“Well, you do have a point.”
We fell silent. The
“Are you here to see Maria?” I asked.
Jesse shook his head. “We decided to cool it. Tio Taco’s always lurking in corners these days.”
As if on cue, Frank entered the gallery with Antonio Ibarra in tow. Tony was one of the entourage, a scrawny, pale-skinned man who had recently emigrated from Bogota, Colombia, with his teenaged bride. Officially his position at the museum was education director-a farce, since he was not too bright and had at best an indifferent command of the English language.
Tony’s real function was as Frank’s whipping boy. Our director ordered him around, sent him on unimportant errands, and referred to him in his hearing as “my stupid Colombian.”‘ Tony, on the other hand, acted as if he thought Frank’s abusive behavior merely amusing and had adopted toward the rest of us an attitude of hauteur that bordered on the ridiculous. Fortunately, one of the volunteers had handled the educational materials before Tony’s arrival and had merely continued to do so after he was hired.
Frank nodded distantly to me, glared at Jesse, and continued through the gallery. Tony smirked at us both and followed with his peculiar, slouching gait. I waited until they were out of hearing, then said, “Why does the term ‘lounge lizard’ come to mind?”
“Tony, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Because he looks like a lizard and he’s always lounging around.”
“Trust you to explain it.” I glanced after the two men. “I’d better get back to my desk, see what disaster has befallen us in my absence.”
“Sure. Say hi to Maria for me.” Jesse turned back to the
Actually, we didn’t need a disaster to befall us; my desk was one. The in-box was piled perilously high. Orange press kits were stacked in one corner, and some had toppled over onto the Peruvian rug. Lists were taped to every surface of the lamp. The phone was missing. I frowned, looking for it, then remembered I’d put it into the bottom drawer in a rage two hours before. I pulled it out so I could begin returning the calls that had come in during my half-hour absence.
The office was hot. I went to the barred window that overlooked the lawn and pushed up the old-fashioned latch, but before I could open the window, the loose latch fell back into place, pinching my fingers. I swore softly and moved the latch again, this time holding it until I swung the heavy panes outward. The move and, now, our opening festivities were making me short-tempered and somewhat accident-prone. When things were quiet again, I’d have to try to take it easier.
There was no point in becoming a nervous wreck over my job.
When my phone calls were done, I picked up my list of things to check with Frank and went out to Maria’s desk. A delicate girl with straight black hair that fell to her waist, she was hunched over the typewriter, one hand pressed to her forehead.
“Maria? Do you have a headache too?”
She looked up, eyes full of tears. “No.” Her lower lip pushed out in a pout.
“What’s wrong?” Maria’s life was a continual series of crises-perhaps because she was so intensely self- centered. She was a good enough secretary, but there were times when I found her humorless self-absorption very tiring.
“My uncle-he is making me go to the Cinco de Mayo party with Robert.”
El Cinco de Mayo-May fifth-marks the day in 1862 when the Mexican army defeated the invading French forces at the town of Puebla, near Veracruz. The victory was accomplished against incredibly high odds, and the would-be conquerors were driven back to Vera Cruz and the sea. The holiday has taken on special significance for Mexican- Americans, becoming a symbol of their growing cultural awareness and pride, and for that reason we had scheduled our opening gala for the night of May fifth, only three days from now.
I said, “Well, Maria, Robert’s nothing to cry over. Didn’t you say he usually drinks too much and falls asleep when you and Frank and your aunt double-date?”
She nodded.
“Maybe he’ll do that at the party-too much tequila. Then you can dance with Jesse.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Robert will fall asleep, yes. But my uncle, he never sleeps.”
It was true. I could think of no additional words of comfort. “Where is your uncle, by the way?”
She gestured disgustedly toward Frank’s office. “Outside in the garden. The nursery, they delivered some more bushes. He is planting them.”
I went into the office and looked out through the window. Beyond its heavy wrought-iron bars was a small courtyard enclosed by an eight-foot-high whitewashed wall. A flagstone path led from the courtyard down the side of the building to the parking lot, where it ended at an ornate gate that matched the style of the window bars. Frank squatted in the center of the courtyard, laboring over a large azalea plant. He was wiring it to a shiny green stake. The plants-I could count seven of them-must have cost a fortune. Even the stakes looked expensive, painted rather than the usual rough wood variety. I wondered if our board of directors had approved the purchase.
Maria came in and stood beside me. She watched Frank a moment, then let out her breath in an angry hiss.
“I don’t think I’ll bother him right now,” I said. “He seems… contented.”
“He is the only one.” Maria turned and started out.
At the door we came face to face with Vic Leary, the museum’s business manager. A big, ugly, sad-faced man, he was the only member of Frank’s Mafia that I liked. Perhaps it was his air of indefinable sorrow, or perhaps his fiftyish, fatherly concern toward the female staff members and volunteers-whatever, I felt curiously drawn to him. Vic looked from me to Maria and back again.
“Where’s Frank?” he asked.
I motioned toward the window.
Vic went up and peered out. “He’ll give himself sunstroke, working out there at midday.”‘ Vic had been with Frank in his various ventures for more than twenty years, and he was as protective of him as he was of the museum’s women. “We’d better tell him to get in here.”
“Oh, come on, Vic. He’s happy out there. And it keeps him from.getting underfoot,” I said.
Vic grinned, his homely face twisting. “He’s been underfoot a lot lately, hasn’t he?”
“Like a little kid with a brand-new house to play in.”
“Well, we’re going to have to disturb him. And you, too.”
“Why?”
“Go out to the parking lot. You’ll see. There’s a surprise.” Vic didn’t look too happy about it.
“Pleasant or unpleasant?”
He hesitated. “Depends on your point of view. You’ll see. Go ahead. I’ll get Frank.”
I hurried out to the parking lot, Maria following. There by the loading dock stood a flatbed truck. A ten-foot-high wooden crate was braced in its bed, and a scruffy-looking man, presumably the driver, was prying the crate open. I went around to the other side of the truck where Jesse and Tony Ibarra stood. Isabel Cunningham, a member of our board of directors and our most active volunteer, was up in the flatbed, directing the uncrating.
He shrugged. “Isabel has a surprise for you.”
I glanced up at the board member. Isabel was a descendant of one of the old Spanish land-grant families who had controlled a huge rancho east of Santa Barbara in the nineteenth century. She had married into one of the town’s wealthiest Anglo families, thus adding to her own considerable fortune. In the immaculate white tennis dress that was her standard daytime garb, her gray hair perfectly coiffed, she presented a strange contrast to the driver. Isabel was not a woman you expected to find in the bed of a truck.
Frank and Vic came up and joined us.
“What’s happening?” Vic echoed.
This time Jesse, Tony, Maria, and I all shrugged.
There was a sound of wood splintering. The driver dropped his crowbar and eased the front of the crate down.
