South by Southeast (7 page)

“How old is she?” Chela said.

“What?” Maria said, because the music was howling in a gale around them. Cologne, perfume, sweat, and sweet alcohol danced in Chela's nostrils.

Chela bent closer to Maria's ear. “How old is your daughter?”

“She just turned three,” Maria said with the same proud smile, as if birthdays were all Esperanza needed from her.

“When do you see her?”

“What?”

Chela wondered if Maria really couldn't hear her or only didn't want to.

She cupped her palm against Maria's ear. “How often do you see her? Your daughter?”

Maria cast her eyes away. “It's been six months,” she said. “I know, it's too long. I'm saving my money. Flying is so expensive now!”

Her millionaire could promise to fly her to Jamaica, but he had never offered to fly her to see her daughter? Did Maria say “Mommy will see you soon” when she talked to her on the phone? Or maybe she was more like That Bitch and hardly bothered. Chela felt her cheeks heating up despite the club's cool interior.

Maria grabbed Chela's shoulders, staring her in the eye. “I know what you're thinking. I'm scared of being a mom, Chela. I don't know shit about that. But what keeps me going is, I remember how you hated your mother. You talked about that all the time, how
she was selfish and never gave a shit. I'm not going to be like that for Esperanza. I have a plan—New Year's! I almost have enough for my security deposit and plane tickets. Scared or not, I've already told Tía Rosa I'm bringing my baby to Miami.”

“Really?” Chela said.

“Damn right, baby!” Maria said, grinning. She was nearly hoarse from shouting.

Chela shrieked, and Maria joined her, dancing with her in a giddy circle. Chela was glad she had ignored her doubts and come to Phoenixx. A reunion with Maria on the heels of her latest encounter with That Bitch, both of them woven together in a karmic knot? B would say God was sending her a message. Now she just had to figure out what the message was.

“Let's dance!” Chela said, pulling Maria toward the throb of bodies congealing in the center of the massive dance floor. The cavernous club was far from full at only eleven o'clock, but the crowd was growing like a living organism, spilling into empty spaces as confetti rained.

“I want a drink first.”

Chela didn't like to drink before dancing. She was still flying from her puffs on the beach, and alcohol dehydrated her, slowing her down. The deejay was rocking “Gasolina,” one of her favorite reggaeton jams, and her hips were answering the energetic crescendo, left and right, forward and back. “Please?” Chela said. “I'll get you a drink after this song.”

“Okay, but I can't get sweaty,” Maria said. “This dress stains like crazy.”

Dancing was bliss. Every man in their radius stared with open hunger, but Chela gave herself only to the music. Maria turned their dance into a show, draping her arms over Chela's shoulders, gyrating close, flinging her hair with sensual abandon. When Chela peeked through slitted eyes, she saw that men had forgotten their dates, practically forgotten to dance except in shuffles, hypnotized
by longing for Maria and the Kid.
If we were working tonight, we would clean up in this place
, she thought.

The powerful, unexpected thought popped Chela from the music's spell. She floated above the room, her mind noticing the glimmer of Rolex wristwatches, the designer shoes on the feet of the men. Scouting for marks. The club was full of rich guys looking for a good time. Such easy money. Warm arousal flushed Chela's face.

“Drink time,” Maria said as soon as the song slipped to another. Maria hadn't come to Phoenixx to dance.

“Let me buy you a drink,
linda,
” said the nerviest man in their audience, who was only as tall as Chela's shoulder and looked as if he'd bought his shirt at Walmart. Maria gave him a pitying smile and pulled Chela toward the bar.

A huddle of a half-dozen women made room for them at the end of the bar, greeting Maria in a cloud of perfume. Kisses on both cheeks all around. Maria's dress looked conservative compared with the other women's, and Chela felt draped in a nun's habit. She unbuttoned her blouse three buttons, undoing Marcela's careful work so she could let her modest cleavage breathe. A sheet of blue light from behind the bar made her skin glow purple. The music pounded her heart.

Chela raised her hand for the bartender, but Maria pulled her arm down. “Don't waste your money. Don't worry, Raphael will hook us up. You won't go thirsty.”

Chela wondered who Raphael was, but not enough to ask.
Know who you owe,
as Mother used to say; her voice was as crisp as a broadcast in Chela's memory, down to the Serbian accent. The crowd looked like working girls, all under twenty-five. They were dressed up in a place to party, but they only smiled in view of witnesses. In their huddle, their faces were sober.

Chela computed the math. She'd been spared a cover charge, but after fifty bucks to rent the ID, another forty on drinks would
leave her barely enough for a cab back to her hotel. What had she been thinking? She'd forgotten how expensive clubbing could be. She vowed not to spend Ten's cab money, but she could afford two drinks.

“I'll get the first round for you and me,” Chela told Maria, and waved to the bartender. The other girls groaned at the tragedy of wasted cash.

While she waited for the bartender, Chela counted three American Express black cards in the hands of men waiting to pay their tabs. She hadn't seen a black card since M.C. Glazer's.

“She your buddy?” a girl with horridly dyed blond hair asked Maria.

Maria giggled, nudging Chela. “Sure was, back in the day.” Chela's stomach clenched. A few johns had paid to spend time with them together, a blur of skin.

“No, I mean here and now,” the blonde said. Her hair color was nearly lost against her deeply olive skin. Her eyebrows were jet black. “We're all doing buddies tonight. The girls on Collins and Washington Ave started a week ago.”

“Daytime, too, not just at night,” said a woman whose voice reminded Chela of a mouse. She introduced herself as Solana, but Chela just silently called her “Mouse Girl.” Mouse Girl was in her mid-twenties but sounded much younger. Chela wondered if that was her real voice or a voice she put on for men who only liked teenagers.

“Those meth heads need a buddy just to walk straight,” Maria said. She always had been a snob, but at least she had made Chela swear to stay away from pimps and hard drugs, which might have saved her life.

“It's not just meth heads,” the blonde said, and whispered in Maria's ear.

Maria's face changed as she listened, her jowls dropping until she looked as if she'd aged ten years. “What?” Maria mouthed.

The blond girl nodded. “It was on the news tonight. She washed up on a beach.” The other girls nodded confirmation. “No clothes on.”

“Who?” Chela said. Again, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. It already sounded like bad luck waiting to rub off on her.

The girls looked at her with baleful eyes full of disdain. Her ignorance irritated them.

“A girl we know,” Maria said, waving Chela silent. “Lupe. She was, like . . . I can't believe I'm saying
was
. She's the queen of South Beach.”

“No way she went skinny dipping,” the blonde said. “She hated getting her hair wet.”

“She could barely swim, like me,” Maria said. “Got scared in the pool that time.”

“Washed up on a beach like that?” another woman said. “I couldn't stand her, but I wouldn't wish that on nobody.”

“You're jealous,” said Mouse Girl. “That's why you can't stand her.”

“We were all jealous,” Maria said, wiping the corners of her eyes. “And she was all about herself, treating everyone like shit. But that's not the point. Somebody killed her.”

“Used to be just the street hos, but not anymore,” Mouse Girl said. “Lupe's the second drowned girl in two weeks. So that's the new rule: buddies.”

Just as Chela was wondering whose rule, the bartender finally made his way to her, gazing at her with raised
can I help you
eyebrows. Was that a condescending smirk?

“What'll you have?” Chela asked Maria.

“Nonsense,” a man's voice said. All of the women's eyes went up to him, so Chela looked up, too. The man was at least six foot five, as wiry as a praying mantis. His tailored Italian suit was his most attractive feature, but he carried himself with a princely aspect. He was handsome despite a severe brow and pockmarked
skin. “A beautiful woman should never buy her own drink. Bring the ladies a bottle of Cristal and whatever else they desire.”

The other women tittered thanks. His eyes were fixed on Chela, waiting for an introduction. He spoke with a light, elegant accent.

“Raffi, this is my girl Chela,” Maria said. “I knew her in L.A.”

“Well,” Raphael said. “Very nice.” Maria hadn't said they'd
worked
together in L.A., but she didn't have to. He knew. Chela saw the spark in his eyes.

He glanced away from her, down the length of the bar, and Chela thought he made eye contact with a hefty, long-haired man with a monstrous nose. The man gave a vague nod, looking their way. The man's eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, but his stare cooled her blood. She reached up to button her blouse, glancing away.

“Is Miami fortunate enough to have wooed you here, too, Chela?” Raffi said. He was careful to remember her name, bringing his eyes back to hers, as if he were immersed in her. But Chela knew a mask when she saw one; his interest was only surface, not personal. Business.

“Just on vacation,” she said. She almost said
with my family,
wondered why she didn't.

“You'll find that our fair city has much to offer,” he said. “Much more than palm trees.”

“That's for sure,” Maria said, an amen corner. “Much more.”

Chela counted down in her head:
five
 . . . 
four
 . . . 
three
 . . . 
two
 . . .

The man brought his face closer to Chela's, as if leaning casually across the bar to rest. “The gentleman down the bar would like to buy you a drink. In the sunglasses.”

Chela pretended to look to see which man he meant, and she found his nose again. He looked like a Before picture in a plastic surgeon's office. Truly repulsive. Chela was glad she didn't have
to wonder what she would have thought about a man who looked better.

“That's sweet,” she said, mustering a smile. “But I have a boyfriend.”

The other girls, including Maria, looked at her as if she were crazy. But Raphael kept any surprise or disappointment from his face. “I'm sure of that,” he said. “But Miami is especially kind to young ladies receptive to generosity. A man like this, a business traveler, is shy and grateful for company.”

“Awww,” Chela said with exaggerated concern. She shrugged. “Wish I could help.”

Raphael blinked and nodded, deciding not to press her. He abruptly walked away just as the champagne bottle and six glasses were arriving.

The man with the nose was staring at Chela. Raphael walked up to him and spoke to him privately. It was hard to tell in the dark, but the nose guy's face seemed to turn to stone as he kept staring. Chela wished she had brought a coat to wear over her blouse. Or Harry Potter's invisibility cloak.

“You're out of your mind!” Maria said too close to Chela's ear in a pretend whisper. “Do you know who Raphael is? Only millionaires go to him. So what if you have a boyfriend? If you feel guilty, give him a Beemer and a blow job.”

“Is that how you met your friend?” Chela said.

“Of course! Raphael is like gold. I hope you didn't piss him off.”

The pieces didn't fit right. If Maria was doing so well with her introductions from Raphael, why hadn't she been able to afford to see her daughter in six months? Was Raphael the only reason Maria had invited her out? Would Maria have gotten a percentage if Raphael made a deal with her?

And those eyes were still on her from across the bar. She could tell without looking.

“I need to get out of here,” Chela said. She didn't wait for Maria to answer, walking in the opposite direction, away from the nose guy. Even if she had to walk all the way around the dance floor to get to the exit, she didn't want him to be able to see her.

“Stuck-up bitch,” the blond girl muttered behind her.

“What?” Maria said, following Chela. “What's wrong?”

The music was so loud it vibrated to Chela's bone marrow. She practically had to shout. “I thought you knew, Maria,” she said. “I don't do that anymore.”

“Do what?” Maria said. “You don't make friends? Let people buy drinks?”

“Don't be cute.”

“Can't help it. But it's not what you're thinking,” Maria said. “Raphael is—”

“I don't care what he calls himself, or what you call him. You know what he is.”

“You're wrong, Chela,” Maria said. “Seriously, who turned you into such a little princess? The Chela I knew would have been all over that shit.”

The strobe lights blinded Chela, the music's blasting siren gearing up as if in urgent warning. She blinked and realized she was close to tears. Maria was right. The old Chela wouldn't have cared how he looked or how old he was. The old Chela would have hidden her heart and greeted that hideous man with a smile.

Chela hid her face. “I have to go,” she said.

“Honey, we ain't all got somebody acting like a daddy at home,” Maria said. “What does he do, creep into your room when Grandpa's asleep? Or maybe you do both of them?”

Chela couldn't stop the tears. She couldn't tell whether Maria was trying to hurt her, or if she just couldn't imagine two men who wouldn't try to screw her. Either way, her stomach felt queasy. Maria was wrong, but she wasn't exactly lying. Maria knew Chela's truth better than Ten ever would.