To the left of the entrance was a bar. Two men sat drinking at the far end, laughing over something. Rebecca took a deep breath, then entered the noise and smoke. She found herself a stool at the empty end of the bar. The noise, she realized, was loud music alone rather than a combination of music and chatter. There were not enough people in the room to make an appreciable noise but the band more than made up for it. She was surprised they would bother with a band on an evening when only four tables were occupied by maybe fifteen people.
After ordering a glass of wine, she turned so she could see the band. Isabella Velasco’s voice caressed the room in a sensuous Spanish. Hay lluvia.... It was raining.
After a minute a sleek dark man in his forties boldly sat down on the next stool, facing her. Maybe she should have expected this. It had been so long since she was single that she had quite forgotten the procedure. She was in no mood for it now. He lit up a cigarette, then offered her the package.
“I don’t smoke,” she said.
“Very smart.” Hispanic accent. Sure of himself. His angular features, his dark hair, salted with grey, gleamed in the reflected light of the bar.
He turned his head to exhale a long column of smoke away from her. At least he was polite. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“I guess that’s because I haven’t been here before.”
“And you are here alone? A beautiful woman like you?”
He was going through the motions but she didn’t quite buy it. The attitude seemed more reflex than real intention. Despite the warm approach, there was something cold about him. His black eyes studied her as one hand played with a gold cigarette lighter on the counter. The barman placed a glass of whiskey in front of him without a word. A regular. A candidate for the mystery man.
“She’s very good,” Rebecca said, glancing at the sultry, severe woman growling out her song.
“You like our Spanish music?”
“Its very moody.”
He smirked. “For an English it is moody. For a Spanish it is passionate.”
“Maybe it’s the singer who’s passionate.”
Without looking at the stage he said, “All Spanish singers are passionate. It is in the blood.” He stared at Rebecca as if Spanish blood and passion were unimportant for the moment. Crushing his cigarette in an ashtray, he slid off his stool.
“You would like to dance?” It wasn’t a question. He stood in front of her, his hand out, not tentative at all. There was a dangerous charm in the well-defined cheekbones, the sharp nose. His expensive suit clung sensually around his waist.
A couple heading toward the dance floor turned toward them. “Buenos noches, Capitán” said the man, nodding with more than respect.
Capitán. This must be her man.
“Pardon my manners. I am Manuel Diaz.” He bowed his head slightly, very elegantly.
“Capitán Diaz,” she smiled. “Rebecca Temple.”
It had been a long time since she had danced and she gave herself credit for nerve. The straight calflength skirt she had worn gave little leeway for the strides that the tango required of her. He led her easily, holding her at a polite distance. His eyes half-closed in the rhythm of the dance, but he was alert, watching her under heavy lids. She hadn’t been held by a man since David and she wasn’t ready. Just the proximity was unnerving, the pressure of the man’s fingers on her back. Maybe a murderer’s fingers. The music died away. He led her back to the bar.
“You’re a military man?” she said, in the lull between the music.
He waved away the suggestion. “A title of respect. In South America, where I come from, soldiers have the most respect. So when I come here, they call me el Capitán.” He stretched his hand out like a priest indicating his flock. “This is my place. When you give orders, you must have a rank.” He motioned to the bartender for more drinks. Another glass of wine appeared before her.
He was certainly in charge. But he seemed to have more power than ordering changes in the menu or setting the price of Tia Maria.
“Then you know Isabella.”
He lit up another cigarette. “I know everybody here.”
“She was acquainted with a patient of mine. Goldie Kochinsky.” She watched his reaction.
His eyelids rose slightly. “You are a doctor.” Then he shook his head, furrowing his brow in the appropriate response. “It is terrible what happened to the old woman. We were all shocked. It is what you expect in Argentina, where I come from; not here.”
“Did you know each other in Argentina?”
“The old woman? No.”
“You know what happened to her there?”
He blew out a long stream of smoke, observing her. “You mean her kidnapping. I heard something. It was a terrible time. It was bad for everybody.”
“Did you know the men who tortured her?”
He watched her for a moment. “I knew men in the junta. I didn’t ask them what they did. The trick was, not to know too much.”
“So. You were not involved?” His waiting eyes prodded her to add, “In the junta?”
He tapped impatiently on his cigarette. “I’m a businessman. I don’t kill people.”
“What kind of business are you in?”
“ Import-export.”
“What do you import and export?”
“Anything I can buy low and sell high. Nothing you would be interested in, Doctor.”
“Then you managed to escape the terror when you were in Argentina.”
“I was lucky. The old woman was not.” He shrugged.
Rebecca wasn’t going to get any more information out of the Capitán than he wanted to give her. He turned toward the band where Isabella was purring out a suggestive version of “The Girl from Ipanema.” “What about Isabella?” she said. “She knew Goldie in Argentina.”
“Isabella hated the old woman because she was weak. She told the junta where Isabella’s son was hiding and they killed him.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I don’t blame the old woman. She didn’t want to die. So she gave up a name.” His tone was too casual for the information. He was accustomed to government-sponsored murder while it still appalled her.
The song ended. Someone turned on a Latin version of canned muzak and the band headed toward the bar. Isabella held her head stiff, her gait self-consciously haughty. She looked even older close up, the lines around the edges of her mouth and darkly lined eyes visible through her pancake make-up.
She smiled coyly at Diaz. “Buenos noches, Capitán.”
He nodded formally. “Maravilloso, your performance, as always, Isabella.” There was no feeling in his voice, merely rote. He touched Rebecca’s arm lightly. “This is Dr. Temple. She was Doctor to Goldie Kochinsky.”
Isabella turned to look at her for the first time.
“Tell her that you forgive Goldie for what she did,” Diaz said, sipping another glass of whiskey that the bartender had automatically poured.
He was toying with them both, thought Rebecca.
The woman searched