Sister of a Sinner Page 6

  Junior jumped to volunteer his SUV again, but Xochi shook her head. “Even worse. I always take a taxi there and back again. I don’t want to be responsible for any damage to your vehicles—or for their loss.”

  They piled into the cab she summoned, he and Connor crammed uncomfortably close in the back, their knees nearly touching because of Junior’s size. Xo, not playing favorites, rode with the driver who gallantly handed her out under the neon sign of the tipsy margarita and kissed the back of her fingers.

  “Gracias, Diego. One of my regular drivers,” she explained. “I tip very well.”

  Tom and Alix stood waiting in front of the blacked-out windows of the dance club like two tall white candles in a dark cathedral. With his usual fashion sense, Tom sported an orange shirt close to the shade of his hair, but much more brilliant. Alix wore a pale blue dress with cap sleeves and a flared skirt that came just to her knees. It might have fit in well at a high school dance, but her endless legs made up for a lack of sophistication. Both seemed relaxed, oblivious to the neighborhood, but Connor peered around as if waiting to be mugged at any minute in his white dress shirt, khakis, and a Rolex watch. Serve the fool right if someone ripped it off his wrist. Junior had considered his wardrobe carefully and gone with a short-sleeved shirt of deep purple, slightly fitted, collar open a few buttons to expose a few tight curls of chest hair and a single gold chain he defied anyone to take, flaunting his new look and a new attitude.

  Xochi outshone them all in a sleeveless gown with a deep scooped neck that showed her assets, its dark green bodice hugging her body to just below the waist where it exploded into layers of multicolored ruffles that ended above her knees—Junior’s flower, his blossom despite the unsettling snake bracelet that coiled up one arm and winked at him with ruby eyes. She tossed the black waves of her long hair over her shoulders, and the large gold hoops in her ears caught the light from the neon sign. On red Cuban heels meant for serious dancing, Xo led the way into the club.

  Ah Paco’s, home of the giant margarita, sweet daiquiris churning in drums behind the bar, tequila shots, and six varieties Mexican beer to cool the customers who danced with abandon in the courtyard beyond its dim interior. The Latin music thrummed like jungle insects on a tropical night. Barely inside the door, the puny brown manager pounced on Xo and greeted her with a huge hug. “So good to see you, Senorita Xochi. We been missing you.”

  “Well, I’m back, and I’ve brought a few friends.”

  He peered over her shoulder and retreated. “No, no, not him. You, pelirrojo, you and your big shot friend almost start a fight last time you here. Then, he return another night and bust up my place. Go away!” His shaking finger pointed to Tom who held up his hands.

  “Hey, Paco, I’m the guy who stopped the fight by ordering drinks for everyone in the house, remember? Dean isn’t with us tonight—but he paid for the damages. I see you have all new tables and chairs.”

  “How many times I got to say there is no Paco. I am Juan. Out, out, but the pretty blonde, she can stay.” The manager made up for his bantam size with the attitude of a fighting cock.

  Xochi laid a calming hand on Juan’s chicken wing of an arm. “I’ll be responsible for their behavior.”

  “Even that one?” The manager’s judgmental finger turned on Junior. “He is one of those futbol players. I can tell. A giant. He goes loco, who gonna throw him out?”

  “Junior is harmless, I swear.” Xochi beseeched the manager with her big brown eyes, the dark lashes beneath smoky lids fluttering.

  Harmless? Despite all his efforts to banish his little boy face, she still considered him harmless. Junior felt an urge to start a bar fight simply to prove he wasn’t, but Juan waved them through the dim barroom. “Okay, but I be watching you and you.” The finger forked over his eyes and then moved from Tom to Junior and back again. Evidently, Connor presented no threat—except for coming between Xo and Junior.

  Bumping their heads on the festoons of piñatas—some whole, some battered—hanging from the ceiling that appeared to be Paco’s only decorations, the four tall friends followed Xo’s more compact body toward the courtyard. Junior walked into a black and red piece of papier-mâché with a few straggling streamers on both ends occupying an archway.

  As he pushed it aside, Tom leaned in to say, “That Sinners’ football piñata started the riot. It’s legendary. First, Dean busts it wide open and people start turning over tables to get at the cheap junk. Then, Dean decides to pay for it all by throwing hundred dollar bills in the air.”

  “Not a good idea.”

  “He was stinking drunk. That’s what happens when he doesn’t have his wingman along, only I guess Stacy is his wing woman now.”

  “Hey, you have your own wing woman. We might as well dance. I don’t see a free table anywhere.” Alix wedged her way toward the dance floor.

  “Good idea. Let’s do some salsa, my honey.”

  In seconds, their long white arms waved above the crush of shorter, browner dancers, though what style the couple embraced no one could tell. Somehow, they’d lost Xochi in the crowd. Junior loomed next to Connor as if he were the man’s bodyguard. Though the doctor had more black blood in his mix than Junior, he stood there as uncomfortable as a white boy on a very dark Treme street corner with his valuable surgeon’s hands thrust into the pockets of his khakis and that expensive watch exposed. Dumbass.

  Connor smiled with relief when Xochi’s firm brown arms waved above the masses to summon them to a table already occupied by a tall, skinny, almost flat-chested woman with magenta streaks highlighting her drab brown hair. She had bold features and wore bolder makeup to hide them. Her lips, also magenta, parted. “About time you got here. I nearly had to lay across the top and spread my legs to save this much space. I’ve been slapping hands that tried to snitch the chairs for half an hour.”

  Xochi made the introductions. “This is my friend, Rachelle. I was hoping a few more would join us.”

  “Ya know, Isabella got that baby now. She doesn’t get out much anymore. Donata married a guy who hates dancing, go figure.” Rachelle cracked her gum in disgust. “You and me are the last of our group left standing, Xo.”

  Not if Junior had his way. He started to ask for a dance, but a slithery Hispanic guy, lithe and sole-eyed, came up behind and grasped Xo around the waist. “Ah, mi chica muy bonita. Where you been girl?”

  “Mostly working.”

  “Lots of interpreting at the cop shop, huh, probably at night.”

  “Sometimes. Connor, Junior, meet Angel, one of my best partners.”

  Angel grasped Connor’s slim fingers for a moment and offered Junior a limp handshake. “Dios mio, this one is jumbo-sized. All over?” he inquired of Xochi, his eyebrows raised.

  “Both are old family friends, so crawl out of the gutter and let’s dance.” That quickly with Angel’s arm still claiming her waist, she merged with the throng.

  “Either of you guys want to?” asked Rachelle.

  Connor immediately assumed a seat as if he’d gotten into the last lifeboat on the Titanic and had no intention of giving it up for woman or child. “I’ll pay for the first round if you can break through to the bar and get it, Junior.” A fifty-dollar bill appeared from his pocket. “Get a Corona for me. Anything the ladies want.”

  “I’ll go with the giant margarita. I always do. Get Xo a strawberry daiquiri, and try to be back for the show. Once she and Angel get going, they clear the floor. I’m not so bad myself,” Rachelle hinted broadly.

  “I’ll fetch the drinks.” The crowd parted before Junior’s greater mass. Though he tried to find a line, a push and shove protocol appeared to be in effect. He envisioned himself slicing through the Falcon’s line and arrived before the bar in no time. Remembering Tom and Alix, he added another Corona and daiquiri to the order, and asked for the Negra Modelo for himself. He knew something about Mexican beers and disdained any with a lime stuck in the neck. The bartender approved and offered to have a waitres
s bring the drinks to their table. Junior declined. He accepted a round tray and balanced it expertly on his blunt fingertips. Again, the crowd parted for him.

  Tom and Alix sat sweating at their table. Though the May night was warm, more of the heat came from their exertions and the many bodies that packed Paco’s. Alix sipped her sweet drink, but Tom downed his Corona so fast Junior feared he’d swallow the lime. Oh well, that would give Dr. Bullock a chance to do a Heimlich and be a hero. He couldn’t let that happen. “Take it easy, Tom. That’s not the last Corona on earth. I thought you’d still be dancing.”

  “Xochi and Angel are out there stealing the show.”

  Indeed, they were with back bends and magnificent twirls. Their heights were well matched, their rhythm in perfect sync. If only he’d gotten Xo to dance with him first. He should be the one rubbing against her behind not some… His jealousy must have shown on his face because Rachelle gave his hand a sympathetic pat.

  “Don’t worry, big guy. Angel is gay. Stacy once paid him to make Dean jealous, but Dean figured it out. Think you can keep up with him on the dance floor? Maybe we could make Xochi green with envy?”

  Junior stood and offered his hand to this less than attractive lady. Rachelle accepted. “You light on your feet, because there ain’t nothing junior-sized about you? I don’t want a broken toe. Junior, why do they call you that anyhow? Some kind of joke?”

  He replied as they pushed through the ring of folks watching Xo and Angel dance. “Named after my father, Knox Polk.”

  “Knocks, that fits you better than Junior. I bet you knock men around on the football field.”

  “No, like Fort Knox.”

  “You rich?” Rachelle assumed the dance position facing him.

  “Not yet, but I will be. Ready?” He started with a fast side step, twirled her out and back at the end of it with such speed she seemed a little dizzy. Junior moved behind her and steadied his partner with his two big hands that spanned her skinny waist. Hips swaying, they moved in time. A back bend, then a reverse putting Rachelle behind him.

  “Get set,” he cautioned. The music was winding to a stop, and he planned a spectacular ending. Hiking Rachelle up to his waist where she lightly clamped her long legs, he lifted her and somersaulted her over his shoulder. They ended with arms raised in the air. Applause broke out, whether for him and his partner, or for Xochi and Angel, he couldn’t tell as he’d been too busy showing his salsa chops to pay attention to the other pair on the floor.

  “Ay-yi-yi, has Dancing with the Stars come to Paco’s?” the bandleader raved. “We take a break now. More music in twenty.” He stepped down from the raised stage sheltered by a tin roof and illuminated by two towering palm trees twined in multicolored Christmas lights.

  Junior led Rachelle back to the table, held a chair for her, and took one for himself. Connor still sat there as if he were a part of the furnishings, his elbows resting on top of a painting of a Mexican peasant harvesting agave juice to make pulque, and sipping his Corona so slowly it might last all night, his eyes glued to an iPad.

  Rachelle took a mighty slurp of her gigantic margarita through a straw and waved her hands in front of Connor’s scholarly glasses. “Save me, Doc! I think I got a brain freeze.” He rewarded her with a faint smile just as chilly.

  “I see you just don’t get what we do here. Salsa dancing is great therapy. Let’s you go a little wild with no bad consequences. Consider Xochi, a real slut on the dance floor, and she never goes home with a guy. Now me, I do from time to time. Say, let me teach you a few moves when the band comes back. I swear it will loosen you up and take away your cares for a while.” She sucked hard into the stem of the margarita glass. “But then, so will alcohol. Who’s buying the next round?”

  “My pleasure.” This time Junior summoned the overworked and overweight waitress with the low-slung blouse and the tight black skirt to the table. “Same all around?”

  Connor shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  Xochi and Angel finally arrived after being waylaid by admirers at the end of their dance. When Angel started to place his slim but tightly clad butt into a chair, Junior said, “Sorry, that’s Tom’s spot, and the one next to him belongs to Alix.”

  “No problema, man.” He snatched a chair from the table behind them and wedged in next to Connor, who attempted to move a few inches, but that brought him in thigh contact with Rachelle, who winked as if he’d done it intentionally.

  Angel caught the eye of the waitress. “Angelita, a shot of tequila. Put it on Junior’s tab. For a big tip, I can drink it off her belly and so can you, doctor.” Connor didn’t bother to hide his distaste at the idea.

  Tom and Alix returned with a pizza platter sectioned by colorful strips of red and green peppers. “We got some of everything: tacos, loaded nachos, and quesadillas.” The group moved their drinks aside to accommodate the food. “Help yourselves.”

  Lifting a taco to his mouth, Angel did immediately. Rachelle selected a triangle of chicken quesadilla and nibbled. “I’d better eat something before I get too drunk and easy.” Her heavily outlined eyes full of invitation moved from Junior to Connor.

  “Ha, you’re always easy, Rachelle, not always drunk,” Angel taunted.

  “Shut up, pantywaist. You’re lucky to have someone to take care of you.”

  “Please, no bickering.” Xochi held up a hand. “For your rudeness, you will dance the next set with Rachelle—and Angel, give Connor back his watch.”

  “Just keeping in practice. I do sleight of hand as well as act and dance.” Angel removed Connor’s timepiece from an inner pocket in a black silk shirt open almost to his waist. It showed off his smooth, hairless tan chest, and lean muscles.

  “Good.” Xochi selected a nacho dripping cheese over a lump of hamburger and topped with a jalapeno slice. She ate it in two bites and reached for another.

  “I’d like to dance the next set with you, Xo.” Junior knew his yearning showed on his face, the one barbered to bring out his manliness.

  “Sorry, on our way over here at least eight men asked me to save one for them. I think I need a dance card.”

  “You always do,” sighed Rachelle. “But at least I know who my partner is for the next few. Unless the doc wants those lessons I offered.”

  “I was hoping you would do that, Xo.” Connor tried to shift his chair again but encountered Angel’s leg. Angel gave him a mocking come hither grin.

  Xo pretended to miss the byplay. “I’m all tied up for the night. Oh, you should Connor. Really, Rachelle is a great teacher, not that Junior needed instructions. Amazing. When did you learn to dance like that?”

  “I asked Dean to teach me a while back. He can’t, or won’t, do those lifts though. Might injure his shoulder or throwing arm. Maybe the Sinners put that in his contract.” He’d learned to dance for her, only for her. Didn’t Xochi understand that?

  “General clause about engaging in dangerous activities,” Tom answered. “We have them, too. We aren’t supposed to ski. That really pisses off Alix.”

  “No problem for me. I can toss any woman here over my shoulder.” He shouldn’t have spoken so loudly or so arrogantly. The women at the next table lined up to ask him to dance, but not Xo.

  “Who needs a dance card now?” Xochi’s rich laughter covered him like dark chocolate sauce. And that thought made his mind turn in dangerous directions. He reined in his rampant imagination and pleaded, “Would you save the last dance for me, Xo, please?”

  “Please say yes. I hate to see a grown man beg,” Tom quipped.

  “No need to beg. Of course, I’ll save the last dance for Junior.” Xochi finished her first daiquiri and let the second sit as the band warmed up again. The first of her long list of partners appeared, and she left the table on his arm.

  Drinking little and dancing much, both she and Junior passed the time until the hour neared two a.m. Connor unbent enough to learn a few steps from Rachelle and apply his lessons to Xochi when she worked him in
at the end of one song. Mostly, he appeared tired and bored. He checked his watch frequently, either to tell the time or to see if it was still on his wrist, and fooled around with the iPad he never let leave his hand. Finally, he asked Juan to call a cab. “Next time I have off, I want to take you to a special place I enjoy, Xo. Is that a date?”

  “Sure. Sorry you didn’t have a good time, Connor.”

  Angel’s caring older lover arrived to take him home well fed and tipsy on tequila shots. “Muchas gracias for watching over him, Xochi,” he said, pecking her cheek. Giving up on both Junior and Connor, Rachelle had departed around one with a man she met on her way back from the restroom and danced with twice.

  “I wish she wouldn’t do that. I worry about her,” Xochi said.

  “What, you can’t tell if he’s a bad guy with your magical powers,” Connor mocked. For lack of anything else to do, he’d consumed four Coronas.

  “His aura is brown, the color of deception, but that goes for lots of the men here who will tell a woman anything she wants to hear in order to score. However, as you should know, doctor, there are all sorts of diseases she could pick up, and when drunk, the risk of sloppy, unprotected sex that leads to pregnancy. I didn’t notice any sickness on the guy, but I don’t see the future.”

  “Yeah, sloppy unprotected sex, that’s how Dean got Beck, but he’s a great kid,” Tom added. “You ready to go, Legs?” he asked his wife.

  “If you are.” The couple departed while they still had the energy for safe marital sex.

  A man approached the table. To Junior, he looked like most of Xo’s many dance partners: brown, lean, slicked-back black hair. This one also sported a pencil thin mustache and three gold chains. “My turn,” he claimed.

  Xo shook her head. “No, I promised Martin Segura this dance.”

  “He went home early. We traded.”

  Xo answered him sharply, so unlike her. “No trades. Last dance, Junior.”

  He stood at her prompt, mountainous and muscular. Something wrong, but he didn’t know what. The band struck up the next number. They pushed past the stranger. Junior took his beloved in his arms and wondered if she felt the same warmth that suffused his body when they pressed together. Onlookers shouted, “Olé, Olé, Olé” at every pass they made across the floor as if he conquered his partner instead of cherished her.