The next morning she was again awakened by the telephone. This time Garcia said, "I hope you won't be offended, Jill, but it seems that you have clothes that are not entirely suitable for Mexico. I think we must do some shopping. Are you agreeable to that?"
Was she! It was a fairy tale, a dream. She couldn't believe how fortunate she was to have found a Fairy Godfather like Ernesto Garcia, a man who was not only very rich and very prominent in his field, but one who was terribly generous as well!
"That sounds absolutely great, Ernesto. Will you give me half an hour?"
"An hour would be even better. I have several long distance calls to make, and the Mexican telephone system is not as efficient as Ma Belle!"
Jill was smiling as she hung up. Ernesto had a way of making everything seem so easy, so smooth. He was commanding, authoritative, and yet so nice to her! She was faintly surprised and almost disappointed that he hadn't yet made a pass at her. She couldn't figure it out. As for Senor Valdez, the fat niteclub owner, she was sure he would try to paw her the first chance he got. The leering man, who wore diamond rings on his pudgy fingers and clear nail polish (she hated men who had professional manicures) almost drooled at the mouth when she was introduced to him at the bullring. She felt uneasy about her new "employer", though she had been too embarrassed to communicate her fears to Garcia.
The job was easy – she would solicit portrait work from the club's patrons as they sat enjoying cocktails and listening to music. An easel set up in the lobby would show samples and advertise her work. Valdez thought it was an intriguing gimmick, something that hadn't been tried before. Jill would wear a long gown under a plastic smock and wear a lightweight easel-board that was hung around her shoulders by a cloth strap. With pastels and pencils in the easel tray and sketch paper clipped to the board, she was totally equipped to earn money as a quick portrait artist! Best of all, Garcia had told her that many prominent people frequented "La Jacaranda", the most famous niteclub in Mexico City, and who knows… she might get a commission for a portrait in oil! The sketches would sell for the equivalent of five dollars in American money, with three dollars going to her. And, she could expect generous tips – it was the custom in such establishments!
Of course, wardrobe was a problem. She didn't even own a long gown, except for a very girlish one in cotton gingham. Perhaps that is why Ernesto had so tactfully suggested taking her shopping.
Driving along the Paseo de la Reforma in her mentor's midnight blue Mercedes 600SL was a thrilling experience in itself. Julio threaded the shiny limousine through the crazy Mexico City traffic with aplomb. How, she couldn't guess; she was on pins and needles most of the time for fear that twelve cars would plow into the costly machine at once. Instead, she noticed traffic deferring to the obvious symbol of wealth and prestige. Don Ernesto had special license plates. She found that he was known to many, and in every one of the exclusive boutiques they visited the clerks would gush over him while they treated her with restrained professional courtesy. Only once or twice did she notice a cluster of salesgirls whispering behind their hands at a safe distance.
Don Ernesto, besides being an elegant dresser himself, had exquisite taste in women's clothes as well. Jill was flabbergasted at the array of parcels Julio placed in the trunk of the limousine, and in less than two hours of shopping! Garcia knew exactly what he wanted, and he wasted no time in indecision. There were dresses, both long and short, skirts, blouses, evening pajamas, shoes for dancing, sandals for casual wear, scarves and some lovely jewelry. (Many of the salespeople commented that she should be a model or, was she perhaps a young American film star?) It suddenly occurred to her, however fleetingly, that Don Ernesto was her Henry Higgins, and she, his Eliza Doolittle. Or was he her Svengali?
"Ernesto, I'm overwhelmed," she breathlessly confided when they were once again seated in the plush back seat of the luxuriously appointed Mercedes. "I just can't believe this is really happening to me, an art student from Kansas City, Mo! Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and in my wildest dreams, I never expected anything so marvelous!"
Garcia patted her hand paternally. He gave her a bemused and enigmatic smile. "Jill, you must always expect marvelous things to happen, otherwise you will find yourself settling for the crumbs of life. You are much too lovely – and too talented – to allow that. Just wait, Nina – there are many more marvelous things to come… things you truly never expected. This is only the beginning…"
He gave her hand a squeeze, and Jill felt a little flutter of sexual excitement from her chest down to the valley between her legs. She blushed and happened to look up quite suddenly to catch Julio's eyes in the rear view mirror. Their glances locked for one long instant, then the quiet young chauffeur again directed his eyes forward. She could not fathom his expression, but for some reason it troubled her faintly.
At length the sleek Mercedes pulled up in front of a splendid white edifice that was starkly modern. Even in her brief journey along the streets of Mexico City, Jill had already formed the impression that it was a city of contrasts: the very old and the very new, the terribly poor and the terribly rich, the clinically clean and the appallingly dirty. She read the script on the white canopy: GALERIA GARCIA.
"Oh Ernesto, this is your gallery!" the wide-eyed girl exclaimed.
"Yes. And you shall see it now. I hope you approve, Jill," he said, flashing her a devilish smile. Again, the little tremors of excitement. Garcia said something in Spanish to Julio as they got out of the car. The taciturn young man barely nodded. He seemed always to know exactly what was expected of him.
Jill's jaw was hanging slack throughout most of the tour. She had never seen a more exciting gallery. Curved walls, some white, some matte black (a fabulous backdrop for paintings) and one carmine red! Pin spots on tracks discreetly mounted and perfectly focused. Polished black, hand-hewn tiles on the floors throughout. The effect was stunning and faultless.
The main gallery featured contemporary paintings – clearly Garcia's preference. One small room was devoted to primitive art, with ancient carvings and exquisite wall hangings (some very old) made by Mexican and South American Indians. Another room was very different in character, with Oriental rugs on the floor and gems of French Impressionism. One got the feeling of being in a collector's home rather than in a commercial gallery.
There was a special room devoted to lithographs and etchings – Miro, Chagall, Dali, Klee – a fabulous collection of less costly works, beginning at a mere several hundred dollars! It was in this room that Garcia lingered, mentally calculating how much such lithographs would bring when they became containers for cocaine and heroin! The old way – drilling minute holes in frames, filling them with the dope then sealing and shipping them was expensive, and too risky. The narks had come very close to catching on. And there was always a residue that clung to the wood. Eventually it added up to several ounces, and several thousands of dollars lost. Yes, Dawson's "invention" would revolutionize his private enterprise, providing a trouble-free method of making him a multi-millionaire. Then he would be free to devise other intriguing occupations to satisfy his passion for illicit intrigue…
The staff at the gallery (they were all mature men and women who wore mostly black or dark brown suits and dresses; Don Ernesto had obviously planned it so that they would not be confused with the clientele – though you could hardly categorize these well-groomed, professional people as "sales clerks") were not only knowledgeable about art, they were linguists as well. Jill not only heard them speaking in Spanish, but in English, French, German and Japanese. She was overwhelmed, and conveyed her impressions to the gallery owner.
To Jill's effusive praise Garcia replied, "I'm glad it pleases you, Jill. My chief contribution was the notion that there should be a consistency, a uniformity of feeling to each of my galleries, so that one identifies immediately with the character and aim of the Galeria Garcia: to offer a selection of the finest representation of art works from all over the world, bridging time (that is, period) and culture – nationality. If you walk into the Galeria Garcia in New York or in Acapulco, you will find yourself in exactly the same ambient, down to color of paint on the walls and the tiles on the floors. It is a costly way to run a business, but in the long run, much more profitable. And there is much satisfaction to be gotten from the pursuit of excellence."
A middle aged woman who was handsome for her years, her black hair pulled back severely and done up in a sleek chignon, appeared from behind an unmarked door and approached them.
"Excuse me, Don Ernesto, but there is a client waiting in your office," she said in perfect English, knowing Jill to be an American.
"Thank you, Pilar. Tell him I shall be there momentarily." He took Jill by the elbow and propelled her gently but purposefully out of the lithograph gallery. "I'll see you to the car, Jill. Julio can take you to lunch, and then you might want to do some sightseeing or go for a swim. Incidentally, I've approached Julio about posing for you. He's never modeled for an artist, to my knowledge, but he should be adequate for some studies. Would you like to work a little this afternoon?"
"Why… eh… yes. I'd like that very much. Only…"
"Only what, Jill?" he asked, stopping in the main gallery before they reached the ornate brass and copper doors.
"Well… I don't think he likes me much," she answered in a little girl voice.
Garcia smiled and ushered her through the door, which were opened by uniformed attendants wearing white gloves. "I can assure you, he likes you very much! He is merely shy. Besides, I have 'suggested' to him that he would enjoy posing for you, so he is unlikely to refuse!"
When she was inside the waiting limousine, Garcia spoke several words to Julio in Spanish. Then, flashing her another devastating smile, he said, "See you later, Jill," and gave her a quick wave before he turned on his heel and walked quickly back into the gallery.
Jill felt uncomfortable in the presence of the taciturn chauffeur. She scooted nervously on the seat and tried looking out the window as though absorbed by the sights. After several awkward moments she finally said, "Eh, have you worked for Senor Garcia very long?"
Julio said something she could not understand. They were several yards apart and moving through the ear-splitting din of Mexico City traffic at an hour approaching midday.
"What? I beg your pardon?" she called to him.
Julio made a sudden turn off the Reforma into a side street and pulled the Mercedes swiftly over to the curb. He turned to her. "Get in front," he ordered her.
"What?" she asked with surprise.
"I said, get in front. Or do you want to practice shouting?"
Jill was somewhat nonplussed by his curt and ill mannered behavior. After all, he was Ernesto's help, while she was the gallery owner's guest! Still, it made sense to sit next to him if they were to converse at all. But it bothered her that he didn't even get out to open the door for her.
They sat in uncomfortable silence for several blocks more. "Are there a lot of good restaurants in Mexico City?" she finally hinted. She was dying to go to lunch, though not necessarily with Julio. Handsome as he was, he was a cold and sullen bastard with her!
"If by good you mean expensive, yes. But we are not going to such a place. Such a place is for people like Ernesto Garcia. We are going to a good restaurant – a little place that has very good food. And it is not expensive. It is for the common people… people like me – and you."
That was the end of the conversation until they reached the restaurant, a little place in an old section of the city, with a charming outdoor dining garden. What a romantic setting, a perfect place for lovers, and here she was with a man who treated her with callous indifference! Jill tried to drown her sorrow in Sangria, despite Julio's disdainful warning that alcohol was not for children! Oh! She resolved more than ever to make him fall in love with her. She had childish fantasies of having him crawl, having him beg to let him kiss her hand!
The Sangria went to her head very quickly in the high altitude and she found herself babbling, telling all about herself. At one point, he surprised her by asking about her "boyfriend".
"What do you mean?"
"This person… his name is Chris, isn't it?"
Jill was shaken. How did he find out? She asked him.
"You talk in your sleep, a dangerous habit. Are you in love with him?"
His candor angered her. "That's none of your business!" she shot back. "Besides, you have no right to come into my room when I'm sleeping."
"It's not by choice."
"Well, I'm going to tell Don Ernesto that you are not to bring my breakfast any more!" she answered hotly.
"Good. Is this Chris in love with you?" he asked, indifferent to her anger.
"No! I don't know. How dare you ask that!" Her eyes were blazing and she tossed her hair back over her shoulders, raising her head indignantly.
"That's why you went to San Francisco, to mend a broken heart…"
"No, no, NO! It had nothing to do with him. I was planning to go anyway!" she screamed, the cords on her lovely throat standing out. The other patrons were looking at them and laughing. Julio called for the check. When he had paid it, he got up and started for the exit, not bothering to wait for her. She was crimson with embarrassment. What a contrast to the courtly Garcia, who treated her as though she were a noblewoman. Oh, she would make that bearded bastard pay for this!
When she reached the Mercedes, she opened the back door and got inside, ignoring Julio in the driver's seat. Two points for her. Under the influence of Sangria, she slept the rest of the way to Garcia's and awoke freezing cold. Julio had the air conditioner turned on full blast! She tried to get out of the car but the doors were locked. Julio lounged in the driver's seat, chuckling at her discomfort.
"Let me out of here, you bastard!" she screamed at him, "I'm freezing to death!"
"Haven't you heard the Chinese weather report? Chile today, hot tamale," he answered insouciantly.
"Oh, I hate you, you… you…"
"Pinche. I think that's the word you're looking for, senorita. Pinche. I'm being a prick."
"Oohh! And a foul-mouthed one, too! You're a foul-mouthed… flunky! That's what you are – Ernesto's flunky!"
At that Julio vaulted across the front seat and pinioned her with his powerful body. His blue eyes were shooting sparks and he spoke through clenched teeth. "Listen, you little puta, don't you ever call me anybody's flunky. Before long, you will realize that you are the flunky here. I am the only person who can possibly save you – if I care to, though I'm not so certain that you are worth it!"
Jill blinked up at him. He was pressing into her, and she could feel his massive penis growing against her loins.
"What do you mean, save me? What is there to be saved from?"
He peered into her eyes, assessing in his mind how much he should reveal to her. He was sorely tempted to kiss her. But that could ruin everything, his plan. He had to play it just right; he didn't know if she had brains enough to be made a confederate.
For one moment there was an irresistible current of desire that passed between them. Then Julio got up, releasing her from his grip. He switched off the air conditioner and flipped a switch that released the locks on the rear doors. Then he sprang from the driver's seat and opened a door for her, holding out his hand. Jill hesitated, more confused than angry now, but finally extended her hand to let him help her out of the car.
"Are you in the mood for creating a great work of art, senorita?" he teased.
"Not really."
"Too bad. I am in the mood for being preserved for posterity on a sketch pad."
Jill managed a feeble laugh. "Oh, all right. I suppose I should have something to show Don Ernesto."
"That's true. After all, he only brought you here because of your potential. The Don doesn't take an interest in every girl he meets on the street…"