“Sounds like fun.”
“Yeah, the guys were hot, the money was awesome . . . at least on Friday and Saturday nights.” She sighed. “More fun than the medical profession, that’s for dang sure.”
My ears pricked. “What part? Are you a nurse or what?”
“Guess again.” Her voice was petulant, which I blamed on too many daiquiris.
“Let’s see. You’re an X-ray technician?”
“No.” She gave me a sly smile. “But I am on the technical side.”
“You’re a radiologist.”
“Close, but you won’t guess.” I turned around to respond, and she was standing right behind me, peering over my shoulder at the dining room. Great. All we needed was for her to cause a scene. Slowly I walked back to the bar and, thankfully, she followed.
I patted the barstool that she’d abandoned, hoping she’d take the hint. “You like to cook, so you must be a dietitian.”
She mimicked my actions by patting the barstool in front of her. “No. I work with pacemakers.”
The bartender waltzed right through the dining room, passing me on his way back to the bar. “Gracias, Jo Jo.”
“You’re welcome, but that’s Josie to you.”
He winked again and stepped behind the bar. Within a matter of seconds, he’d brought another round for the couple at the end of the bar, cleared Dani’s empty glass, made her another strawberry daiquiri, and settled in to watch the game.
“You’re a surgeon?”
“The look on your face is priceless.” Dani O’Neal climbed back on her barstool and slammed her hand down on the bar. “No, of course not. I work for a pacemaker manufacturer.”
Like the woman in front of me, I suddenly felt a bit off-kilter, as if the room had tipped a little to the right, and as if I too were slightly inebriated. What was the likelihood that Dani would have worked with Lucky Straw at Texas Power, competed against him in our chili cook-off, and worked with pacemakers? The odds were astronomical.
“Lucky wore a pacemaker,” I managed.
She screwed up her face. “That so?”
“Let’s get some food in you. You like jalapeños?”
“Ooh.”
I marched into the kitchen. “I need an order of jalapeño poppers.”
Carlos, our head cook, ignored me.
“What did I do now?” Though bad tempered on a regular basis, he usually acknowledged me when I called out food items needed for my tables.
“My sister says you didn’t invite her to dance folklórico with you.”
“Since when do you have a sister?”
He gave me a dark look. “Last year her father married my mother.”
How old is she? Did he mean a child? Did it matter? I could picture young girls and boys dancing with our troupe just as soon as I had a lobotomy. That was the only way for me to gain the patience needed to work with a large group consisting of women, men, boys, and girls. Once we added little girls, the rest would insist on joining as well.
“What if I give you Patti’s number instead?” I asked. Carlos had been itching to ask Patti out for a year now. And I could wheedle with the best of them.
His expression changed immediately from surly to surprised. “Oh yeah?”
“But be cool, don’t come on too strong. She’ll carve out your gizzard with her nails.”
“Come to Papa.”
“Ew.”
“Take the ones under the warmer.”
“I’ll give you the number tomorrow when I’m not so busy.”
“Put those back where you got them from.”
“Just kidding.” I pulled out my phone and read him the digits, which he scribbled on his arm with a felt-tip marker. I’d have to text Patti later to give her a warning.
I found Dani with her head propped on her arm, eyes closed. “Here.” I gave her shoulder a shake. “Eat these.”
With a big smile, I checked on my tables, handed them their checks, and helped Lily bus their dishes in preparation for those waiting.
While Senora Mari handed the next group of customers their menus and took their drink orders, I hurried back to Dani.
Eating the poppers gave her the semblance of being all there. “If you’re not a surgeon, what is your position? Do you work with the manufacturers?”
With great relish, she dipped one of the fried delicacies in ranch dressing. “Pacemaker and EKG tech at Vista Heart Institute.”
“And what does that mean?” I had to take care of those tables or lose their goodwill for the rest of their meal. “Hold that thought.”
With practiced alacrity, I recited the specials—Steak Ranchero, marinated skirt steak with shrimp and our creamy diablo sauce; and the Three Amigos, three four-ounce grilled chicken breasts with bacon, poblano peppers, Senora Mari’s special sauce, and jack cheese—both with rice and beans. Everyone was in the mood for the Three Amigos special, which made taking their orders a breeze.
I found Dani much more alert than when I left her. “How many brands of pacemakers are there?” While in the dining room, I’d thought of the perfect question to test her knowledge.
She shrugged. “I work with eight different manufacturers, but I can never remember all their names.”
I called my food order into the kitchen and prayed she’d let something slip that would prove her guilt. “What does a pacemaker EKG tech do?”
She wiped her mouth and managed to wipe her lipstick onto her chin. Dani O’Neal was feeling no pain. “I check in with patients . . . make sure they aren’t having any problems with their pacemakers after their surgery.”
I moved her plate with the last popper on it out of reach. “Yeah?”
She frowned. “I remind patients over the phone about their remote device checks.” She began to count off on her fingers. “I document data records to their electronic record—”
“Electronic records. Who has access to those?”
She pouted and pointed to her plate until I returned it. “Well, there’s the patient, me, the surgeon, my supervisor, the other pacemaker techs.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I don’t have access to the electronic records of every pacemaker in the world, only the ones implanted by doctors at my hospital. And then, only the patient records assigned to me.”
The rest of the night was a whirl of activity. When I returned to the
