City of Spies by Nina Berry Page B

strong, one pale and perfectly platinum blonde, the other darker with a strictly controlled mass of black curls. But they both had brown eyes, and they were both staring right at the hotel clerk.
    â€œDaddy would’ve checked us into a different hotel,” Mercedes said in a low tone. “One with better service.” Mercedes wasn’t half as good a liar as Pagan, so she kept her voice low on the rare occasion when she did it. The louder your voice, the more likely the strain of lying would show.
    â€œAnd he would’ve told the studio and everyone he knew what a horrible mistake they made,” Pagan said to her. “Do you think other people from my movie are staying here? We’ll have to tell them all about this.”
    The clerk’s eyes bounced back and forth between them, a nervous sweat dotting her upper lip. But Pagan could see that she still didn’t believe them. “I’m so sorry, ladies. You have different last names on your passports, so naturally I assumed...”
    â€œMercedes Duran equals maid?” Pagan said, smiling prettily. “Sure. There’s no possible way I could have been born a Duran, changed my last name to Jones and dyed my hair. No one in Hollywood ever changes their name. Just ask Rock Hudson.”
    The woman paled. “My mistake, señoritas . I do beg your pardon. Sisters. Sharing a suite. How nice...”
    â€œWe’d like to speak to the manager, please.” Pagan’s voice was still sweet, but edged with iron. “And we’d like anyone other than you to serve us for the duration of our stay.”
    An apologetic manager showed them to their lush suite, ushering in a bellboy with a complimentary bottle of champagne to earn their goodwill, only to have Mercedes tell him to take it away. The rooms were opulent, shiny with gold-patterned wallpaper, fresh flowers on the marble tables and two large bedrooms with giant satiny beds. The heavily draped windows featured a view out over the rooftops and the busy boulevard below.
    As the door shut behind the last bellboy, Pagan took off her white gloves and threw them on the gold brocade sofa. “What the hell? We’re in Latin America. You’d think the name Duran would be a badge of honor down here instead of Jones!”
    Mercedes shook her head with resignation, which somehow made Pagan angrier. “From what I read, most people in Buenos Aires are of some kind of European descent. The indigenous people were driven out and mostly disappeared.”
    â€œDisappeared?” Pagan put her hands on her hips. “You mean killed.”
    â€œProbably. But that woman who checked us in, her family probably came from Germany originally, or maybe England or Sweden. Anyone who doesn’t look European here is considered lower class and referred to as indio , or negra .”
    Pagan shook her head. “I’m sorry, M. I wanted to smack her.”
    â€œYou can’t smack them all.” Mercedes slumped onto the sofa. “But you did confuse her. You’re good at that.”
    â€œEveryone needs a specialty.” Pagan came over and flopped next to her on the couch, leaning her head back against the carved gilded wood lining the back. “Does that happen to you a lot back home, too?”
    â€œNot in my old neighborhood,” Mercedes said, using her right toes to tug her left shoe off her heel, then switched to do it with the other foot. “But where we’re living now? They all think I’m your live-in maid.”
    â€œWhat!” Pagan swung up to her feet again in agitation. “What do we do with these people? It’s not like we can put a big sign over your head saying I’m Your Equal, You Sons of Bitches.” She paused, thinking. “Can we?”
    â€œStop trying to save me,” Mercedes said. “I’m fine.”
    Pagan stopped pacing and looked at her friend. Mercedes had leaned sideways onto the fat pillows on