black limo, which idled at the curb. I couldn’t make out anything behind the heavily tinted windows. I knocked on the driver’s side window. Nothing. I rapped more insistently, bruising my knuckles. The window buzzed down a bare inch. I craned my neck, trying to see inside, but could make out only the dull gleam of expensive leather, a dashboard with enough electronics to pilot the space shuttle, and a sliver of profile topped by a chauffeur’s cap. Music played so softly I couldn’t identify it, and a hint of cigar smoke so expensive it didn’t make me retch drifted out.
“Yes?” The voice was heavily accented, discouraging.
“I’m looking for Rafael Acosta,” I said. “Is he with you? In there?” Boy, that was lame.
Apparently, the driver thought so, too, because the window purred up again and the car moved forward slightly, forcing me back. As there was a steady stream of traffic behind me, stepping back posed life-threatening problems.
“Hey, just give me a minute,” I yelled at the car, trying to inch down its length and reach the safety of the sidewalk.
As nonresponsive as a shark, it nosed its way into traffic, pushing me aside. An Escalade blasted past, almost scraping my behind. That was too close for comfort-my rear end was one of my greatest assets on a dance floor, especially for Latin numbers that required a lot of hip rotation, what nondancers thought of as “booty shaking.” I teetered backward on my heels and windmilled my arms, knowing that if I fell, no one would even hit the brakes when their tires thumped over my body. D.C. drivers during rush hour wouldn’t slow down for the president or a volcanic eruption or an alien spaceship (as long as it didn’t land
I sucked in a deep breath and my arms trembled. Pebbles dug into my palms and I didn’t even want to look at my skirt. Two women emerged from the heavy glass doors of Spactacular, the day spa directly across from Graysin Motion. They had the dewy glow and gleaming nails that spoke of facials, massages, and a gossipy interchange while the manicurist toiled. They both noted me from the corners of their eyes, the look city dwellers have perfected to avoid eye contact with homeless people, and one whispered to the other, “Probably drunk.”
“What
Instinctively, I put a hand to the gaping neckline of my gown and struggled to my feet. A horn blared two inches behind me and I jumped. A soccer mommish woman in a green van was making shooing gestures. She wanted the parking spot. Her bumper nudged my thigh. The hell with her. I slammed my palm down hard on the van’s hood and leaped to the sidewalk. Stalking to the corner, my knees throbbing, I crossed at the light. The woman was still backing and cutting in, trying to parallel park. I waved at her in apology as I started up the stairs to Graysin Motion and she gave me the finger.
Damn, my knees hurt. I struggled up the stairs and hobbled to my office. Plopping into the chair, I hiked my skirt up.
“I don’t know where you think we’re lunching, but you’re waaay overdressed for the Falafel Hut.”
I looked up with a smile. My sister, Danielle, slouched in the doorway. About my height, she’s thin where I’m curvy and practical when I’m occasionally-witness the limo incident-a tad impulsive. She has a long, narrow face and straight brows that give her a serious look she says is a real asset in negotiations. She’s a union organizer for service and clerical workers. I don’t know what she does, exactly, except she disappears for a week or two now and then to participate in a strike and she gets a lot of satisfaction from helping wronged secretaries get back at harassing bosses. You’d think her head of flaming red curls-from Mom’s side of the family-would mean she has a temper, but she’s the calmest person I know.
“Come on down while I change,” I said, pushing to my feet.
She backed into the hall as I shuffled to the door. “What? Did you add judo throws to your class today? And I’ve heard of people paying obscene sums for ‘distressed’ jeans, but I didn’t know the trend had extended to ball gowns.”
“Since when are you a fashion critic?” I asked. Dani had the dullest collection of beige, navy, and gray suits ever assembled in a single closet. With shoes to match. She called her wardrobe “nonthreatening” and said it helped her connect with the pink- and blue-collar workers she represented. I’d rather starve on the street than wear beige. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we’re related.
Just as I reached the hall, the door leading to the exterior stairs swung open. Mark Downey stepped in, his sandy hair tousled, a grin on his face. A couple years younger than me, Mark did something with computers and danced on the side. He paid me a handsome fee to dance with him at professional-amateur competitions-common practice in the competitive ballroom world; in fact, it’s how most pros made the bulk of their money.
“Stacy! Just the person I was hoping to see,” he said. Two strides brought him to where I stood and he bent to kiss my cheek. I introduced him to Dani and they shook hands.
“Did we have a practice scheduled?” I wrinkled my brow, sure it hadn’t been on my calendar. His buttondown shirt and khaki slacks didn’t suggest he was here to dance.
“No. I was just in the area and thought I’d take you to lunch. You, too,” he said, politely extending the invitation to Dani.
“That’s sweet of you, Mark,” I said, “but Dani and I have plans. Maybe another time?”
“Sure.” He took the rebuff easily. “I’ve got a few errands to run anyway. See you at class tonight?”
“Probably.” Rafe was scheduled to teach, but I usually poked my head in.
“Great. See you then. Nice meeting you, Danielle,” he said. With a flip of his hand he disappeared out the door. I could hear him clomping down the stairs.
“He’s got a thing for you,” Dani observed slyly.
“He’s a kid,” I said. “And he’s got a girlfriend. She’s come to watch us in competitions once or twice.”
“Still. You could do worse. He’s cute if you like the boy-next-door type. Beaver Cleaver or Richie Cunningham all grown up.”
I didn’t answer since we both knew my taste ran more to an edgy, dangerous, heartbreaking Rafe Acosta type.
We headed down the hall that ran the length of the house to a door marked PRIVATE. As we descended the interior stairs to my living quarters, I told Dani about Rafe’s strange behavior and about my run-in with the limo.
“What’d they say before they ran you down?” Danielle asked as we emerged into my sun-drenched kitchen.
Although I loved the natural light, it did tend to spotlight the worn areas in the lichen-colored linoleum that was probably laid down before the Iron Curtain went up, and the stained grout on the turquoise tiled counters, remnants of an unfortunate redecorating effort in the 1960s. As soon as I had any money to spare, I was redoing the kitchen. “Zilch.”
“Have you considered the possibility this was just some poor chauffeur waiting for his employer to finish at the day spa? He probably thought you were a celebrity stalker or something.”
I ducked into my bedroom to change, but left the door open so I could hear Dani.
“It wasn’t a celebrity,” I called, shucking off my ruined dress and reaching for a pair of green capris. “The car had diplomat plates.” I hadn’t learned much from my confrontation with the limo, but I had noticed the license plate as it sped away; the familiar blue and white bore the country code “PR.” I didn’t know what country that was offhand, but I could Google it later.
