South by Southeast (14 page)

Chela never allowed her mind to go quiet, concentrating on her performance, the caress of the leather seat against the side of her face. She had begun her trade in cars, long ago. Her mind knew where to go without prompting. For one horrible instant, she thought about Bernard, but she banished him by clenching her body so tightly that Raphael forgot his English and hissed Italian words she did not know.

She touched the right places and made the right sounds, whispered the right words, and Raphael's grunts were a scorekeeper's tally. He knew better than to kiss her on the mouth but welcomed her mouth upon him. He produced a condom before she had to insist. No big deal. He was pleased with her. That was the important thing. How else could she win Raphael's trust? Now she could send the money to Maria's daughter.

Their clothes were back on, perfectly in place, by the time they pulled up in front of the Swordfish Hotel, coasting to a stop in the gilded motor lobby.

Raphael kissed her forehead. “You will find a makeup tray beneath your seat,” he said. “A brush, mints, perfume, whatever you like. Take all the time you need.”

And he climbed out of the limousine to wait for her. Such a gentleman.

Chela wished she could shower, but baby wipes and a swish of mouthwash made her feel clean enough. She forgot about the silent driver behind the panel, and she hoped he had forgotten her. With every passing moment, her time beneath Raphael felt less real. Old memories tried to surface and blend with the sharp scent of Raphael's soap coating her nasal passages, but she buried them while she applied new lipstick in the lighted mirror, refusing to meet her own eyes.

She had made two grand in ten minutes, and she had done it for Maria. Soon this night would be over, and she could go home. It was only a big deal if she made it one.

Raphael was waiting outside the limo, and he extended his hand like Prince Charming ready to escort her to the ball. Strangers admired them as the doormen held open the doors and they graced the hotel lobby, walking hand in hand.

She could feel observers wondering who she was. An actress? A model? A singer? Watching eyes no longer bothered her; they gave her the power to silence her memories.

Chela noticed Raphael's protectiveness, how he kept her near him, angling his body between hers and any man who walked too close to her. Chela had never known Maria to work with a pimp, but she understood why she had chosen Raphael. He wasn't like the men who ran the streets, wrangling women like circus animals who needed whips to perform. He felt more like a manager, or even a date, opening every door, warning her to watch her step, protecting her like china. Her palm felt damp and moist nestled in his; nervousness she could pretend was attraction, fooling them both for a time.

“We'll visit a suite with a private party upstairs,” he said, “but first, if you don't mind, I would like to take you to the bar. A new face is a welcome novelty.”

Chela spoke for the first time since they had left the limousine. “No one else tonight,” she said. That was her old rule from her time with Mother, who had insisted upon nightly exclusivity no matter how much money she was offered. “Never treat yourself like a garbage bin with endless deposits,” Mother used to say. “Professionals don't play the street whore's game.”

Raphael's smile looked genuine. “I would not have it any other way. Tonight, you are with me, and I am with you. These are introductions only. You have no reason to be nervous.”

Obviously, he could feel her palm and her quickened pulse. Chela drew in a deep breath, willing herself to be calm, and returned Raphael's smile. “Good,” she said. “I have rules.”

“Hear me, my angel . . .” He leaned close to her ear for dramatic effect, and she caught herself before she flinched away and destroyed her night's work. “My only fear is that I will grow possessive and want to keep you for myself—always.”

Chela's fixed smile turned to steel. That was a pimp's line, all right. Pimps, at heart, were shrinks gone to the dark side.
It's all for you, Raphael. Anything for you, Raphael. Am I your main girl, Raphael? Do you love me, Raphael?
Raphael might have been the last person Maria ever saw. Was drowning his idea of “keeping” someone for himself? Chela's stomach grew taut as the memory of the back of his limousine tried to break free.

They passed a wall-sized aquarium display teeming with tropical fish, and Chela recognized the tetras Ten kept replacing in their home tank when older ones died. Thoughts of Ten turned her stomach to stone. Was he trying to call her now? Was Bernard? To Chela's horror, her eyes suddenly stung her fiercely. She kept them open wide, afraid to blink, trying to remember Mother's Rules for keeping her thoughts controlled. “Think of parts, not the whole. What you are doing, not what is being done to you. The mask, not the heart it protects.”

She imagined her hand in Raphael's slowly turning to ice, going
numb, and willed the numbness to travel throughout her body, to her face, until the stinging was gone. She spotted a pudgy middle-aged woman in a ridiculous leopard-pattern dress across the room, and a laugh rose in her throat.

“This will be fun,” she said, capitalizing on her unexpected laugh.

Raphael squeezed her hand, approving. He didn't notice when she flicked at her eye to dry it.

The bar was populated with businessmen, an older crowd than at Club Phoenixx, with wider paunches and grayer hair. Still, none looked as bad as the man with the big nose. Even while she searched, she wondered what she would do if she faced him again. Would she have to flirt? Let him touch her thigh? Gooseflesh flared on her bare arms.

The men at the bar did everything but applaud when Raphael arrived with her on his arm. Their admiration was open, like patrons at an art auction viewing a surprise masterpiece. But Raphael kept her at a distance from them even while he paraded her.

“I'm flying to Dubai tomorrow!” complained a squat man in a white guayabera like the ones Captain Hardwick often wore. “Only two weeks, Raffi. Will she travel?”

Hell no
, Chela thought.

Raphael batted away the notion. He didn't glance at Chela to consult with her. “Call me when you return,” he said, leaving it at that.

At the bar, all pretense of glamour fell away. Chela had studied slave auctions in her AP history class, when she'd felt the urge to raise her hand and share comparisons to her old life. Unlike a slave, an escort would be paid well, but she was not a person to these men, or to Raphael. Sex workers, maybe most women, were rented property to them, the way the johns were like children to her. How hard would it be for any of them to murder an object? A toy?

Chela saw a row of suspects on bar stools, all of them drinking her in with eager eyes. Hopelessness swamped her again. Had she expected to detect Maria's killer on sight?

As Chela lost her will to flirt, she glanced toward the bartender, who was a woman in her late twenties, pretty despite the way she'd pulled her hair into a businesslike bun. She avoided looking at Chela. The bartender worked with her clothes on and probably thought Chela was a sellout to all womankind.

Chela gave Raphael's hand a soft tug. “I'm ready to go upstairs,” she whispered.

“My lady knows what she wants!” Raphael said, kissing her cheek as if she were his girlfriend. Again, she fought not to flinch. “
Ciao
for now, gentlemen. Now you have met Chela. She is with me tonight. But tomorrow . . . ?” He left the future to their imaginations.

A couple of the men scribbled down her name on bar napkins, tucking them into their pockets for safekeeping. One snapped a photo of her with his cell phone. Christmas shopping.

“I'm sorry,” Raphael said as they walked toward the golden elevators. “Some of my friends need a lecture on manners. But you were perfect. The way you pretend shyness—I love it! Now, to the other girls . . .”

Thirty more minutes
, Chela promised herself.
Then you can leave and take a shower.
Maybe she would get a memory wash, too, like in a novel she'd read about a girl her age with telepathic powers. How could she face Bernard now?

Raphael took her to the penthouse level, swiping a key card for access. Suite 800. Again, his key let him inside.

Chela braced for deception. The room would be empty, and Raphael would expect her to sleep with him again. Shower with him. Let him tie her in handcuffs. And then what? Take her to the beach and drown her?

Chela felt rocked with relief when she heard a din of voices
inside the room. About fifteen people were having drinks, all of them dressed, most of them men, but Chela spotted three women she recognized swaying in a loose dance circle to low music that sounded like Brazilian percussion. Mouse Girl was there! The petite bleached blonde stood beside her and recognized Chela, too, but nothing friendly showed in their eyes. All of the girls suddenly stared at her with an intensity Chela recognized as envy.

Right. Once upon a time,
they
had been the one Raphael seemed smitten with, his fresh meat. Other girls had been jealous of the way she'd lived in Mother's house, with Mother doting on her, so Chela knew how envy looked.

But she had to win these girls over to get information about Maria.

Raphael had his own agenda, so his grasp on Chela's hand felt persistent as he led her to man after man to introduce her and ignite fire in their eyes. It wasn't hard to play the shyness card, since she barely wanted to glance at the men. But she did—searching for the one she and Maria had seen at Club Phoenixx.

Too thin. Too tall. Too bald. Nose after nose was too small. A few of the younger men looked like actors, the kind she would have targeted in the old days. Handsome was always a plus. She might leave with nothing tonight except a secret.

“Go with the other girls for a while now,” Raphael said finally. “I know you want to remember your friend. But come right back to me.”

His true nature was bubbling out, already giving her instructions.

“Of course, Raffi,” she said obediently, and pecked his lips.

By the time Chela joined the three working girls, they had lost their pretend smiles.

“You work fast,” Mouse Girl said. “I thought you had a boyfriend.”

The room flared red. All of Chela's fingers curled as she pondered how satisfying it would feel to smack Mouse Girl across her cheaply painted face. She closed her eyes, trying to remember why she shouldn't, finding her breath the way Ten tried to teach her to meditate. What was the best response? She could break Mouse Girl in half, no problem. Would have been able to even before Ten's patient, vicious lessons. But that wasn't the right play. Dominating Mouse Girl would just mean having to climb over another alpha bitch in the room. And she could do that, too, but it wasn't necessary, and felt distasteful to her. The opposite approach, then: roll over and expose her tummy, triggering a maternal response.

“Uh . . . hello?” Mouse Girl said, unaware of how close she'd come to loose teeth.

“I do have a boyfriend,” Chela said, allowing her voice to crack as she opened her eyes. She summoned the tears she'd fought earlier, her eyes pooling with moisture. “But he's in Cali, and I need the cash. Maria told me Raffi's good to know. So I'm sorry if I'm stepping on anybody's toes.”

Her tears embarrassed the other girls, who shifted uncomfortably away from her, as if tears might be contagious.

“Whatevs.” Mouse Girl shrugged. She gave Chela's shoulder a pat that felt more like a shove. “Keep your problems outside when you're at a party. You know better.”

Good. If Mouse Girl and the others behaved like big sisters, they might not feel threatened. Chela nodded, quickly wiping her eyes. “Sorry. I'm in shock about Maria. We were all just talking . . . and now . . .”

Silence stole over them. The music played on, but none of them danced.

“She said good things about you,” the third girl said. She was thin, sweet, a lollipop in a skirt. “Told us stories.”

Good-natured laughter passed between them. Chela didn't want
to know what stories they had heard. Maria could have chosen from dozens.

“Did you tell the police about Maria?” Chela asked Mouse Girl. “Like you said?”

Mouse Girl's eyes flicked around the room. The other girls gave Chela disapproving gazes, and Mouse Girl sighed. “Bathroom,” she said.

The suite's bathroom was nearly as big as a studio apartment, with a telephone and a mounted TV alongside the massive shower and marble Roman bathtub. Mouse Girl went straight to the mirror, running her fingers through her hair to spike it.

“First of all,” she said, “if you're gonna hang with Raffi, you don't talk about cops near him—ever. Are you stupid?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I just—”

“Second of all, I called without leaving my name just like anybody could've. Like you could've.”

Chela hushed her voice. “Did you talk about the drowning part?”

“Sure I did. Told them about Lupe, too. And now they're not gonna do shit, which is what cops always do. Everybody's happier if she drowned. Murder's bad for tourism.”

Chela wasn't sure she could believe her. She'd been crazy not to call the police herself.

“What about Raffi?” Chela said. “Could it be him?”

Mouse Girl met Chela's eyes in the mirror, unblinking. “So, what? You're Sherlock Ho, now? Is that what you're doing? Better watch your ass. Raffi don't like games.”

“Fine,” Chela said. “But could he do something like that?”

“Raffi ain't like that. Would I be here if he was psycho? He's all about the
moneda
. Most of the girls call him El Santo. Never even raises his voice.”

“What about that guy at the bar he tried to set me up with? Did Maria go with him?”

Mouse Girl's attention went back to her hair. “I never saw him after you blew him off. Maria asked Raffi about him, but Raffi said he only wanted you.”