“Mr. Clark, please forgive the intrusion, but—” he cleared his throat and glanced at Oscar—“there is a policeman—two policemen—who would like to speak with you.”
Oscar jerked. Police? Here?
Max straightened, giving the girl a sharp look.
“Max,” she whispered, panic in her voice and fear in her eyes.
“Al,” Max said in a low, controlled voice, “stall them as long as you can.” He crushed his cigarette into the ashtray and stood. He spoke in English as the doorman hurried away. “Oscar, I need you to do something for me. We don’t have much time.”
Oscar’s stomach twisted. He’d heard that tone from Max before and it always meant trouble.
Max was talking fast. “I don’t know what they want. Maybe nothing. Probably just have some questions. But I need you to get her out of here.”
“No.” He was not getting caught up in this, whatever it was. Not with the police. Not for anamericanaand definitely not for Max.
“Go out the back door,” Max said, as if Oscar hadn’t spoken. “Al will show you.”
Oscar wasn’t listening to any more of this. He moved toward the front door.
Max grabbed him by the arm and swung him around. “If they find you in here with me, they’ll arrest you too. You know they will.”
“I’m not involved.”
“Tell that to the police.”
Oscar’s heart sped up. He couldn’t tell if it was from fear or anger. Max knew as well as he did how likely it was that the police would believe him. He looked around desperately, as if he could find a hiding place in this restaurant full ofgringos.
At a motion from Max, the girl gathered her pocketbook and stood, her mouth trembling, looking like some kind of frightened animal. Max bent close, whispering something in her ear, then kissed her.
Al was at the table. “Follow me, please,” he said, still all politeness.
“I’ll stay here, see what they want,” Max said, taking the girl and pushing her toward Al. He turned to Oscar. “Go to the church. Wait there and I’ll be there soon, I promise.” He clenched his jaw and looked toward the entry as if the police could be breaking in any moment.
And then Oscar was following the remarkably calm doorman to a back door, hustling down a staircase, and emerging into an alley with the girl beside him. He heard the man wish them a good day, and the door banged shut behind him.
Oscar let out the breath he’d been holding. The girl looked at him with wide eyes as if she didn’t know what had just happened either. He wanted to kick himself. He’d been determined to never fall for Max’s game again. Now here he was with this girl on his hands, putting himself—his family—at risk. When was he going to learn?
MINA
I felt like I’d been put in a potato sack and given a good shake.
What had happened in there? The police were looking for me or maybe for Max? Oscar—Max’s cousin?—stared at me like I was a stray dog that had been dumped on his doorstep. I never thought I’d see his face again. And why had Max kissed me?
I was thrown for a loop, to be honest. But I didn’t have a chance to get my bearings before Oscar pushed me around a corner and shoved me into the familiar old Ford, cranked it, and pulled out onto Hollywood Boulevard.
“Get down,” he bit out, and I’d barely ducked my head when three police cars blew past, screeching to a halt in front of the Montmartre. “Stay down,” he said, and I did.
It was like what they call déjà vu, I think. I’d been there before. This time, at least, I knew he could understand me. But for the life, I didn’t know what was going on. I had the feeling Oscar didn’t either from the words he was muttering under his breath. I figured they shouldn’t be said in front of a lady, but I didn’t blame him a jot.
Max spoke Spanish like he was born to it. That was a surprise.And Oscar? There was clearly no love lost between them. Even so, before I was hustled out the door, Max had whispered in my ear, “Trust me, Mina. Oscar will take care of you.” And then he’d kissed me. I put my hand to my lips. It had felt so natural, so right. That might be the most astonishing part of it all.
Were the police really looking for me? And what had Max and Oscar been talking about? I knew it had something to do with me, and from the look on Oscar’s face, it wasn’t good.
I straightened up as we left Hollywood and veered through backstreets toward downtown, then a turn into what looked like another country. A narrow street, a patchwork of houses thrown together in heaps, slanted like houses built of cards.
I’d spent the last two days acting like everything was normal, like Friday night hadn’t even happened. I’d worked at the Derby on Saturday, gone home like Max had said, and washed my hair. Sunday was about the same. Today I’d had an early shift, then Max had picked me up like he did on Mondays, to see and be seen at the Montmartre. Just like always, he said. Even with things the way they were between us, I’d almost convinced myself Lester’s party hadn’t happened. What a dolt.
My doubts came back with a vengeance. I couldn’t have killed Roy. I knew that at least, didn’t I? My stomach twisted and I closed my eyes, fighting back nausea. But if I was innocent, why were they after me?
