Afterwards he had taken her to his stinking bed, blunting her mind with drugs as he raped her through the night. Barely able to move in the morning, Amili decided to try an experiment in the small laboratory of the massage parlor: Was Bachinkl lying? Or could the pain and brutality be reduced by heeding the Russian’s words?
The next day Amili began showing her bright and even teeth in smiles and teasing pouts. She bounced her hips when she walked. She rubbed the scented oils slowly through her palms before her hands went to the customer. She swiftly learned men’s rhythms, the quickening of breath, the rise of hips to her shifting strokes. She learned the words to whisper and discovered how men sought praise for the thick fullness of their fluid, even if it was only a flimsy drizzle across Amili’s knuckles.
Within three weeks, Amili was the most-requested masseuse at the parlor, yet the success of her experiment proved her undoing. Customers wanted only Amili. While this brought business to the parlor, it pulled business from the other masseuses, who jumped her one night, butane lighters in hand.
“Bitch, we are going to burn some ugly into you.”
Amili had escaped into the street with only her hair singed, running desperately into the night. Bachinkl had called Orzibel, who found Amili in the bushes of a Catholic church and dragged her to the basement of the club. Fearful she might have contacted the authorities, Orzibel blindfolded Amili, injected scopolomine and chained her to a bed, asking harsh questions as his knife pricked at the skin beneath her eyes. During the interrogation, Orzibel paused for whispered conversations with another man, his deferential tone indicating that whoever he was talking to was a boss or the boss.
After an hour, Orzibel was convinced Amili had contacted no one. The men left, but paused to talk outside her closed door. Still blindfolded and bound, Amili had lain still as stone, listening.
“It’s stealing all my time,” the unknown man said. “It’s all I do.”
“Better something is stealing your time than someone stealing your money, Jefé,” Orzibel had replied. “Is there no one you know … from your other life?”
A laugh without humor. “I can’t just pull someone from the accounting department.”
“Pay them highly.”
“I paid the conejo more than he was worth, but it didn’t stop him from skimming. God knows how much that bastard stole, but enough to buy a Series M BMW. Red as a fire engine. What does a three-hundred-pound bald-headed Jew need with a red Beamer?”
“Forget him, Jefé. He’s forever in the hole in the world. And the fat pig had a very bad day before he got there.”
“FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”
“Easy, Jefé. It’s not worth endangering your health with anger.”
“I need someone to keep the books, Orlando! And to stay quiet.”
Perhaps it was the injection or that she felt there was nothing in her life to lose. But Amili had felt her voice well up in her lungs and burst into the air. “I am good with the numbers,” she had yelled into the darkness.
All sound died. Seconds ticked past and Amili felt sweat break out on her forehead. Would she be killed for eavesdropping? Amili heard a door open.
“What did you say?” asked the unknown man.
“I was training to be a contador, an accountant. Let me do the job.”
“You are only a peasant girl,” the voice said quietly. “From a village made of mud.”
Amili drew every bit of courage to her voice. “How does that mean I cannot have the facility with the numbers?” she demanded. “How can you think so poorly?”
“Caramba,” Orzibel had whispered. “Fearless. Or maybe she has gone mad.”
Footsteps entered the room. “You are a beauty for sure,” the voice said. “And doggone, girl, can you ever handle English.”
“Because I am smart. Give me a test with numbers.”
Not a sound for a full minute. She felt a hand touch her face and resisted the impulse to flinch. “My goodness,” the voice had whispered. “Ain’t you just something in every direction.”
The footsteps retreated in a series of pauses, and Amili knew she was being studied with every pause. The door closed. Minutes later Orzibel returned and his rough behavior had turned to gruff disdain. Amili’s bindings were released, though the door remained locked. Two days later she was taken from the room. Expecting to be put into another parlor or forced to dance at a club, she found herself in a tiny apartment in Little Havana.
“What am I to do here?” she asked.
“I am no longer your keeper,” Orzibel had said, putting five hundred dollars on the kitchen table and departing.