Chapter 9
Scott looked at himself in the full-length mirror. Staring back at him was a man in a white linen jacket with a light blue shirt, no tie. Olive-colored pants and black loafers, no socks. A little bit Brooks Brothers, a little bit Miami Vice.
The Christmas party at Oceania kicked off as the sun began to set over the horizon.
Dozens of guests moved through the buffet line where hot tamales, tacos de pollo, roast lamb, and chilaquiles sat in steaming chafing dishes.
Waiters moved back and forth between tables with trays of salt-rimmed margaritas and pitchers of sangria.
The bartender with the handlebar mustache mixed drinks like he was Tom Cruise in Cocktail, pouring drinks behind his back, tossing bottles in the air, all while cracking jokes with the guests.
Upbeat Spanish Christmas music filled the room.
Couples smooched under a mistletoe at the entrance.
Guests watched the entrance to see how couples reacted.
Would they kiss or would one of them pull away?
Most ladies played to the crowd and kissed their boyfriends or husbands, but one woman had the crowd in stitches when she pulled away from her husband's puckered lips.
“Not now, George,” she said in a thick Chicago accent. “I just put on my lipstick.”
“Oh, c’mon, Barbara.”
She finally relented and kissed him. “I need a margarita,” she said. The room erupted in laughter.
Wreaths adorned the wooden beams, and a pi?ata in the shape of a donkey hung from the ceiling. A Christmas tree with silver garland and white lights sparkled in the corner. On the table next to the tree was a miniaturized Christmas town with a nativity scene.
Scott moved closer. The level of detail was amazing: a church filled with parishioners; townspeople shopping at a Christmas Market; a man fishing with a boy along a river; downstream from the fishermen, a miniaturized Satan with several slaughtered lambs by his feet.
The last one made Scott laugh. The way Mexicans interwove Christianity and indigenous folklore was pure art.
The sun went down and the party kicked into gear, music pumping, margaritas flowing, laughter everywhere. For a hotel taken over by the cartel, everything seemed festive and merry.
Chino, dressed as St. Nick, passed out candies to the children. If only Scott’s father were here. He never missed the Las Olas Christmas party.
Scott saddled up at the bar. “One margarita on the rocks with salt," he told the bartender.
Just then, the salsa band from the pool walked in, led by the brunette singer he now knew as Daniela.
Her smile somehow radiated even more at night as if it reflected the moon.
She wore a light blue sequined dress, silver hoop earrings, and matching bracelets.
The band setup in the middle of the restaurant and Daniela stepped up to the mic.
“Welcome everyone,” she said. “And Feliz Navidad! My name is Daniela and this is my band, Los Gatos!”
But a frown overtook her smile like a lunar eclipse overtaking the moon.
Scott quickly spotted the culprit. He was seated at the end of the bar, a few seats past Scott.
A long black ponytail ran down his back and a tattoo of a girl dancing on a pole ran down his neck.
A diamond earring poked through his nose.
A half empty bottle of tequila sat next to him on the bar. The message was clear: beware of dog.
“How about your number, baby?” the glossy eyed drunkard yelled as the singer continued to introduce her band.
Although few in the crowd spoke Spanish, the room sensed danger.
Conversations were reduced to a hush. The bouncer at the front door, a large man with a shaved head, approached the heckler with a nervous expression, then whispered in his ear.
But the young punk brushed him off, a rather bold move given the size of the bouncer.
“C’mon, Cristiano,” the bouncer pleaded. The bouncer had arms like logs and a thick neck. “You’ve had too much to drink. Let me take you home.” Cristiano drunkenly pushed him away.
The singer scowled at the ruckus as she struggled to keep the attention of the audience.
“Now we are going to start this party with one of our favorite songs in Mexico, and I think America too.” She turned toward her band.
“Hit it, amigos!” The band broke into the song Tequila but the attention of the room had shifted to Cristiano and the bouncer who was still pleading with him.
“Oh, I love that song, baby!” the drunkard yelled. “Let me take you home and pour tequila all over your body.” The singer kept smiling but her eyes darted back toward Cristiano. “Give me a chance,” Cristiano carried on, “I’ll make your dreams come true.”
The singer missed a few bars as she struggled to carry on. The heckler stood up. “C’mon baby, give it to me.” Scott shook his head. If this dog was trying to be smooth, he’d hate to see him being crude.
The drunk man blew the singer a kiss and took a long swig of the tequila, spilling some on the floor.
The singer wiped sweat from her forehead and seemed to forget the words to the song.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then smiled again and continued singing. She was going to get through the show.
But the cocaine cowboy wouldn’t let up. Still standing, Cristiano yelled out, “Put your tequila right here, baby!” He grabbed his groin.
Daniela stopped singing as the band kept playing. “Cristiano, leave now!” she yelled.
Apparently, Cristiano was not used to hearing the word ‘leave’ because he grabbed the tequila bottle on the bar and smashed it on the ground.
Chunks of glass spread across the floor like ice cubes as the band froze and the music stopped.
The singer’s expression was a mix of fear and anger, like she wanted to punch him but was afraid he might punch back.
“No woman talks to me like that!” Cristiano snarled as he stepped toward her.
Something surged inside Scott, like a river overflowing its banks. He took a long swig from his margarita, stood up and got in between Cristiano and the singer. “Can't you take a hint? She said to leave her alone."
Scott couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth.
The rest of the bar went silent like card players in a saloon when someone accuses the local gunslinger of cheating.
Cristiano slowly turned to Scott, staring at him like a rattlesnake.
"Do you know who you’re talking to, gringo? " he said through clenched teeth.
Scott took another drink of his tequila to steady his nerves, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “She said to leave her alone,” Scott said. “Is that so hard to understand?”
Cristiano took a step toward Scott, getting right up in his face. His breath stunk of tequila, cigarettes, and bad tacos. “You must be new here,” he said.
Just when Scott thought things were about to get worse, he heard Contessa’s voice. “I don’t want any trouble in my bar. No fighting, got it?” She walked in between the men, pushing them apart.
"Do you know who I am, lady?” Cristiano said.
“Everyone knows who you are, Cristiano, and we know who your dad is, too. He may run Acapulco but not this hotel.” Contessa stared down Cristiano like a lioness facing down a mad dog.
“C’mon, Cristiano, I’ll take you back to your room,” the bouncer said.
“Keep his ass here!” Cristiano screamed as he stumbled toward the door. “I’ll be back!” A few of Cristiano’s entourage followed him out. One of them tried to put his hand on Cristiano’s shoulder to steady him, but he slapped it away. “Get your fucking hands off me!”
The customers were slack-jawed and wide-eyed. A few laughed nervously. Was this part of the show?
“Don’t worry, everyone,” Contessa called out. “Free drinks for the next hour. Enjoy yourself. This is Christmas, after all.” Music began playing from the speakers.
The singer looked over at Scott, shook her head, and walked over to him. “Now you’ve done it, stranger.”
“Did what?” he said, suddenly struck by her beauty up-close. She smelled like the ocean.
“You just pissed off the cartel boss’s son.”
Scott closed his eyes and took another swig of his margarita. He felt for the stool behind him, glad it was there in case he fell over.