Spying in High Heels

as Mama shoveled a second helping onto my plate.

“I like to see a girl eat,” Mama said with approval as I dug in. “So many of these young girls are too skinny. Not like you. You got some meat on you.”

I paused, forkful of empanada halfway to my mouth. Maybe I should have quit at two. “Thanks,” I answered uncertainly.

“Of course, my Jackie, he likes a woman with some curves.”

Jackie? Too cute. I looked across the table at Ramirez, eating mole enchiladas with one hand while jiggling a toddler in bright pink ruffles on his knee.

“Can I ask you a question, Mrs. Ramirez?”

“Call me Mama. Everyone calls me Mama.”

“Okay…” I hesitated. “Mama.” I felt funny calling someone else’s mother “Mama.” Especially if that someone’s mother was under the false impression I was dating her son. But I couldn’t very well tell her I was tailing him around now that I’d eaten her homemade empanadas. Ramirez had me over a barrel and by the way he kept glancing across the table and flashing that dimple at me, I think he knew it too.

“What do you want to know, dear?”

“What does fregadita mean?” I asked.

Mama looked thoughtful for a moment. “It means little pain in the back side. Why?”

I resisted the urge to toss an empanada at Ramirez while he was holding a child. “No reason,” I said instead.

“It’s such a nice night. I’m glad Jackie could make it. You know, the weather man, he say it was going to rain.”

“It never rains in L.A.”

“That’s what I said. But that newscaster, he say rain. I knew he was wrong. Mama knows.” She nodded sagely at me and I couldn’t help but start to like her.

After we’d been fully stuffed with Mexican sweet breads, cinnamon rolls, and sugar cookies with little green sprinkles on top, the guitar slingers tuned up their instruments and began playing a slow, soft rhythm. It was soothing and, along with the two servings of spicy food settling in my belly, left me feeling full and content. Dare I say, almost peaceful?

A state which ended with a jolt as I felt a warm hand land on the small of my back.

Ramirez leaned down and whispered, “Let’s dance.”

I thought about protesting as he grabbed my hand and led me to the lawn where Clint and his wife were already swaying to the music. But then again, he was a cop and it didn’t seem wise to tick him off. (It had nothing to do with the way his deep voice so close to my ear produced animal sex visions again. I swear!)

Ramirez slung one arm casually around my waist, taking my right hand in his as we moved in slow time with the music. He was surprisingly graceful on his feet, moving almost like I’d imagine that long, sleek panther on his arm would. Dancing with him suddenly made me feel like Ginger Rogers. It was nice.

A little too nice. And, I noticed as that familiar heat began to pool somewhere south of my belly button, a little too intimate. A little too easy to get used to.

I cleared my throat, trying to come up with some mundane conversation to cool the heat wave flooding my body.

“So, uh, your sister has an unusual name. Why BillieJo?”

Ramirez smiled. “What, you think all Hispanic people should be named Jose or Maria?”

At the risk of being lumped in with grand dragons in white sheets, I resisted the urge to point out that there were, in fact, a Jose and Maria in attendance. “No, no, I didn’t mean that at all. It’s, just, well, BillieJo isn’t a name you hear everyday in L.A. Maybe in the south. Or Texas. Or someplace, um, more cowboyish.” Then I remembered the dozing man in the cowboy hat. “Not that there aren’t Hispanic cowboys. I mean, I’m sure there are some Hispanic cowboys. It’s just, they aren’t named BillieJo. Well, except your sister. Who is clearly not a cowboy.” I was dying here.

“Relax,” he said, pulling me just a smidgen closer to him. “I’m just yanking your chain.”

“Oh.” I pretended I didn’t notice the hormone signals my stupid body started flashing me as his hips touched mine. Didn’t my body know this was a totally inappropriate time to be thinking of jumping some guy’s bones?

Ramirez seemed unaware. Or maybe just a little too used to dancing with girls in hookerware.

“BillieJo,” he continued, “is a character on Petticoat Junction. Bart’s from Maverick. Marshall, well every TV western has a Marshal. See a trend? When Mom and Dad moved here from Mexico in the sixties, Mom learned to speak English by watching those western shows on TV. She became a little attached to them.”

“How’d you escape it?”

He flashed his white teeth at me. “Jackson Wyoming Ramirez.”

“Ouch.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So, what was it like growing up with so many siblings?”

“Crowded.” He smiled. “I think I was fifteen before my mom finally stopped dressing me in hand-me- downs.”

“You poor thing,” I answered, appropriately horrified.

He laughed. One of those real person laughs, not the smirky cop ones I’d gotten to know so well. Again I had a little talk with my body about those hormone signals.

“No pity, please, Miss Fashion Designer. Having older brothers had some advantages too. There was always a stack of Playboy’s under the mattress.”

“I should have known you were one of those boys.”

“Those boys?”

“I bet you looked up girls’ skirts in class too.”

The wicked twinkle in his eyes answered that question clearly enough.

“What about you? Something tells me you were no angel, Miss Girly Girl.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“You strike me as the kind of girl who took her own peek in the boy’s locker room now and then.”

“It’s the clothes. The spandex gives the wrong impression.”

“Uh huh.” He didn’t believe that anymore than he believed I’d go home and knit after this.

“So,” I said, clearly changing the subject. “I think BillieJo doesn’t like me much.” I glanced across the lawn to find her still glaring, her arms crossed over her ample chest.

“She’s just a little overprotective.”

“Older sister syndrome?”

“Younger. By two years. She’s the baby of the family, always following me and my friends around when we were young.”

“Hmm. I bet she was a real fregadita.” I let the word roll slowly off my tongue.

Ramirez’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You’ve been talking to Mama?”

“Uh huh. Pain in the ass, huh?”

“Relax. You’re a cute little pain in the ass.” He winked at me and I was rendered momentarily speechless.

“What about you,” he asked. “Any annoying little sisters?”

Clearing my throat, I willed myself to get a grasp on the hormone thing. “No I’m an only child. It’s just been my mom and me growing up. Though she’s getting married soon, so I guess our family’s growing a little. Nothing like this, though.” I gestured to the lawn, now full of adults and children alike. The cowboy was dozing again, this time leaning his folding chair against the sliding glass doors, his hat pulled low over his eyes. Mama was swaying her round body in time with the music, a contented smile on her face as she watched her children dance.

“Well, anytime you want to borrow a family for awhile, you’re welcome to mine. Though, you might want to leave the hooker clothes at home next time.” He winked, that smirk returning.

“Thanks for the tip, wise guy.”

But the comment pulled me out of my empanada and guitar music stupor just enough to remember why I was dressed like a Pretty Woman. To remember the unreal events of my evening thus far, and the five million loose ends of my life.