7

She slipped on a pair of dark, horn-rimmed sunglasses under her veil, grabbed the wicker picnic basket and opened one of the large doors to the world outside. I stepped through behind her and pulled the door closed. The afternoon sun shone brilliantly and I had to shield my eyes from the rays reflecting off the polished granite steps that led down to the street. Ten steps down, I turned to look at the facade of the building I had lived in for the past two days. The two heavy doors were set in a twelve foot tall Gothic arch of rough-cut limestone. One large circular stained glass window looked out from high in the wall. A square bell tower stood on the left-hand corner of the church and stretched twenty feet taller than the highest part of the wall. Wire mesh screens covered the small open arches of the belfry to keep birds out.

Poppy was halfway down the steps when Antonio got out of the driver's side door of a glossy black Cadillac. It was a long, early sixties model in perfect condition. Antonio quickly walked the shorter way around the front of the car and took the picnic basket before opening the back door for her. He wore black slacks and shoes, the same white short-sleeved Cuban shirt, now buttoned correctly, and a black chauffeurs hat that covered most of his white hair. He kept his hand on the open car door and watched me as I slowly descended the steps. I eased in and sat on the large bench seat next to her as he closed the door.

The car was large inside. The back seat was set five feet back from the front and was obviously designed for chauffeuring duties. The grey leather upholstery and grey carpet looked brand new as did the burled walnut inlays in the armrests and the dashboard.

Antonio placed the picnic basket on the front seat and sat down behind the wheel. She gave a one-word command in Spanish as he started the engine and drove away from the church toward downtown L.A.

We had traveled about a mile away when she took a four-inch-long black cigarette holder out of her purse along with the familiar orange and white pack. She looked over at me behind the opaque lenses and held out the open pack, offering me one. I took one and watched as she placed hers in the end of the slim, silver tipped holder. She then slipped the end of the holder through the wide fishnets of the veil, opened a polished cover in the wooden armrest of the door and depressed the cigarette lighter. I shifted the cane to my left hand and depressed the lighter on my side.