CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
2000- Costume National
Cabrón showed up at the house on the first day of June.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked.
“Nothing. Why?”
“I want to take you to a restaurant on Smith Street,” he replied.
“Any reason in particular?”
“No, not really.” he said. “There’s a French restaurant I like. And I want to talk to you about something.”
Spidey senses tingling.
He told me he’d pick me up at 8:30 then left.
When 8:30 rolled around, I was standing on my stoop, waiting. I’d dressed myself in a black shift dress and matching Costume National sandals, my hair pulled up in a high ponytail with a diminutive red bow. I carried the little Miu Miu purse I’d bought in preparation for the Lighty Party.
‘Brón pulled up at 8:32pm and I hopped into the Mercedes. Sade was coming through the speakers. Love Deluxe. The music selection was killing me softly.
He drove us via Washington Avenue, then pulled over on an African store by Dean Street. “I’ll be right back,” he called to me over his shoulder. I saw him go into the back room of the shop and figured I had a good ten minutes left alone in his ride.
Perfect time for some snooping. I quickly opened up the glove compartment. Bingo! ‘Brón’s wallet was lying there. I snatched it up and found his driver’s license. “Pierre D. Taveras. D.O.B. April 5, 1974.” Then I pulled out his ATM card. “Pierre Dorvil Taveras.” I put everything back before he even re-entered my sight-line. Then I just sat back, smiled to myself and enjoyed the light breeze flooding through my window. ‘Brón had told me the truth. He really was Haitian. I decided I might have to add French to my list of Berlitz courses.
By the time we made it to Patois it was minutes past nine. The restaurant was a cute sliver of a French bistro in a neighborhood that was rapidly gentrifying. I wondered who Cabrón knew from around here. I’m sure at the very least he had a bunch of hooping buddies in the area.
We were greeted by the hostess, who was a tall gorgeous French girl, with glossy black hair and thick eyebrows. She was wearing a dress similar to mine, its tropical foliage pattern offset nicely by the dark green and cream decor of the restaurant.
She sat us at a quiet corner table for two, and told us to enjoy ourselves. “Je vous remercie,” Pierre, I mean Cabrón replied. Yeah, I definitely needed to add French to my immersion plan.
As soon as we were seated, a waiter came flying over. ‘Brón ordered a bottle of Sancerre to start us out.
Interesting. Cabrón was a connoisseur of fine French wines.
I took a look at what he was wearing, and I gotta say, it was hard to interpret the meaning behind it. Don’t get me wrong, he looked goooood, but I couldn’t tell what he was trying to convey to me with the thin gold rope chain peeking out from his slouchy, loose collared linen shirt in a soft shade of fawn, and the white drawstring pants in a material a little heavier than linen but finer than cotton.
The wine came, we had a glass. Maybe this wasn’t a business meeting?
We ordered dinner- steak frites for me, cabillaud rôti au beurre blanc sans câpres for ‘Brón.
Sancerre and roast cod, hold the capers.
I wanted to ask Cabrón if he’d spent a lot of time in Haiti as a child, but didn’t want him to think I was trying to bait him.
Now I was legitimately curious. I wanted to figure this man out.
