Think Before You Speak

by D. A. Bale

  The spit and flare of a striking match just about sent me toward heart attack territory. The lighting of a single candle on the coffee table provided enough illumination to make out the uninvited company, my cat curled in his lap.

  “We meet again, Senorita Bohanan.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I fumbled my purse and dropped it like a rushed quarterback on third down then nearly piddled in my panties with my phone and pepper spray out of reach. The gentleman holding my kitty stood from the couch like the Godfather reborn – ‘cept this one was short, slender, and had a Hispanic flavor to his greeting.

  And he was wearing one finely tailored Desmond Merrion suit.

  Mr. Julio Benito Juarez was not only the Mexican Ambassador to the United States, but he was also father to Bobby’s deceased wife Amy, the secret love child spawned from a long-term affair with Amy’s drug-addled mother. I’d had the pleasure of meeting him at the governor’s ball in June where he’d expressed his appreciation for my role in discovering his daughter’s murderer.

  Did I also mention the ambassador is a member of the Juarez family drug cartel? Actually more of a silent partner – and working covertly with drug enforcement on this side of the border to bring his family down.

  But you didn’t hear that from me.

  I only wanted to know three things as I glanced around my apartment at the tightly closed drapes. One, what was he doing in my apartment cuddling my traitorous cat? Two, how had he gotten past all of the new-fangled security my mom had ordered installed? And three, would he mind if I stepped away real quick to take care of nature’s unexpected call?

  On second thought, maybe I could hold it.

  “Ambassador Juarez?” I finally spit out. “This is an unexpected…um…pleasure.”

  More like shock, startle, panic, and plain old what the hell in my dictionary, but I didn’t want to be rude.

  “It is a pleasure to see you again also, Senorita,” Juarez said, scritching behind Slinky’s ears. Thus the loud purring.

  No gun in his hands to use against me or my cat. Point in my favor. Though on second thought, he could hold my baby hostage and just as easily wring Slinky’s neck – though sometimes I wanted to do that on occasion too. Still, point in his favor. He’d been kind and appreciative on our initial meeting. At the governor’s ball. In a very public setting. This time we were in my apartment. My closed off and very private apartment.

  Which returned me to my original conundrum – how he had gotten by my security system without Jimmy-the-Super and all the forces in Dallas descending on him. I really needed to exercise care in how I phrased the next question, just in case something pungent was about to hit the proverbial fan.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Okay, not a great opening question, but a reasonable one – considering.

  “Your Congress is still in its summer recess, so there’s very little happening in D.C. at present,” Juarez said. “After returning from a visit with mi familia, I found I had business to attend to here before heading north.”

  It didn’t require too much thought to determine what kind of business he stopped over in Texas to attend to. And there’d be no getting detailed information out of one tight-lipped Texas Ranger either. Uh-oh – what if Juarez was a double agent?

  “No,” I said. “What the hell are you doing here? In my apartment? At three in the morning?”

  So much for careful. That dreaded foot-in-mouth disease struck before I could rein it in. Hey, don’t fault a girl for being distracted with thoughts of an upcoming date, surprised by an intruder, and a little tipsy after a full night at the bar – not to mention a growing need to visit the ladies room.

  The hint of a smile curled the edges of his thick mustache, reminding me a little of my boss. Juarez settled Slinky to the floor and returned to sit on the couch. I shoveled the spilled contents of my purse where they belonged and clutched it like a desperate housewife on Black Friday as I sat beside the ambassador.

  “It has come to my attention,” Juarez started, “that you seek to help a friend.”

  “That Ranger has some nerve…,” I sputtered.

  “And,” he interrupted with a raised brow, “though I am usually hesitant to use names…ahem…in this case it seems you are seeking someone specific.”

  Yeah, right about now that would be a Texas Ranger known as Big Z – big as in Big Mouth. But I kept that name to myself, seeing as the ambassador was trying not to be obvious.

  “Why would you get involved?” I asked.

  A momentary flicker of sorrow creased his brow. “To return the favor when you helped me.”

  Well, actually I’d been helping Bobby, but apples and oranges. The ambassador didn’t have to say another word to clarify his meaning about the specific name he inferred – I’d caught that Hail Mary on the first toss. Even when suffering under effects of full-blown inebriation, I’d never been that dense.

  Oh, shut up.

  I took a deep breath to calm my galloping heart and clear my mind. I was doing this for Reggie. “I’m looking for a guy who used to be in charge of a gang called the Switchblades.”

  “Ah, yes. Nasty group.”

  “They’re still around then?” Even after facing the ones Zeke had rescued me from, I still didn’t want to assume those guys were affiliated with the Switchblades. I mean, with all of the various gangs running around these days, what were the chances I’d actually run into members of that particular group?

  “Very active among certain circles.” With his fingers, the ambassador mimed holding a cigarette or pipe to his mouth, drawing in and blowing out.

  “Drugs,” I stated.

  Juarez nodded.

  “Okay then,” I said. “This group was started by a guy who’d be somewhere in his sixties. That is, unless he discovered the wrong end of a gun, or in his case, a switchblade.”

  “Always a high probability in such circles.”

  “He went by the name of…” I couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. Blame it on nerves as well as the name. “…Switch.”

  No surprise registered on the ambassador’s face. After a lifetime involvement in politics, he’d probably become an expert at keeping true thoughts and feelings hidden behind the smile. Perhaps the heavy mustache helped further that purpose. Instead he slipped a card from his jacket pocket and wrote something before handing it to me.

  “When you call that number, ask for Tomas Ricardo,” Juarez said as he stood and moved toward the front door. “Tell him Benny gave it to you.”

  In the blink of an eye, Juarez blew out the candle then opened and closed my door in the accompanying darkness. It took a few beats before my brain caught up to my body. Then I jumped up, wrenched open the door and stared down an empty hall before moving to the vacant stairwell.

  It was like he’d never even been there. If I didn’t have the card in my buzzed little hands, I’d have thought I’d dreamed up the whole encounter.

  Had I blacked out for a moment or two after he blew out the candle? Or three? Had the candle had a hallucinogenic effect? I stared again into my darkened apartment. The lights weren’t on, but this girl was home.

  And I wasn’t so sure that was an entirely safe idea.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A good night’s sleep is next to...

  Well, I guess my mom always said something more along the lines of cleanliness is next to Godliness – but sleep worked best for me in this case. After the strange encounter with the Godfather-like ambassador, I didn’t get much until the lights flickered on about the time dawn peeked through the blinds.

  The card was still in my hand when I woke up later that afternoon, a reminder the events of early morning were more than a dream. I did a quick check to insure I still possessed all ten fingers and toes for my date with Radioman, ‘cause I definitely didn’t plan on getting much sleep tonight. I hoped.

  Hey, I needed something to get my mind off of gangs and godfathers.

&nbs
p; Don’t judge.

  Promptly at seven my doorbell buzzed and sent a shot of adrenaline south. I just love new relationships, don’t you? Exploring attributes and what makes someone tick made for sparkling exchanges. Conversation could be good too – unless you were a male model named Nick.

  Thoughts of Nick fell to the wayside when I finished clattering through the myriad door locks and dragged the thing open to greet Radioman. Amber hair sported a softer but perpetual dent from headphones but the leather jacket over a button-up was new. It all graduated to dark blue jeans that hung low on his hips and fit snug in all the right places. His scent hit me between the thighs. Musky. Manly. Just perfect.

  I grinned. “A jacket? In this heat?”

  “I wasn’t sure how dressed up you’d be,” he said as his gaze traveled up and down my little cranberry-red halter dress. Adam’s apple bobbed as his warmth penetrated my clingy number with a hug and his hand feathered the bare skin on my back. “I could always take the jacket off.”

  The breathy whisper so near my ear made me want to do just that – and more. Bad Vicki. So very bad. We hadn’t even eaten dinner yet. Did the waiting at least an hour after eating apply to any other activities besides swimming?

  I barely had the presence of mind to grab my purse and lock the door before I further contemplated dragging him to my bed – er, mattress. I really needed that stupid bedroom set to arrive ASAP.

  Like a gentleman, he escorted me to his black-patent Honda Accord and opened the passenger door for me before climbing into the driver’s seat. Then with a grin and a squeal of tires, he showed me there was much more under the hood of his straight-off-the-showroom-floor car. The scent of hot rubber sent my brain to wondering what other surprises he had for the night.

  “Nice car,” I said.

  “Brand new,” Radioman bragged with pride. “Got a sweet deal on her and couldn’t resist.”

  “A her, huh?”

  “Always,” he said with a wink. “The curves of a car can’t help but make me picture a voluptuous woman.”

  It might be hot outside, but the interior suddenly warmed even with the air conditioner blowing on max. “Uh…she had some pretty nice torque back there.”

  “It’s nothing like what you’re used to, I’m sure. She’s only a V-6.”

  “Shhh,” I cautioned. “You might hurt her feelings.”

  Even his throaty laugh was smooth and sexy like his voice. “Two-hundred and fifty-two pounds of torque isn’t shabby for a four-door sedan, I guess.”

  Now this was the kind of conversation I’d hoped to have with Nick. The dichotomy between the two was stark – and a reminder to contact Nick to insure he understood things were really over between us. This time I meant it too.

  “What’s her horsepower?” I asked.

  “Two-seventy-eight.” A curious cornflower-blue glance slid my way as we stopped at a red light. “This is an interesting conversation I never expected to have tonight.”

  I shrugged. “I like cars.”

  “Obviously. Shoulda known with the one you have.” Silence until the light changed to green and he took a right. “Do you like football?”

  “Does a bear crap in the woods?” My crude humor didn’t even faze him.

  “Cowboys?”

  “I bleed blue and silver.”

  “Have you ever been to a game at the new stadium?”

  The question stopped me for a second. When Zeke and I had dated, he loved football but hated the stadium crowds. Plus, he’d never known when he’d have to step out for an emergency on a case, so he’d just DVR’d the games instead. But the Bohanans and the De’Laruses have shared a private box in both the old and new stadiums for longer than Janine and I have been alive. My formative years were spent in that luxurious suite, staring down through the big Plexiglas window at the action taking place on the turf while snarfing down five-star snacks.

  The thoughts made me realize that Radioman knew virtually nothing about me – about the family name and enterprise – except that I worked at a bar and liked cars and now Dallas Cowboy football. If he knew more, he didn’t show it.

  And I found comfort in the anonymity.

  “I haven’t been for a few years,” I responded.

  “Well, I’ve got tickets to the preseason opener…if you’re interested.”

  “It’s a date,” I exclaimed as we pulled into the parking lot of my favorite restaurant.

  La Buona Cibo Vino served the best Italian food this side of the Mississippi. What it lacked in ambience it made up for in spice and flavor to zing the palate. Tonight I was definitely feeling – or smelling – a deep dish sausage pizza with fresh tomatoes and melting mozzarella all nestled in a yeasty yummy crust. My stomach seconded the vote the moment we sat down in what was once mine and Zeke’s special hangout. I quelled all thoughts of what the Ranger and I had once shared and determined to enjoy the night with someone new.

  “So do you prefer I call you Bruce or keep addressing you as Radioman?” I asked, swirling red wine in my glass.

  “I kinda like the moniker,” Radioman returned. “I even mentioned it to the producer at the station, and he wants to see about working it into my call sign.”

  “Really?”

  “The station just has to make sure it doesn’t violate any FCC regs or copyrights first.”

  “Well here’s to helping further your career,” I said, raising my glass and plinking it with his across the table. “So you talk about me at work, huh?”

  A grin. “Maybe. I haven’t been exactly subtle about wanting to take you on a date.”

  “I’m glad you finally succeeded.”

  Salad and breadsticks arrived but didn’t create more than a hiccup in our conversation. Yeah, this was a far cry from being with Nick. Definite improvement in the conversational compartment. I had high hopes for what lingered on the horizon.

  Emphasis on the linger.

  “So,” Radioman started, “how did an intelligent woman like you end up tending bar?”

  I batted mascaraed lashes like a world-class ditz. “Who says I’m intelligent?”

  “Come on. I’ll never forget that little guessing game you played when we first met. Guessing one of our careers correctly…fine. But all three? That was uncanny.”

  I remembered clearly that night two months ago when the three musketeers had strolled up to the bar and about fell off their stools when I pegged them within minutes. Since then I’d enjoyed the slow rise in temperature their presence at the bar brought, well except for Banker Boy. His rare presence only made me itch to bathe – and I’m not talking the bathing in alcohol variety either.

  “It’s a gift,” I responded with a smiling chaser.

  “I’ll say.”

  “Have to admit though, you were the hardest to determine.”

  Radioman leaned forward and traced his fingers across my hand with a whisper. “Hardest, huh?”

  I released the salad fork and gulped the last vestiges of wine to cover the shiver creeping up my arm. And had to work hard to quell the naughty thoughts that one particular word triggered. Er, fast. Uh – oh, forget it.

  “I couldn’t decide between radio and television,” I admitted.

  “What was the tie-breaker?” Radioman asked as his fingers trailed along my forearm like a promise of things to come.

  Hardest? Fast? Come? I think the foot-in-mouth disease that regularly plagued me had progressed to full-blown thoughts-in-brain lesions. My nether regions quivered while my gray matter rotted.

  “Um…,” I stuttered. “It was your hair.”

  “My hair?” he responded with surprise, running fingers along his temple like I wanted to do.

  “And your voice.”

  Confusion furrowed his brow. “Oka-a-ay.”

  I pulled my hand away and picked up the empty glass. So I opted for water instead before trudging forward.

  “Your hair had a deep indention in it…unnatural, as if you wore headphones all the time.”


  He acknowledged my observation with a head tilt.

  I continued. “But your voice was smooth and sultry. Familiar. Rather made for television, if I might add. But television personalities don’t wear headphones on the air. They wear earwigs.”

  Understanding dawned with a twinkle in his eyes and a growing smile. “Nice deductive reasoning.”

  “Like I said,” I conceded with a shrug. “It’s a gift.”

  “Which brings me back to my original question. Why is an intelligent woman tending bar?”

  Didn’t I just have this conversation with someone recently? Oh yeah – my ex-boyfriend. “I needed a job?”

  “Don’t we all,” Radioman returned. “What else?”

  “After graduating from college, I’d moved out of my parents place into my boyfr…uh, in with a guy I was seeing at the time.”

  The waiter arrived with mouth-watering pizza, which sent us tilting toward that particular windmill for a bite or two. But Radioman’s piqued curiosity was far from quenched.

  “What’s your degree?” he asked.

  “A general bachelor’s in business management.”

  “Which opens a wide range of daytime possibilities.”

  “I’m kinda a night owl though.”

  “Me too.”

  His grin sent a dribble of grease down his chin, which I mopped up with a slow wipe of my napkin instead of what I wanted to use right then – my tongue. The deepening of his gaze and the catch of his breath made me realize he’d have liked use of that organ too.

  What was the societal accepted number of dates before having sex? Three? Two? Maybe we could count all of the visits to the bar as dates. Or foreplay. If I had to wait another week for the Cowboys preseason opener for date number two, I’d rather consider myself socially unacceptable.

  Yeah, yeah – don’t remind me of the whole Nick debacle. What we’d had couldn’t actually be called dating. I was trying to turn over a new leaf here – and this time not in the style of Adam and Eve.

  Work with me, folks.

  Radioman cleared his throat. “So a degree in business…doesn’t that translate into several different types of corporate careers?”