Leala took a siesta through the heat of the day then wandered down a tight dirt alley between fenced backyards and tiny garages, some with doors open. The cars inside were older, some with their hoods up, as if gasping for air.
The alley emptied into a wide avenue with a bright building on the corner, its faded sign saying Lavandería, laundromat. The long window was filled with signs taped on the inside. Leala pulled her scarf tight to her face and ran to see if the signs en español had anything she could use.
A lost dog, nothing. Cars for sale, nothing. A festival at a local church, nothing now, but Leala noted the nearing date and time as a potential for food. There were signs for appearances by bands, nothing. Homes for sale, nothing. A man who did the quiropráctico, nothing. Leala’s wary eyes shot from the signage to the street and back again. At the very bottom edge of the window, four words caught Leala’s eye:
ARE YOU IN TROUBLE?
Leala crouched to the text mostly hidden beneath another sign that had been in place earlier.
Have you been brought here illegally? Are you …
That was all she could read. Leala stepped inside the lavandería. Two men in their mid twenties were leaning against the wall smoking cigarettes and talking to an older woman folding clothes. When the men’s eyes riveted to her, Leala’s heart froze, but she made herself move to the window.
Pretending she was looking outside, her thumbnail severed the clear tape holding the sign in the window. It was paper and she dropped it in her bag. She turned to find one of the men blocking her way. He stunk of tobacco and even at his young age his teeth were brown.
“You bring no laundry?” he smirked. “Nothing to clean?”
“I am awaiting the bus,” Leala said.
The man started laughing. The second man walked over, a grin on his flat face. “Why would a bus stop here, pretty one?”
Leala gave the man her most assertive stare. “I am new. In my country the buses stop at the lavandería.”
“And do the planes land at the taquerias?” he asked. More laughter from the men, one now angling to study her rump.
“Paulo! Barzano!”
The voice of the woman folding clothes filled the room, like glass breaking. The men snapped to her, eyes wide.
“Qué, Mama?”
They sounded like children.
“Leave the señorita alone,” the woman ordered, shooting a glance at Leala. “Come help me fold, do some work for a change.”
Leala bolted out the door. Her feet carried her quickly back into the alley, where she continued reading in the bright sunlight.
… being held against your will? Made to do things against your will? Have you been told of a debt you must pay or a service you must fulfill?
If you are in these kinds of trouble, there is a place for help. No policía, no Federales, no Inmigración … just an organization that knows your troubles and how to help you escape them. Call the number below. You do not have to leave your name. Even if you are scared, call … we want to keep you safe.
There was a big telephone number, below it a drawing of a chain being smashed by a fist. The words beneath that said, The Human Anti-Trafficking Project, Victoree Johnson, director.
Leala refolded the paper and retreated to her hiding place to kneel in the light from the window and read it again and again.
It had to be a trap.
“Sh-she was in here today, sir, the girl you seek. A fellow came in and showed me a ph-photo.”
The old man’s hands shook as he spoke. A woman entered the grocery with a shopping bag over her arm. When she saw the men at the counter she quickly retreated, crossing herself as she hustled down the pavement.
“When?”
“Not two hours ago, señor.”
“She made a call, did she not?”
“Si, señor. To Honduras. I sold her a card for five dollars.”
Orzibel spun to Chaku Morales. “Where could she get money?”
Chaku shrugged, Orzibel turned to the elderly clerk. “Did she buy anything?”
“A dress, a scarf. Sandals. Sunglasses. Some fruit and tortillas and a bag to put them in.”
“Which way did she go when she left the store?”
“That way, I think. Toward Flagler.”
“Describe her new clothes, old man. Every detail. What was she wearing?”
“W-will I get the money?”
“Did you not hear my question?” Orzibel said, the knife suddenly in his hand.
28
Morning came. I called Kazankis at Redi-flow, the man answering the phone telling me he wasn’t in but he’d tell the boss I called. Trucks rumbled in the background. Kazankis phoned back twelve minutes later, apologizing.
“I’m out of the office until noon. Got to inspect a pour. Then I’m dealing with some business I hope might interest you, Detective.”