Page 24 of Hit Man

I’m a fish out of unfamiliar,foreignwaters now. And to add to my discomfort, Juan Carlos isn’t here. Which means I better make myself comfortable while I wait him out.

I grab a champagne glass off a passing waiter’s tray and take a long, fortifying sip. As I do so, I spy three men who seem more interested in their deep discussion than the goings-on around them.

I casually make my way over to the trio, sipping my champagne and lingering just outside the group, biding my time for an appropriate lead into their conversation. Their discussion seems as fun as stripping wallpaper off walls. Prime material for anSNLjoke—“an accountant, insurance man, and modern-day butler talk absent host at party.”

“He asked me to reallocate line thirty-two and distribute the monies to multiple lines elsewhere. Needs to be done quickly, in a few days.” I sip my drink and fight off a mental eye roll as the accountant gripes. Typical employees, with typical disgruntlements. But a safe, predictable group to keep company with.

The accountant speaks in English. A matter of fact, none of the men surrounding me are Mexican. Juan Carlos’s business associates are as diverse as they are well-dressed.

“Same here. I’ve been directed to cash in the homeowner insurance policy. Temporarily. We’ll play with the dates when the money is back in place.”

“His cashing in on multiple investments can only mean one thing,” says the accountant.

“He needs fast money.”

“Exactly.”

Pause.

“Do you think Mendoza will be addressing tonight’s crowd?” the insurance man asks.

“You mean demanding they contribute to the collection baskets that will be passed around like they’re offering a charitable contribution to the church? I’d say so.” Another brief pause, before the accountant adds in a hushed voice, “You know, the money never hits the books.”

“Be careful, friend, with what you say,” the third man warns in a nasally tone. A modern day butler? He is holding a tray. He sounds French, or French Canadian. “Or you’ll be the next one to break your neck by falling off a dance floor.”

Perfect segue. Cue in Aubrey.

I clear my throat and the three men jump. Alarmed, they turn toward me.

“If you ask me, a guardrail done in the same bamboo material as the flooring would be a more feasible solution to what has to be an ongoing concern.”

The butler stares at me. “How much did you hear?”

Maybe catching them red-handed in gossiping about Juan Carlos wasn’t the best approach in. “Just the last part,” I lie. “Everyone must be thankful tonight’s event is down here in the living room. The only danger here is that someone could possibly slip and slide right into the river pool. Instead of a white porcelain tile floor, they should have installed antislip ceramic. You can easily achieve a uniform, nanostructured surface with an expensive feel using ceramic yet install a safer, more practical flooring option.”

“Are you an interior designer?” the insurance man asks.

I shake my head. “I’m an architect. My job is to pay attention to the minute details, to mix esthetics with practicality.”

“Where did you go to school?” the butler says with a slight hint of condescension in his French-accented tone.

“Don’t be a difficult ass, Pierre,” the insurance man warns his companion.

I lift my eyebrows. “Where did you go to school? Somewhere in Canada, correct?”

“The University of Quebec. And you?”

I sigh. There always seems to be a one-upsmanship going on at affairs like these. This party at Casa Bella is no exception. “Stanford,” I admit. As much as I’d like to take the condescending fool down a peg or two, I’m not one to boast about the full scholarship I received. I’d rather be judged on the quality of my work than the competitive banter men seem to enjoy. Still, I can tell my answer impresses them. And now that I have their attention and that they’re ready to take me seriously . . . “Any advice on how to pitch a financial-investment proposal to Juan Carlos?”

“Right now might not be the best time—”

“What kind of proposal?” the insurance man interrupts the accountant.

I inhale deeply. “Ever hear of an organization called Architects Beyond Borders?”

They shake their heads, and I frown.

“I’m familiar with Doctors Without Borders,” the insurance man adds, encouraging me to continue.