She passed small hardware stores, dress stores, and food shops closed for the night. As she opened the door to the club, she turned momentarily and in the distance caught sight of the man in the sweatsuit who had watched her in Kensington Market the day before. Stopping automatically, she peered into the milky haze born of too many light bulbs tearing the dark. The outline of the man flickered down the street then burned up in the volley of the flashing lights like a moth. She had to get hold of herself.
She stepped into a dimly-lit hallway, aware of the music arriving in distorted echo through the ceiling. The restaurant on the first floor was nearly empty. A carpeted stairway straight ahead was flanked by a sign: “Upstairs, Thursday to Sunday, The Gauchos with Isabella Velasco.” Isabella Velasco. The black-edged card, the dead son in Buenos Aires. Interesting coincidence.
Rebecca’s eyes adjusted to the light and she realized there was a balding, angular maitre d’ in a black suit standing in the restaurant, watching her. His sour face prodded her to follow the music.
chapter twenty-one
The stairs were carpeted in an orangey-red that reminded her of Spanish tiled roofs and the satin dresses of flamenco dancers. She stood in the doorway of the club, halted by the smoke and the noisy rhythm of the music that set the floor vibrating. Middle-aged couples clung to each other in the centre of the dance floor, gliding to some tango. The sultry beat was being produced on the opposite side of the room by a band of trumpet, guitar, and drums, and Isabella Velasco. Her voice insinuated itself along the melody of some song about rain, while her fingers punctuated the journey, her hands opening and closing to click her castanets like little clams. A long black dress, slit to the thigh on one side, hugged her bony figure. Her dark hair was pulled tightly off her face. She was not young. A well-preserved forty-nine, as she swayed to the rhythm.
Rebecca took a moment to observe the room. It looked like a club for homesick Latins: a rigid toreador, with charging bull, had been painted across the wall behind the band. David would not have approved. The two figures were naively drawn and the colours flat and childish. Near the entrance hung several paintings of, presumably, the Spanish countryside, as well as the requisite rendering of a señiorita in lace mantilla. A set of bull’s horns and a sword were suspended in one corner.
She couldn’t keep standing in the doorway. How was she going to find the man Vogel talked about? Rebecca took off her trenchcoat and hung it on the rack in the hall. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was surprised to see how pale and unhealthy she looked even in the subdued light. Her dark hair was more unruly than usual after the run outside. She smoothed it down with a quick hand then applied some lipstick to give her at least a semblance of life.
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.
