The Pantera Alta, the most popular cantina in contemporary Rio, served food from every corner of South America and the man across from Camila O'Flynn was trying his best. Ivan Cardoso was frighteningly intense, especially in this place right out of some adventure video, where men who'd never heard of salad forks staggered over a sawdust-covered floor to the flight simulator games and huge amounts of money changed hands over the outcome of digital dogfights.
He hadn't said another word about Z-42B or his problems with EICSA; it was as if the conversation in the car had never taken place. He'd waltzed her in here, no doubt pleased at the stares, snickers and derogatory comments her dress invoked. There were other women here, but they were gringos. And not very nice gringos at that.
The volatility of the place was palpable and Cardoso's confidence in his ability to handle anything that might come up made him seem very sexy. Among this crowd, he was right at home, known and respected, her ace in the hole. She had serious doubts that she'd get out of here unmolested without him; the way the waitress draped herself over him made Camila feel proprietary.
"I didn't know there was anything like this near the Colar," she remarked over her first drink, before she'd even tasted it.
"I asked you at the door if you thought you could handle it. I don't come here much, but the food's better than you'd think."
He didn't go anywhere much, she was starting to think. And when he did, it was to places like this, where port workers caroused and off-duty pilots decompressed and the pictures on the wall were all taken off-planet.
When they'd parked under the neon panther sign, Cardoso had helped her out like a gentleman. Then he'd leaped against the sportster's fender while it grumbled, cooling itself and venting hot air around her ankles. At last she realized he wasn't waiting for the car to finish cycling...he'd already locked it---but was watching the parking lot entrance, his hand in his raincoat's pocket. A harsh tropical downpour was falling and at last she'd said, "Acid rain's terrible for human hair. Can we go in? Or did you change your mind?"
In truth, he had not. And she'd thought, negotiating the slippery steps and flinching in the face of the rank smells and the noise, that true adventure wasn't quite as much fun as she'd expected it to be. Then she'd chided herself for lying; she was excited; her pulse was beating fast, the man beside her was obviously comfortable in this element, one she'd never have dared explore by herself.
Ivan Cardoso was just what she'd asked Dream Date to give her: enough over 6 feet that she didn't feel tall; physically fit in the way the men she met never were, no matter how much soccer t hey played; a pilot and Heaven-knew-what-else although she could guess, handsome in a weathered severe way with large, intelligent gray eyes and a mouth that changed her whole face with its expressions. If she couldn't "handle it" now that she was beyond the shelter of her corporate world, Camila should admit it to herself.
She could barely handle the drink he'd ordered for her. Whatever it was, she'd never heard of it...it was a military drink, or an antique drink, and it spun her head in 2 sips so that she leaned forward, elbows on the table, and nudged her glass with a finger.
"Do you drink this often?" She tapped the sweating glass.
"Claro que nao. I don't drink most of the time." His fingers moved from his glass, half-empty, to hers, and one of them ran along the back of her hand. "Right now, I have nada better to do." His voice was a little slurry, or her hearing was affected. He picked up his glass and finished it, then slapped it down on the table, eyes taunting her. "So? You want more, no?"
"I---we're going to fly after this?" But she lifted her own glass and bolted the contents. By the time she got it back to the table, she was seeing a ghost-image and he'd signaled for 2 more from the bar.
When the drinks came, they tried to order food. She could barely read and it struck her funny that she couldn't figure out what to have. He helped her, the waitress left, and suddenly there was someone else there---two somebodies; men who obviously knew Cardoso because they pulled up chairs in a rush of jargon she couldn't follow.
Cardoso was slouched over his second drink and his big eyes seemed to be swimming as he glanced her way.
One of the men was saying, "....so if you want to sign in, you gotta do it now. Tonight. We're counting on you, Ivo."
Her ears were truly giving her troubles: It was Ivan, not Ivo, across from her. Ivan Cardoso leaned forward, elbows seeming to splay and, looking at his glass, said, "Gonna need a lil' help. Gotta lady to fly..." He grinned but there was something wrong with his face.
Camila propped her chin carefully on her upraised fists, arms bolstered upon the table, and tried to study the two men who'd joined them. One was big and uniformed; what uniform her eyes wouldn't focus sufficiently to tell her. The other was big and out of uniform, and this one was saying something to her: "....want to come along, you just sign this, coracao. Wouldn't want to separate you two, not until you got what you came for."
She didn't know what he was talking about, this stranger, but she knew she was expected to sign the paper he held out with the pen the other man handed her. And thumbprint it. She did it, because she was supposed to and because Cardoso did it too and because she was so desperately concerned that none of the three men realize how impossibly drunk she was---so drunk that, if she didn't know better, she'd thing she'd been mixing drugs and alcohol.
She couldn't have stood up to save her life until one of the men told her to, and then her body obeyed as if it belonged to someone else. Cardoso was standing too, and there were lots of arms to lean on, and she never did get her dinner.
But right outside, pulled up to the cantina door, was a big silver sedan with its door wide open, ready to take passengers.
ns 15.158.61.48da2
