Day of the Dead - J. A. Jance [76]
“What about tomorrow?”
“I think I’m busy then, too.”
“Come on,” he said. “I’m just a country bumpkin in town for a day or two. Couldn’t you find it in your heart to show me a few sights? I mean, we’re practically neighbors.”
It was a blatant pickup line, and Delia couldn’t help laughing. “I’ll bet you use that one a lot,” she said.
He grinned, an engaging, white-toothed grin. “It usually works, too,” he said.
“Not this time,” she told him. “Sorry.” She ducked away and caught up with Marcia.
“You escaped,” Marcia said.
“Just barely,” Delia returned. “It was a near thing.”
But that wasn’t the end of it. By three o’clock the next afternoon, a bouquet of red roses landed on Delia’s desk at the BIA. She was both pleased and annoyed—flattered that Philip Cachora had gone to the trouble of tracking her down and dismayed because the nation’s capital offered so little anonymity. An hour later her phone rang.
“What’s your Indian name?” Philip asked as soon as she answered.
“I don’t have one,” she replied.
“How can you be Indian and not have an Indian name? I’m going to give you one,” he added after a moment. “I think I’ll call you Moikchu.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he told her with a laugh.
Delia’s mother was the one who translated the word. Moikchu meant Soft One. When Delia first learned what it meant, she accepted the name as a compliment. It was only later, after everything had sorted itself out, that she wondered if the word couldn’t also be used to mean soft in the head. Because when it came to Philip Cachora, she was certainly that.
“Now tell me,” he continued, “are you really booked for dinner tonight, or were you just trying to get rid of me?”
“What time and where?” she asked, giving in. After all, for a twenty-seven-year-old struggling young professional, flowers and the offer of a free meal held some appeal.
She took a cab from her office in Interior to Philip Cachora’s hotel, the Dupont Plaza. From there they walked the few blocks to the Iron Gate Restaurant on N Street NW. It was April and particularly balmy. With the air perfumed by hanging wisteria, they had an elegant romantic dinner at an outside table. When Delia fretted about the prices, Philip reassured her.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m here on a grant. I’m on display as one of an endangered species—you know, Indian-artist-under-glass. This is all on somebody else’s nickel. Have a ball. Order whatever you want.”
Then he smiled across the table at her and asked, “What exactly does a smart lady lawyer do for the BIA?”
“I analyze treaties.”
“No shit!” he exclaimed.
“No shit!” she shot back, mimicking his delivery.
“Looking for loopholes?” he asked. She nodded. “In whose favor?”
“In anybody’s favor.”
“And where do you live?”
“Are you saying whoever told you where my office was didn’t also tell you where I live?”
“I’m from out of town.” He grinned back at her. “My sources are good only up to a point.”
She laughed aloud as a waiter refilled her champagne glass with bubbly that had clocked in at more than a hundred dollars a bottle. “If you must know, I live in Glover Park in a town house on Tunlaw Road—1849 Tunlaw Road. I live with a friend from law school, Marcia Lomax. You met her last night at the exhibit.”
“Tunlaw Road,” he repeated. “Sounds very upscale.”
Delia smiled and shook her head. “Not really. Lots of students and young professionals, all of us struggling. The best thing about Tunlaw Road is the name. It’s ‘walnut’ spelled backward. According to a legend I heard, nobody in the District was allowed to name a street after a tree, but somebody slipped that one past.”
Philip raised his glass. “Here’s to Tunlaw Road. I like it, too. I’m always in favor of slipping it to the Great White Father.”
Dinner stretched far into the night. When it was time to go home, Philip invited her to his hotel. Delia shook her head and caught a cab, but on the way home she knew she was smitten. If he asked her out again, she’d go. If he invited her to his room again, she’d