“Ay, sí, of course. Weeth my pleasure,” the ex-husband replied. “But, please, how do you get my number to call?”
The guy may have been a bastard, chiseling asshole, but he was no i***t. He wasn’t about to set up an appointment with a stranger over the phone, as he had a court date pending in the next twenty-four hours. I was prepared for him, though. “I met a lady at Macy’s the other day, at the perfume counter. She was with some friends. She was showing some photos to them. I looked over and saw them, and we got to talking. She said you had taken them last Christmas. The photos were beautiful, just beautiful. I asked her for your name. You’re a true artist.”
I hoped the flattery would be enough to convince Santiago that this was not a setup and I was a real customer, but the guy wasn’t
