one is funny,” Lalo said, smirking. “Very good. No, I was his minder.”

His minder. Ainsley thought that was a weird term to use. She was getting ready to ask about that when one of the other guys broke in: “Lalo bought toilet paper and wiped Ovidio’s ass.”

There was general laughter, which Lalo ignored. “I was working for Adidas, before Ovidio lost the contract—”

“Fucking Japanese,” said one of the others.

“—and he had just signed with Arsenal. He’d moved to London, was living in a hotel, didn’t speak English, couldn’t get a phone, couldn’t find a rental house. Adidas sent me to find him a house, teach him a little English, help him adjust, be his friend.”

That was interesting. Lalo had been a professional friend. Judging by his presence here tonight, Lalo had figured that “working” for Ovidio was a better deal than working for Adidas.

One of the guys was bent over a chair now, muttering, “Lalo, a little more to the right,” while the third, crouching, theatrically wiped his ass with a cocktail napkin. The fourth guy was on the couch, laughing. Ainsley guess the drinking had been going on for a couple hours now.

“
Cabrón es
,” said Lalo, “
no me lo banco más
.”

“What about the time you fixed his toilet?” said the fourth.

“He asked me to,” replied Lalo.

“In the middle of the night?”

“That was my job!”

“Or the time you cleaned up his house like a maid,” added another.

“I couldn’t let anybody see that he’d been drunk,” said Lalo. “It was during the Premier League finals.”

“Or the time you stole his ski boots,” said a fourth.

“I didn’t steal them. I hid them. He wasn’t supposed to be skiing. It was in his contract.”

“He’s still looking for them,” said the fourth.

Lalo puffed out his chest and smirked. “I hid them very well.”

“Did you ever steal anything else?” said Ainsley. “Like money?”

Lalo suddenly stopped. So did the others. They stared at her. She’d apparently crossed a line. She looked around for Facundo but noticed that he had slipped away.

Ainsley tried to recover. “I mean, if I worked for a celebrity, it would be easy, I would be stealing every second of every day.” She saw Lalo starting to smile, so she kept going. “I mean, you couldn’t leave a jar of baby food near me. It would disappear. And the money? There’s so much flying around. Like picking cherries.” She mimicked plucking fruit from a high branch and dropping it into an invisible bag.

The scuzzy guys were almost back on her side, so she pulled out her newest piece of slang. “You know what I mean, right?
Sin vergüenza
!”

Hearing a woman use that phrase, in correct context, nailed it. They burst out laughing. She was proud of herself for using that idiom. She’d heard Ovidio use it earlier, and guessed that it’d meant something like “without shame”. From his delivery she guessed that it had a manly connotation, a show of bravura, perfect confidence.

“I like this one,” said Lalo, “she has
bronca
.” They toasted her.

The four grew more relaxed. Lalo finally answered the question. “Of course I steal,” said Lalo. He pointed to his friends. “Just like him, and him, and him, and you. No one here is a saint.”

“I heard Ovidio caught you,” Ainsley said.

“No, that
hija de puta
Nadia caught me,” he corrected her. “Ovidio didn’t care.”

“What about necklaces? Did you ever steal one of those?”

Another aggressive comment. She watched the four men’s eyes. They glanced at one another. So much for just three people knowing about the stolen necklace, Ainsley thought. This was feeling more and more like an open secret.

Lalo grew serious. “Do you know what you’re talking about?”

“Not really,” she lied, “but I figured you might.”

“How did you find out?”

“It’s my secret,” replied Ainsley.

“You’re a good journalist,” he said. “But I need to tell you something. I would never steal something like that. Especially not from Ovidio. I
want
him to play, I
want
him to succeed. Because when he succeeds, I succeed. You can publish that in your fucking magazine.”

“We’re off the record. Nobody knows about the necklace.”

He made a
pfffft
sound. “Everything gets out when a
boluda
like you finds out.”

“The secret won’t get out. I promised.”

“A promise is nothing,” he said. “I promise things every day. Here, watch.” Lalo cleared his throat and faced Ainsley like a dutiful soldier. “I promise you that I won’t try to fuck you tonight.”

He assumed a look of absolute sincerity. His three buddies snickered. Ainsley realized that their mood had changed again, that there was some unseen game they were playing with her. She wondered how she could stay ahead of that.

These guys didn’t even care that she was supposed to be a journalist. Maybe that made her even more of a mark. Maybe female journalists in Argentina were known as easy lays.

Regardless, Nadia had been totally right. Ovidio’s friends were lowlifes.

“You won’t keep that promise,” she said.

“I will,” he said. “It’s my promise.”

Facundo suddenly appeared at her side, and she quietly applauded his timing. “I think you’ve had enough of these gentlemen. There is somebody else I want you to meet.”