Free The Argentina Rhodochrosite by J. A. Jernay

She watched the four men’s eyes. They glanced at one another. So much for just three people knowing about the stolen necklace, Ainsley thought. This was feeling more and more like an open secret.
    Lalo grew serious. “Do you know what you’re talking about?”
    “Not really,” she lied, “but I figured you might.”
    “How did you find out?”
    “It’s my secret,” replied Ainsley.
    “You’re a good journalist,” he said. “But I need to tell you something. I would never steal something like that. Especially not from Ovidio. I want him to play, I want him to succeed. Because when he succeeds, I succeed. You can publish that in your fucking magazine.”
    “We’re off the record. Nobody knows about the necklace.”
    He made a pfffft sound. “Everything gets out when a boluda like you finds out.”
    “The secret won’t get out. I promised.”
    “A promise is nothing,” he said. “I promise things every day. Here, watch.” Lalo cleared his throat and faced Ainsley like a dutiful soldier. “I promise you that I won’t try to fuck you tonight.”
    He assumed a look of absolute sincerity. His three buddies snickered. Ainsley realized that their mood had changed again, that there was some unseen game they were playing with her. She wondered how she could stay ahead of that.
    These guys didn’t even care that she was supposed to be a journalist. Maybe that made her even more of a mark. Maybe female journalists in Argentina were known as easy lays.
    Regardless, Nadia had been totally right. Ovidio’s friends were lowlifes.
    “You won’t keep that promise,” she said.
    “I will,” he said. “It’s my promise.”
    Facundo suddenly appeared at her side, and she quietly applauded his timing. “I think you’ve had enough of these gentlemen. There is somebody else I want you to meet.”

16

    The host led Ainsley down the stairs to the third floor. Ainsley noticed that the mansion was filling with more people, mostly older, serious types. She glanced at her watch. It was eleven pm. It appeared that late nights were typical for this part of the world.
    She followed Facundo into a small parlor. Heavy brocade wallpaper and mood lighting made it feel like a Victorian-era bedroom.
    A short man with clear spectacles and a scholarly manner was sitting in a chair beneath a reading lamp. He was looking at a sheaf of documents. His legs were crossed over one another at the knee, in the European way.
    “El Oido,” said Facundo.
    The man looked up over the top of his glasses. Ainsley had always been mildly annoyed by the mannerism. It sent the message that the other person wasn’t quite important enough.
    “Facundo, como está usted? the man said.
    “ Buenisimo . This is Ainsley Walker.”
    He lowered the papers, stood up, and kissed her cheek. “I am called Nestor,” he said. “ El Oido is just my nickname.” His voice was as thin as the sound of an oboe.
    “He is Ovidio’s psychotherapist,” said Facundo.
    “That’s me,” the man said. “An ear for rent.”
    “Ainsley is a journalist from the United States,” Facundo explained. “She has some questions for you.”
    “It’s usually my job to ask the questions,” the psychotherapist said.
    “Please,” said Facundo. “For me.”
    The psychotherapist sighed and removed his glasses. “I’ll try to please her.”
    Ainsley felt her stomach sink. She was no journalist, no interviewer, and certainly no psychologist. She knew that Nestor was going to lose patience with her, quickly.
    He pointed to the couch. “You can sit there,” he said, taking the chair again. “What do you want to know?”
    Ainsley felt suddenly alone as she scrambled for an appropriate opener. “It seems like Ovidio has emotional problems,” she said.
    “He is experiencing an internal struggle for identity dominance,” said the psychotherapist. “That makes for a compelling personality.”
    “What type of identities are competing?”
    “One, narcissistic tendencies.