“No, she wouldn’t want to get her parents involved unless there’s no other choice.” At least Vince had that right if nothing else. Sitting in a musty cell with moderately hardened criminals, Joy’s probably feeling millimeters away from rock bottom at the moment, and I know she’ll want no one’s help but mine—a matter of public standing.
Because, to her 73,951 Instagram followers and 1,267 Tinder matches, Joy Richards is that girl: a young hot New York family lawyer who always manages to charm her way into the hippest rooftop parties, a notorious femme fatale who’s never known a bad hair day or a messy breakup, and who slept with at least one confirmed male model. That’s side A, and as Joy’s part-time wife, I am one of the select few people privy to side B of this glittery vinyl, where the worst tracks are kept hidden. I won’t go into the grisly details of those. Side B is basically a medley of radioactive past relationships, dizzying highs and crushing lows, avant-garde sexual experiments and HPV scares. Also, for the record, she secretly borrows my mafia romances.
Like March, Joy needs her armor and her secrets; they keep her together. There’s nothing I can do about Vince’s betrayal, but what I can and will do is help contain the Cancún fiasco and make sure it stays buried under a ten-ton concrete lid with the rest of the nuclear waste. “Okay, I’m gonna look up the consulate’s number.”
“I doubt anyone will pick up at this hour,” March warns me gently. “And they won’t move unless charges are pressed or it’s a life-and-death situation.”
A quick check on the web confirms his gloomy prediction. At almost 11 pm, we’re well past office hours. “But she’s in jail! What if they beat her up or something?”
I’m close to hyperventilating as my brain conjures up a grim scene in which a burly and sweaty cop with an evil mustache taunts Joy until she insults him again, only for him to retaliate with his fists. “It’ll take me at least thirteen hours to get there, even if I catch another flight right away in Berlin. What if I call the police station and wire them their bribe?”
March has the good grace to wince. “Island, I believe they favor cash.”
“Western Union, then?”
His head lolls in hesitation. “How about a direct intervention?”
A direct intervention? I shrink warily in my seat. “How direct?”
March’s chuckle reassures me to some extent. Whatever option he’s been contemplating can’t be that bad if he retains the ability to smile. “Well, I was thinking that . . .” He frowns. “We could give a call to Antonio. I believe he has the connections to solve this misunderstanding even faster than I can.”
I perform a silent fist pump and whisper, “Oh my God, you’re right!”
Antonio Romos lives in Mexico—a little all over Mexico, technically, since I know he has a house in San Pancho, near Puerto Vallarta, he also told us his cuñado—or rather, brother-in-law—has this massive villa in Cancún where he sometimes stays. Also, he’s . . . Well, let’s just say the first time I met Antonio, he was in March’s trunk, bound, gagged, and scheduled for execution. But he turned out to be a great guy. If I hadn’t begged March to let him go, he wouldn’t have later returned to save the day with a bazooka.
We saw him with his wife and baby girl when they made a stop in New York back in June, and from what I gathered, he’s cleaned up his act a notch. He’s now helping the cuñado with the family business. We were having a great time over margaritas, so I chose not to spoil the mood and remark that Angel, the aforementioned brother-in-law, is, in fact, an Ecuadorian arms dealer. March claims that 80 percent of his international business is “locally legal,” though.
At any rate, I vote Antonio. “Let’s call him.”
March borrows my phone, and I watch him dial one of Antonio’s many numbers, gnashing my teeth tighter with every ring. The moment Antonio picks up, Latino rap blares through the speaker, and he’s yelling over the music to greet March.
“Still alive, Surafricano!”
“Against all odds,” March confirms.
“What’s up in New York?” Antonio shouts back, while a young, feminine voice squeals, “Es March?” His wife, Beatriz, and that’s a hell of a party around them.
“Yes,” March replies to her. “Antonio, we’re not in New York, and I’m afraid I’m going to owe you another favor.”
“Nothing is impossible for Antonio,” comes his reply. Yeah, he’s sometimes prone to hubris and loves referring to himself in third person.
“Like getting someone out of jail?” I whisper, eyeing our clients for any sign that they’re awake. Thank God, Rotwang has returned to snore in his seat. Frederick is still burrowing with stark dedication, though.
A big laugh bursts in the speaker. “Anything for you, queridita!” The moment after, the music in the background dies down, and I register brisk footsteps echoing on a tiled floor. He’s leaving the party, and when he speaks again, there’s a steely edge to his cheerful tone. “Now, tell me, what kind of shit did you two get yourselves into this time?”
“It’s my friend Joy,” I explain. “She got arrested in Cancún because she tossed a cake on her ex and his side-chick. She wouldn’t grease up the cops, so they won’t release her. Do you think you could pull some strings to get her out?”
There’s prolonged silence on Antonio’s end. I ball my fists, bracing myself for his response. What I get is ten seconds of breathless laughter. March and I share an awkward look and wait for him to be done. He eventually coughs out the last of his hilarity. “No refresco for her, uh? Oh man, this is gonna be good. Don’t worry about a thing: Antonio is in charge. You let me work my magic, and she’s out in sixty minutes tops.”
I’m practically jumping in my seat. “Thank you so much! Can you keep us updated?”
“Yes, yes . . .”
I’m about to thank him and hang up when a horrifying thought thunders at the back of my head. “Antonio, one more thing.”
“Listening.”
“Joy doesn’t know. About March and . . . everything.”
Pretty vague, but I’m confident Antonio will catch my drift. Joy has no idea what March did before he opened Struthio, and I’ve remained carefully evasive every time she asked until now. I think her perception is that he’s a PI occasionally flirting with the boundaries of the law, possibly even a former spy—a man of the shadows, but not totally because he has a Costco card, and we have a legit office. Like Dog the Bounty Hunter but with better hair and no TV show. Not like him at all, actually.
As if he could hear my thoughts, Antonio gives a gentle chuckle. “Relax, we’re all good citizens. No guns, no trouble.”
“Thank you . . .”
“No problem. Antonio’s got your back, queridita.”
In the background, I register Beatriz’s frantic whispering in Spanish—presumably inquiring about our conversation. I can’t catch the first half of Antonio’s reply, but in between muffled snickers, I distinctly hear him tell her, “Tú vas a amar esto . . .” You’re gonna love this. They sound almost too excited, and I’m starting to entertain doubts about our plan to involve Antonio.