Chapter 59
VICKY IS NOT GLAD to see me.
“So. You’re still working for them,” she says as she hugs me.
How did she know? I took great pains to show up tonight looking the way I used to. I’m wearing a real dress and real strappy heels I ordered on the internet and holding a leather bag instead of one that carries diapers. I thought I had left all the vestiges of nanny-me behind.
“It’s your hair,” Vicky says. Of course. It’s still gray. There are many women who look spectacular with this color, like elegant silver foxes. Vicky is one of them. Alas, I am not.
“I was wondering when you were going to come out of hiding,” she says after the waiter brings our drinks. “But I guess you haven’t yet.”
“Well, it’s complicated,” I say. We’re in a tiny family-run Mexican restaurant, La Abuela, known for its frozen raspberry margaritas.
I must say, it feels good to be slurping one down.
Except for the occasional beer and the champagne last Saturday night, it’s the first real drink I’ve had in a month. Nice and cold. Almost as cold as Vicky.
Her frosty attitude makes me reluctant to go into details. But it’s all too much to deal with on my own. I’ve already broken FBI protocol by telling Vicky about my assignment. Might as well tell her the rest of it.
Where to begin? I take a deep breath, then bring her up to speed on pretty much everything. Starting with Metcalf and going all the way to Luis and Carlos and the mysterious guy with the ponytail. Great lesson I learn the moment the words are out: Once you ring a bell, you can’t unring it.
“Listen, Vicky, I know you’re pissed I’m still there,” I say.
She shakes her head no. A couple of loose strands of hair fly out and frame her face.
“Pissed doesn’t even begin to describe it,” she says. “I love you and I’m worried about you. That guy has you so turned around—”
“You mean Metcalf?”
“No. The Easter Bunny. Of course I mean Metcalf. He doesn’t have your best interests at heart. He’s using you, and you’re getting in too deep.” She dips a corn chip into some guacamole and pops it into her mouth. “I just don’t like this,” she says, making a face.
A tiny part of me hopes she’s talking about the guac. The rest of me knows the truth.
“Admit it,” she says. “You’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“Then you’re stupid.”
“Okay. Let’s go with scared.”
“You’ve got the cartel crawling up your ass—”
“What? That’s not true!”
“Don’t kid yourself. They’re onto you.”
“They are not!” I say. Are they? Maybe she’s right. I try not to panic. “So what do you suggest I do?”
“Leave,” she says, her mouth full of more chips, more guac. “Walk away. Tonight.”
“From the Harrisons?”
“From the Harrisons, from Metcalf, from all of them. Hey, here’s a thought.
” She leans in. Her gorgeous green eyes are sparkling even more than the diamond pendant necklace she’s wearing, a gift from her second husband.
“Let’s go away somewhere, just the two of us. Remember when we went to St. Croix?”
“Vic, that was twenty years ago.”
“We had such a great time. That’s what you need now—a great time. Someplace warm. A resort! Pilates lessons on the beach, salsa dancing at night… what do you think?”
“I think it’s a great idea,” I say. She smiles. A smile that quickly disappears when I add, “But not yet.”
“Oh, fine!” she says with a swoop of her hand that almost knocks over her margarita. “Let’s just order.”
“Another round?” I say, slurping the last of my drink.
“Nope. Just dinner.”
“Are you pressed for time?” I ask.
“No. But your ponytailed stalker might show up any minute now to rub you out. Rub both of us out. Frankly, I prefer to die of natural causes.”
“Oh, Vicky,” I say as I signal the waiter. “You always were such a princess.”