Searching for Pilar, page 17
“Bienvenidos a mi casa,” said a beautiful, petite young woman with long black hair parted in the middle and pulled back behind her ears. He was struck by her lovely brown eyes. She was wearing a short white eyelet sundress and gold jewelry that showed off her tan skin. “I am Marisa Escobar.”
“Gracias, señorita. I am …”
“Diego,” she finished, giving him a flirtatious smile. “I am a fan. My papa and I have seen you play. You are a great addition to the Storm.”
“I am flattered, Marisa. I have heard good things about how your father supports the team,” Diego said, smiling back. “I hope we can live up to his expectations this season.”
“You’ve already lived up to mine,” Marisa said. “Let me show you around.”
She steered Diego through the house. It was the most beautiful home Diego had ever been in. They walked out onto a tropical, lavishly landscaped patio that overlooked an oval-shaped swimming pool and spa. A waterfall at the rear of the pool tumbled over rocks and large druzy quartz geodes, which sparkled under strategically placed lighting. A mariachi band dressed all in white played Mexican music, and four preteen girls danced together, giggling. On the patio tables, crystal bowls of cold boiled shrimp and crab claws sat on ice. Sizzling platters of beef and chicken fajitas and trays of bacon-wrapped quail were presented in beautiful traditional Mexican plates and bowls. The plates were square, painted in a distinctive Mexican style with a leafy green background and two blue fish painted in the middle.
Diego picked up an empty plate from the table and turned it over. “JMB Mexico” was written on the back. “Marisa, do you know where your parents bought this pottery?” Diego asked. “It is very authentic.”
“No, my parents have always had it. They say it brings a little bit of home into our hectic lives in Houston. I think it comes from somewhere north of Mexico City, out in the country. Why? You don’t look like someone who would be interested in interior décor.” She squeezed his arm and smiled up at him.
“I am not,” Diego said. “But I grew up in a little town north of Mexico City, San José, where traditional pottery was made by hand for centuries. It reminds me of my mother’s table growing up.”
“It must mean you were meant to be here then. I hope you feel at home in our home, too,” Marisa said.
Across the pool, Diego noticed a hefty Mexican man with salt-and-pepper hair and mustache seated on a couch. There was an all-male crowd standing around him, talking among themselves, although it was obvious he was the reason they were gathered.
“Who are your guests, Marisa? And who is that gentleman in the center of things?” Diego asked, nodding toward the other group.
“Most of the people here are family, believe it or not. Many of my Mexican uncles, cousins, and other relatives have homes in Houston. The private schools here are excellent,” Marisa replied. “People of means feel safer raising their children in the States than back in Mexico. You know, kidnappings, ransom demands, and all that. My father bought this house seven years ago, and my grandfather and uncle tore down old houses and built new homes on either side of us.”
“So these people are all family?” Diego asked.
“No, silly,” Marisa replied, laughing and touching his arm. “Houston is a very open, friendly city. The other guests are business associates of my father. Most of the white ones live in Houston. Some of the Mexicans are visiting from Mexico. The man you asked about is Papa. Come, I will introduce you.”
She grabbed his hand and led him over. The man on the couch smiled as she approached. “Papa, let me introduce Señor Diego Gonzales,” she said.
Diego bowed to the man. Señor Escobar took his hand and shook it warmly. “I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, Diego. We have watched you play and are greatly impressed with your skill. My daughter can’t stop talking about you. I hope she is making you feel welcome.”
“Papa, please,” Marisa murmured.
“Of course, Marisa is a gracious hostess.” Diego smiled.
“Well, enjoy yourself. Please have something to eat. An athlete needs nourishment. Marisa, make sure he tries some of the ceviche. Our chef makes the best ceviche north of the Rio Grande,” Señor Escobar said. Then he turned to answer a question from another guest, and Diego knew the introduction was over.
Did he send me the invitation or did his daughter? Diego wondered. Then something caught his eye. There was a large, muscular Mexican man dressed like the men in the driveway who stood behind Señor Escobar. The man was watching everyone who approached. Diego thought he detected a bulge under his T-shirt just above his waist. He’s got a gun!
As they began walking around again, Diego asked Marisa, “Why was that big man standing behind your father?”
“Papa likes to keep security guards around. He says people of means need a little security in a strange land. We had them when we lived in Mexico, too, though. I’ve gotten used to them. They may look scary at first, but they don’t bite, and some of them are quite nice.” Marisa smiled. “Come, let’s get you some dinner.”
After they had eaten, Diego told Marisa he was in training and needed to go home to bed.
“I hope I will see you again soon, Diego. Houston is a big city, and I would love to show you around. Here is my cell phone number and email address.” Marisa leaned up and pulled Diego down to where she could kiss him on his cheek. “Will I hear from you soon?”
• • •
The following day Diego sought out Pico in his office after practice.
“How was the party, Diego? Did you have a good time?” Pico asked, leaning back in his chair.
“It was interesting. The house was impressive, and Marisa was muy amable. Even though she is a rich society girl, she made me feel comfortable.” Diego remembered how she’d kissed his cheek and felt it grow hot where her lips had been.
“You should follow up on that one, Diego. She’s a beauty and very rich.”
“She is lovely. But I couldn’t help but wonder, Pico, how did Señor Escobar make his money? There were security guards everywhere. That seemed strange to me, here in Houston.”
Pico shrugged. “Nobody knows. Some people say he is an industrialist, others that he owns a shipping enterprise. Then I heard he was in the financial business. Some of his white neighbors don’t like Mexicans living so close to them and are suspicious of the muscle men around the house. They say that there are tunnels running between the houses and drug money is behind all the wealth.” He laughed. “Some Americans see rich Mexicans and immediately assume there is drug money. That’s crazy! River Oaks, Memorial, and the Woodlands are all full of Mexicans who have made homes in Houston because it is safer. I wouldn’t worry about it, Diego.”
But Diego couldn’t dismiss the image of the big man with the gun standing guard behind Marisa’s father so casually. After all, he had become personally aware of the infiltration of the cartels in the United States. Wasn’t he trying to find his sister who had been forced, possibly by a cartel, to live in the underworld of this beautiful city? He had no reason to think Marisa’s father was engaged in illegal activities. But he had learned that not all that was beautiful on the surface was innocent underneath.
• • •
It wasn’t long before Diego saw Marisa again. She was waiting for him near the locker room when he came off the field after the next home game. It had been a close, hard-fought game, but the Storm had won, with Diego scoring two goals.
“You were magnificent, Diego!” she greeted him. “I was hoping I could take you out to dinner to celebrate your victory … if you don’t have other plans.”
Diego started to make an excuse, but Marisa was so cute in her short white lace skirt and a Storm T-shirt visible under her black leather jacket, he found himself agreeing to meet her at the entrance to the stadium after he showered. Marisa had come to the game with her father, so they drove in Diego’s car.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Tony’s, near Greenway Plaza,” Marisa told him. “It is small, but the restaurant stays open late, and many people think it is the best restaurant in Houston. They have a continental menu, and the food is excellent. I think you’ll like it.”
Diego didn’t know what a continental menu was, and he was surprised at the elegance of the outside of the restaurant. He had not eaten at many restaurants where chandeliers hung from the ceiling and where the only job for the men in uniforms appeared to be opening the door for arriving diners.
When they entered the restaurant, the maître d’ smiled and greeted Marisa. “Would you like your usual table near the flower arrangement in the middle, Señorita Escobar?”
“Yes, Antonio. We are celebrating a victory, so would you please bring us a couple of glasses of Cristal?” She had her arm through Diego’s, beaming at Antonio.
“Certainly,” he replied. Then a hostess showed them to their table, and a waiter brought two beautiful crystal flutes of bubbling champagne.
Diego no longer drank alcohol. He took the glass, however, because he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t drink it, but Marisa either didn’t notice or just didn’t bring it up. He could see that well-dressed white people at other tables were looking at them. That made him uncomfortable. But Marisa had a delightful, disarming personality, and it was pleasant to converse with a beautiful woman in his own language.
“I should tell you all my deep, dark secrets,” Marisa said. “I am just a little younger than you, I think.”
“I am sure you are,” Diego replied, amused. “But my mother told me never to ask a lady her age.”
“Well, I’ll tell you anyway,” Marisa said. “You are twenty-five or twenty-six, depending on which official source is correct. I am twenty-two. That’s a good difference. Men always like to feel as though they are older and more superior. Right?”
“You mean women in our culture like to make men think they are superior.” Diego laughed. “But we both know who usually rules the family.”
“Cheers!” Marisa said, clicking her glass against Diego’s. “I like your cultural acumen.”
Diego could see why Marisa was a popular woman. She was beautiful, witty, and fun to be with. When she smiled, he forgot about the stressful thoughts he had had that day. When the waiter brought the menu, he didn’t recognize most of the things on it. Intuitively sensing this, Marisa asked, “Do you mind if I order for us, Diego? I eat here all the time, and I know what is really good. What kind of food do you like?”
“I eat fairly healthy now,” Diego replied.
Marisa ordered redfish for the two of them and green salads.
After Marisa ordered, Diego asked, “How long has your family been in Houston, Marisa?”
“We moved to Houston from Mexico when I was in high school. I attended an all-girls Catholic school here to finish. I just graduated from St. Thomas University. My major was art history. My parents insisted I live at home during college, but my best friend and I recently moved into a beautiful apartment in a high-rise building in the Galleria area on San Felipe. There is a doorman and security and all the things parents think their children need when they leave home. There is also shopping and good restaurants and spas and all the things all young women love to do.”
“Very nice. I was told by an admirer at the stadium that your picture is in the paper a lot,” Diego replied. “Why is that?”
Marisa laughed. “I volunteer for different museums in Houston.” She took a sip of champagne and continued. “I’m also studying for the GRE. But that’s just between you and me.”
“What is that?” Diego asked. The waiter brought their food to the table, so Marisa didn’t answer until he left them.
“It’s the test you take to get into graduate school. I know everyone thinks I am a dumb party girl, but I want to be a museum director someday. I graduated with a 3.8 grade point average, and I speak excellent Spanish and English. I would like to curate Latin American art and then move on to be head of a museum.”
Diego was surprised but tried not to show it. He cut into the redfish on his plate and listened as she went on. “I haven’t been able to convince Papa that a girl can be smart and tough enough to operate a business. He’s very old-fashioned when it comes to women. He has traditional male ideas about how men should protect and shelter their women and make their life comfortable and pleasant. He likes to say, ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about things, Marisa. Men will always want to take care of you.’” Marisa frowned.
Diego nodded. “I hope you know that not all men think women are not as smart as men.”
“That makes you even more attractive, Diego. If that’s possible.” She smiled.
Diego realized that he’d was actually been thinking of Mary when he’d made that comment.
“How about you?” Marisa asked. “Tell me all about yourself before you came to Houston.”
“There’s not a lot to tell,” Diego said. “I grew up in a small town in Guanajuato province, with a brother and sister. My father owns a store and wanted me to take it over when he retired, as he did from his father. But I hated standing still behind a counter, making small talk with the customers and selling stuff all day. My brother, Carlos, is learning to take over now when our papa retires. Carlos is much better suited for that work. He loves it.”
“And why did you decide to become a famous fútbol player?” Marisa asked.
The waiter topped off their water glasses and asked them if they were satisfied with their food. Diego thought it was the best meal he had ever had, but he just said, “Sí, gracias.”
Then he answered Marisa’s question. “All my life I wanted to be a professional fútbol player. I was not as good a student in school as my brother and sister, because I was always more interested in getting out to the fútbol pitch. I was naturally fast and good at the sport. When I was fourteen, coaches and agents were talking about me. Everyone thought I was special, destined to be playing at the professional level earlier than most players. When I got to the semi-professional level, I liked being a big fish in a little pond, as they say, and I didn’t work hard anymore. My career stalled and almost died. A lot of people thought I was lazy, but I wasn’t lazy so much as I just didn’t take life seriously.” Holding up the menu to hide his face, Diego said in a low voice, “And then my sister was kidnapped, because I didn’t take life seriously.”
“How terrible, Diego. How did that happen?” Marisa asked, a sincerely concerned look on her face.
He cleared his throat, put the menu down, and continued. “Four years ago, my sister, who was nineteen at the time and married, with a nine-month-old baby, asked if she could go with me to Mexico City when I ran errands for our papa. Stupidly, I left her alone for a couple of hours in a bad neighborhood. I believe she was kidnapped, smuggled across the border against her will, and forced into the commercial sex trade. My family and her husband, my best friend, were devastated. Concepción, my niece, was left without a mother, all because of my stupidity and selfishness. I swore to them then that I would find her or find out what had happened to her. I have been searching for her ever since.”
“What did you do?” Marisa asked. She had put her fork and knife down and was listening to Diego’s story, rapt.
“The realization of what I had done made me grow up and finally get serious. I worked hard at making it to the professional level. A Mexico City team hired me, and when we won the championship last year, I got offers from clubs all over the States. That’s when I decided to join the Storm.”
“That’s awful, Diego,” Marisa said, reaching across the table to put her hand on his. “But why Houston?”
“There were several reasons,” Diego said, “but I think it was a good choice. I have received information that the name of the padrón who has been selling her is Eduardo Ayala and he hangs out in Southeast Houston. She may be a captive in one of the cantinas there.”
Just then the waiter appeared and asked if he could take away their plates.
“I am so sorry, Marisa. You invite me for a beautiful dinner, and I tell you my sad story. I will not say any more. Now tell me more about what you enjoy doing.”
• • •
The next day, the society column in the Chronicle reported under the “Seen in Houston” byline that “Socialite Marisa Escobar and Storm standout Diego Gonzales were spotted having an intimate late dinner at Tony’s last night. As always, Marisa looked ravishing. Diego looked entranced.”
Marisa continued to attend Storm games and often talked Diego into going out for something to eat afterward. He told her Tony’s was too fancy for him, so they went to casual places. They followed his normal training diet of salads, fruit, vegetables, and lean meat, but occasionally they went to Hugo’s or another good Mexican restaurant. Sometimes they ended the evening at Diego’s apartment. Marisa was fun and made certain he knew she was available to him. She invited him to charity fund-raising galas and the ballet. Diego always declined, citing his need to get his sleep during the season. The thought of going to that type of event did not interest him; it terrified him.
Yet he enjoyed his time with Marisa. He was not sure why, but he never thought to mention his friendship with Marisa to Mary.
CHAPTER 18
SARA BETH
“Hey, sis,” John said. He stood in the open door of her small, cluttered office at Legal Aid. It was August 2011. The floor was carpeted in industrial carpeting, and the venetian blinds on the windows belied the small budget of the office. There were some personal touches. Mary’s degrees from Rice and Yale hung on the wall, and framed pictures of her and girlfriends at St. John’s, Rice, and Yale, as well as a few pictures of John’s twins, sat on the bookshelves. A small oriental rug that Mary had purchased on a trip to Turkey covered the floor under two Chippendale guest chairs she had brought from her parents’ house after she and John sold it.
