Part 3 (1/2)
No, first I needed to pluck a gla.s.s of white wine off a c.o.c.ktail tray. No way was I going to pa.s.s up a chance to drink something besides Manischewitz.
I'd never seen so many movers and shakers in one place before. If food poisoning were to hit this party tonight, the stock market would fall a thousand points. It was an honor to be invited to a function like this. Still, I was sure I'd enjoy it a lot more if I were the one being schmoozed.
By the time I reached the center of the pool deck, the woman I wanted to see had drifted off with someone else.
”Daphne Maddox, I know that name.” The voice belonged to a man with very dark skin, small black eyes and an island cadence. Obviously, he had noticed my nametag.
”You must be Guillame Pierre.” Our Haitian city commissioner, representing the district of our current jobsite. I'd been calling his office to line up some city volunteers, but no one ever responded. ”It's nice to finally meet you. I've been trying to get in touch but you're so busy.”
”A thousand pardons. I must apologize for not returning your calls, but this has worked out wonderfully. I much prefer having these discussions in person.” He took my hand in both of his and stroked it tenderly.
I smiled as amiably as I could, considering I'd been warned not to believe a word he said. Pierre has a reputation for being a master manipulator, someone in City Hall who gets most of what he wants because he knows where all the bodies are buried. Gisela once told me he thought himself a ladies' man, and then she'd burst out laughing. No doubt she'd get a s.a.d.i.s.tic kick out of seeing him stroke my hand.
”I was calling to let you know we have two more renovations scheduled this year for your district. Perhaps you and some folks from your office would like to come out on a Sat.u.r.day and work with us. It would be a wonderful opportunity to meet with your const.i.tuents.”
”Oh, we're doing many things on behalf of the wonderful people in Little Haiti.” He put his arm around my waist to steer me toward a cabana. ”Perhaps we can relax away from this crowd while we discuss this in more detail.”
Jenko. Jenko. Jenko.
My phone rang. It was Gisela. G.o.d bless her.
”h.e.l.lo.”
She said nothing. Just her evil laugh.
”No, it's quite all right. I was hoping you'd call.”
Now she was shrieking hysterically. I'd bet a hundred bucks tears were rolling down her cheeks.
”Yes, this qualifies as an emergency. I'll let her know at once.” I stepped out of Pierre's reach. ”Sorry, I have to find my boss immediately and give her some news.”
I found Gisela standing in a cl.u.s.ter of men that included her husband Jorge, and three other men, two of whom were members of the Dolphins. The third was Marco Padilla, the man she was hoping to sway to the foundation's board. In his early sixties, Padilla was an enormous man. Not like the muscled athletes standing next to him. More like a heart attack waiting to happen.
I smiled politely through the introductions before whispering to her, ”I'm glad you had your eye on Pierre. What a sleaze.”
”It was Marco who pointed out that he had cornered some poor, unsuspecting woman. I couldn't believe it when I saw it was you.”
”I owe him one. And now I'm going to Plan B, which is to swim across the pool so I won't have to walk by Pierre again.”
I cut a wide circle around the cabanas and slipped back into the crowd to find Irene Sanchez, Mariner Cruise's VP for human resources. Given the recent uproar over the reef accident and fire, I wasn't surprised to see her belt back a c.o.c.ktail with gusto.
”Ms. Sanchez, nice to see you again.”
Her puzzled look gave way to recognition. ”Debbie!”
”Daphne. Daphne Maddox.”
”I knew it was a D-something. How have you been?”
As I gave her the rundown on my job at the foundation, I couldn't help but notice how frazzled she was...bags under her eyes and very much in need of a visit to her hair colorist. Not that I could blame her. According to the Herald, the pending lawsuits against the cruise line had their stock in free fall, which meant the officers at her level were losing about a thousand dollars an hour.
After declining my request for volunteers-they were ”spread too thin at the moment”-she made an offer of her own. ”Any chance you'd still be interested in our HR department?”
”I thought you filled that position.”
”Oh, we did. But we've grown so much over the past couple of years that we need more hands to deal with personnel issues.”
Not true. The Herald article showed Mariner lagging the other cruise lines, and they'd just canceled their most recent order for a new s.h.i.+p. But the fact that they needed more HR staff meant something big was in the offing, like ma.s.sive severance packages or transfer of benefits if they sold the company. My guess was anyone jumping on board now would be out of a job soon because Mariner Cruise Lines was going under, and I had a strong hunch the officers knew it.
”I appreciate your interest, Ms. Sanchez, but I'm really happy at the foundation.” To say nothing of my aversion to sinking s.h.i.+ps. Time to drop Mariner like a cast iron anchor.
As I eased myself away I spotted a familiar face, Carlos Moya, the owner and CEO of a national trucking chain. Carlos oozed with Latin charm, and sent us a dozen volunteers two or three times a year. I didn't need to press Carlos for more help, but I wanted to say h.e.l.lo and thank him for all he'd already done.
As I got closer, I saw he was engaged in serious conversation with a woman whose back was toward me. I didn't have to see her face to know she was hot. Tall and shapely, she wore a clinging skin-colored c.o.c.ktail dress and stylish but reasonable two-inch heels. Her dark hair, accented with golden strands, hung freely about her shoulders.
”...and that's where the Iberican Fund comes in, Carlos. It's an extraordinary set of aggressive growth funds that outperformed last year's market by sixty percent. We've pulled back on bringing in new investors right now, but if you're really interested, I'll talk to Pepe. We'll have you and your wife out for dinner on the yacht.”
I knew that voice. Come to think of it, I knew that hair...and that curvy behind was unmistakably the same one I'd seen in skinny jeans. I never forget a curvy behind.
”Hi, everyone.”
Carlos lit up with a smile. Mari Tirado, not so much.
”Daphne, my favorite handyman...handywoman.”
”Handyperson,” I corrected, glancing at Mari for acknowledgment. She seemed to be checking the floor for a trapdoor.
”Excuse me,” she said, hastily stepping away. ”I need to catch someone before he leaves.”
Carlos held a thumb and pinky to his ear in that universal talking-into-your-fingers gesture. ”Call me, Mari. I'm interested.”
I spent the next ten minutes making nice with Carlos, all the while wondering why Mari had taken off like her dress was on fire. Even more curious was why she was here at all. This was an invitation-only event for nonprofits and business executives from the top companies in Miami. Nonprofit staff didn't drive cars like hers or have ”dinner on the yacht,” so that meant she was someone important.
As I headed back toward Gisela, I spotted Mari sitting by herself on a wicker loveseat inside an open cabana. When I got closer, I saw she was on the phone, so I waited a few feet away where I knew she could see me.
This time she looked right at me and ended her call at once. The last thing I wanted was another confrontation like the icy ones we'd had at the house, but I couldn't get over her just walking off. One of us was going to have to be the grownup, and that was obviously me.
I said evenly, ”I'll be the first to admit I don't understand much about Miami, but where I come from, people who know each other usually say h.e.l.lo.”
She groaned and buried her face in her hands before straightening up and flipping her hair back over her shoulders. ”Please tell me you didn't say anything to Carlos about me doing community service.”
Of course. I should have realized she wanted to keep her brush with the courts on the down low. ”Carlos has been very helpful to the foundation. He and I have much better things to talk about than you.”
Though she was clearly relieved, she also appeared agitated. ”Sorry...I just need to get my hours in and make this go away before anybody finds out about it. If I screw up, they'll yank my license.”
I wanted to tell her actions have consequences, but since we left things last weekend in a pretty good place, I actually felt a little sorry for her. ”I wouldn't worry about it too much. Even people who lose their license usually get waivers to drive to work.”