Butterfly Stomp Waltz

Chapter 13

13

Appallingly pale and unhealthily thin, Dominic Jacka stands a couple inches taller than me. He’s in this slick white linen suit and silk shirt that cost more than my last-minute airfare, but he wears it like it’s an uncomfortable costume at a party where he’s someone’s plus one and he doesn’t know anyone and he’s the only white man in the room. His blue silk tie is tied badly and crookedly. I’ve seen Jacka dressed as everything from a homeless bum to a newly-minted billionaire, and he always has that air of help me, I’m lost about him. You’d think he was thirteen instead of thirty-whatever.

Jacka’s standing by the coffee shop near the clanking luggage turnstile disgorging the bags from my Madrid flight, holding a rectangle of cereal box cardboard saying JANE HELLMAN in big blocky marker. He’s mixed in amidst a bunch of bored drivers beneath the “táxi” sign. His weight shifts uneasily from foot to foot.

He’s turned that confused helpless thing into an art. Offer to help him and you might find yourself helping him into your company vault, or tugging at the handle of the knife stuck between your ribs, or wondering just how you’d gotten into this Third World interrogation chamber. Add that to this uncanny ability to drive or fly anything with an engine, and some things without, and he’s an asset.

Today he’s scanning the crowd like he’s looking for someone. His eyes pass over me without recognition.

If that’s the game, I can play elitist with the best of them.

I walked right up to him, affecting a tired but bored attitude. “Let’s go,” I say.

At the moment, Jacka speaks with just a hint of a Portugese accent. “Yes, ma’am.”

I let him take my carry-on rolley bag, then simultaneously ignore and follow him as he guides me to the parking deck. You never carry tools or weapons through a commercial airport; it’s just not worth the trouble these days. Unless we’re flying private and have an arrangement with the Customs officials, I always get my specialty equipment in-country.

He opens the rear passenger door of this great big Cadillac for me, a monster amidst these tiny European tin cans, then takes the rolley bag around to put it behind the driver’s seat. Presumably, the trunk is full of that aforementioned specialty equipment. I settle back in the plush leather seat. The Caddy has enough room for me to stretch my legs out in front of me and arch my back to try to work the kinks out. Sheer pleasure after that excruciating flight.

Jacka holds the pose of toadying chauffeur perfectly until we’re out of the airport, and through the worst of the traffic to get onto the Ponte Vasco de Gama, this ten-mile bridge crossing the Tagus River that empties into the Atlantic Ocean. As the car climbs the bridge, the city behind us looks almost purely white. The July morning sun warms the tinted windows despite the quiet hum of the air conditioner. Everything smells of leather and the wet salt of the Atlantic Ocean.

Jacka constantly studies the road and the steady current of traffic around us. Eventually he says, “How are you doing, Miss Salton?”

“It’s Miss Salton now?” I say.

“You’re in mourning. It feels more… appropriate.”

“Are you trying to make yourself suspicious?”

The movements of his eye in the rear view mirror don’t change. Despite my comment, Jacka doesn’t need to make himself any more aware of me than he already is. “What makes you think I’m suspect? More suspect than usual, I mean.”

“You’ve never been that worried about appropriate before.”

“Miss Salton, you are a fine lady. And I’d happily spend time with you. A lot of time.” Behind us a motorcycle is coming up the dotted line fast, the snarling engine advertising the biker’s inadequacies. Jacka holds the car steady, but focuses a share of his attention on the cycle. “If I could have won you away from Deke fair and square, that would be one thing.”

Like that was ever going to happen. I don’t smirk, though.

The motorcycle’s roar drowns out conversation for a moment, then the white-helmeted rider passes us. The cycle’s roar gets deeper as it recedes between the queued traffic.

Jacka broadens his focus again. “But this isn’t the time. Maybe it’ll come again.” His voice sounds gentler than usual. Not quite the you are a mark tone, but close. “In the meantime, I’m pretty sure that if Fender’s right, the best condolences I can offer you,” and here his voice gets hard, “is the head of the person who set your crew up.” And again, he’s talking easy. “Maybe with a snazzy bow on it. For special.”

I’m unwillingly touched. “Thank you, Jacka.”

“Besides,” he says, in a more conversational tone. “We can’t let the customers think that they can start screwing over freelance specialists. It’s bad for business. Word gets around.”

“Who else has Rob pulled in?” I ask.

“Best if you ask him yourself.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t trust me.”

Jacka snorts half a laugh. “Trust you? If anyone’s going to see this through to the bitter end, it’s you. You and Deke were tight. I mean, everyone knows about Deke and Beaks. You’re famous, like Jekyll and Hyde or Burke and Hare. If I’d wanted to take him out, I would have shot at you and waited for him to throw himself in front of the bullet. And you would have done the same for him.”

My vision blurs, just a little. I want to ask him if I’m Jekyll or Hyde, but I don’t think I can say anything without my voice shaking. I look out the window at the brilliant blue water of the Tagus River, narrowing my eyes against the blinding streak of reflected sunshine.

This was a different Jacka. He had never let an encounter with me pass without making some kind of flirty comment or offering to buy me a candlelit dinner. On the coarse sands of Cozumel’s beaches, he’d arranged a mariachi band and a couple dozen roses at sunset. Totally infuriating, especially when Deke had snickered and shook his head and told me to ignore it.

I still wasn’t going to let Jacka see me cry, though.

Thankfully, Jacka left me with my memories until we reached the Hotel Matador.