She was dipping into the double chocolate soufflé she had ordered. Ollie was on his second wedge of strawberry short cake. The band was playing a tune Patricia recognized from Christina Aguilera’s first album. It was called “When You Put Your Hands On Me,” and it was all about this girl who gets all oozy when this guy touches her. It was a very hot song that sounded as if Christina had written it herself from her own personal experience, but she probably hadn’t. There was a time—before Patricia joined the force—when she wished she could be a rock singer like Christina Aguilera. Every young Hispanic girl in the city wished she could be a rock singer like either Jennifer Lopez or Christina Aguilera. There was only one trouble; Patricia had a lousy voice. Even her mother said she had a lousy voice.
“My sister went to Australia last year on one of these tours,” Patricia said. “And…I forget which town it was…”
“You have a sister?” Ollie said.
“I have
“Is that your sister’s name?”
“No, that’s the name of the town. At least, I
“Great,” Ollie said. “The Chocolate Slut. Perfect. What
“The one who went to Australia?”
“Well, yes. Well, both of them, actually.”
“She’s called Isabella. The other one, my younger…”
“Come
“What?” Patricia asked, puzzled.
“That’s
“Get out of here!”
“I mean it. Well, not Isabell-
“How about that?” Patricia said, grinning.
“What’s the other one’s name?”
“Why? Do you have two sisters, too?”
“No, just the one. But I’m curious.”
“Enriqueta. It means ‘Henrietta.’ ”
“Do you know what Patricia means?”
“Well…Patricia, I guess. I think it’s the same in Spanish as in English.”
“
“How do you know what…?”
“I looked it up.”
“Get out!”
“It means ‘one of noble descent.’ It’s from the Latin.”
“No kidding?”
“That’s what the book said.”
“Gee,” Patricia said.
“I think it suits you,” Ollie said. “Would you care for another soufflé?”
IF THE THREE people on the boat had been hired by Central Casting, they’d have been labeled The Hunk, The Pretty One, and The Nerd.
The Hunk was driving the boat.
His name was Avery Hanes.
Tall and somber looking, with curly black hair and dark brown eyes, he was muscularly built—not because he’d ever done time but simply because he worked out regularly. Like the other two, Avery was wearing black jeans, a black sweatshirt, and black running shoes. Later tonight, he would put on one of the masks. But for now he was enjoying the mild May breezes that blew in off the stern of the boat, riffling his hair, touching his face like a kiss. Avery had once worked for the telephone company and then had sold electronics at The Wiz. Then he’d got the job at Lorelei Records on St. John’s Av. The gig tonight was sort of related.
The Pretty One was Avery’s girlfriend.
Some five-feet-six-inches tall, twenty-four years old, redheaded and green-eyed and freckled and lithe and lean and wearing for the job tonight the same black jeans and Reeboks and black sweatshirt without a bra. Her name was Kellie Morgan, and she was here because this had to look like a nice little boating party cruising up the river and not some people intent on mischief. She was here because a pretty face in the crowd had a way of stilling the most dire fears. She was here because her boyfriend Avery had told her this would be a piece of cake that would be over and done with by Tuesday night at this time, and there was nothing to worry about because it was all planned to the minute and no one would get hurt and there’d be a quarter of a million bucks for the three of them to split when all was said and done.
