The Death Box(43)

A test, Amili figured. I’m being watched. She wired three hundred dollars home and used another hundred for groceries. She went outside only during the day, staying in the neighborhood and talking to no one. After a week Amili identified two men who seemed always at the edge of her vision.

Amili wondered who her watchers reported to. The answer came in the third week of her freedom. She’d come from the mercado with arms full of tortillas and beans and plantains, dropping them to the floor when a voice said, “Welcome home, Amili Zelaya. Do the accommodations suit you?”

She had spun to a man sitting in her living room, legs crossed and a drink in his hand. He looked relaxed. There were boxes on the floor beside him. She recognized the voice.

“It is a dream to live here, señor.”

It was not a lie. There was running water, even agua caliente. An inside toilet. A bathing tub where water foamed in circles. Buttons that performed miracles: lights, cold air from the floor, fans spinning in the ceiling, flames from the stove … it was more than she had ever dreamed.

“I’m sorry to have startled you. Are you about to prepare dinner?”

“Yes, señor,” she said, swallowing hard. “I-I would be pleased if you would join me.”

“I thought we’d go out to dinner. To get acquainted, and perhaps to talk a bit of business. I know several very nice restaurants.”

“I am afraid I have not the clothes for such things, señor.”

“I’ve taken the liberty of selecting a few dresses. You’re a petite, right … about a size four?”

Amili still owned the dresses, four lovely gowns. And the jewelry. And – for almost a year – a job in the enterprise. Her job required little beyond basic bookkeeping. There were many different accounts, each with its own income stream, a phrase beloved by her benefactor. Money flowed out for supplies and suppliers, profits poured in. The second half of the equation was by far the larger.

Because of the nature of the enterprise, the funds needed close tracking. On the outflow side, one did not wish to pay a bribe twice, or get double-billed for necessities. On the inflow side, one had to be assured that money arrived in the correct amount and in a regular manner. If a payment was too low or late, Amili assessed a penalty charge. Or, in the case of Mr Chalk, the freak, itemize the various medical charges and add a handling fee plus the fees lost due to the downtime of the machinery.

It was time consuming, but quite simple.

Amili phoned for a taxi and watched through the window until it arrived. For eight months she had lived near the Burgos Medical Center in a three-floor Spanish-style apartment complex built in the forties and renovated in 2007, its walls solid and perfect for privacy.

Walking to her door she drifted her fingertips across a wave of red bougainvillea cascading over the wrought-iron fence lining the sidewalk and breathed deep the elegant scent. This was the only apartment building in a neighborhood of colorful houses shaded by palms, homes without grates on the doors and windows. There were no gang signs on walls. People raised children here, good children who went to college.

And using only her wiles and the gifts of nature, she, Amili Zelaya, had risen from pulling pitos in a filthy parlor to a fine apartment in a decent neighborhood.

Amili entered her apartment, the shades drawn against the sun and the air cool and smelling of the sandalwood incense she’d burned this morning. She turned on a small lamp in the corner, its blue shade cut with celestial shapes. When all other lights were off, the lamp painted the ceiling with stars.

She removed her clothes, a cobalt Kate Spade jacket and pencil skirt over a chiffon blouse, peach. Her hose were dark and ended in simple black flats. She put the blouse in the wash basket and carefully hung the jacket and skirt back in her closet.

“Why do you dress like a banker and not to highlight your many charms?” Orzibel had once asked, the usual leer on his face.

“One, because I am a business person,” she had replied coldly, thinking it obvious. “And two, because I do not wish my neighbors to think I am a whore.”

Amili changed into a silk nightdress, pink, the kind she had dreamed of as a child. She returned to the living room, getting on her knees to retrieve the small brown pouch tucked into the springs of the couch, unzipping it and removing a syringe, a platinum spoon and a glassine bag of white powder.

She reclined on the couch, tapping white powder into the spoon and adding a few drops of purified water. She held the mix above a butane lighter until the powder combined with the water. She loaded the syringe and put her foot on the coffee table, spreading her big toe from the adjoining digit. It was a poor injection site, but hidden from all eyes.