The Death Box(83)

Leala closed the door and stepped gingerly across the thick grass. Again a frond crunched. But behind her, not beneath her. Leala felt her body wrapped in iron bands that lifted her into the air as a huge hand covered her scream.

It was over.

Midnight neared and Amili cleared her desk and put away the computer. A shipment arrived tomorrow and there was much to do, but her skin itched and her belly roiled with sick motion and she needed to hide from the world.

She heard familiar footsteps climbing the stairs and held her breath, hoping Orzibel and the hulking Morales would pass by. But knocking came to her door, impatient. She sighed, said, “Enter.”

Orzibel entered the room as if it were his, not Amili’s. He leaned against the wall, a long black line: hair, shirt, vest, pants, boots, all a vampiric noir. But the brightness of his smile bordered on angelic.

“I have the girl in the basement, Leala Rosales. She was hiding in a shed not more than three kilometers distant.”

“She escaped and you did not tell me?”

“It is my job to handle such things.”

Amili leaned back in her desk chair, looking relaxed though the need of an injection crawled in her veins. “This proves what I have been thinking, Orlando. The best thing is for Rosales to return to her village. We give her some dollars and she becomes a part of the past.”

“We lose money? That is a bad business model, Amili.”

“It serves everyone best if Leala goes home.”

Orzibel raised a dark eyebrow, as if intrigued by a puzzle. “I thought I knew a woman named Amili Zelaya,” he said. “Now I’m uncertain. Are you having second thoughts about the career you have chosen? The career you fucked your way into and fuck to keep?”

“Careful with your tongue, Orlando. And never presume to know my mind.”

“I’m not sure if you know it any more. Leala Rosales is not returning to her little village. She has cost much in time and effort and I intend to have her pay it back.”

“How do you plan on that?”

Orzibel produced a smile as cold as the bottom of the ocean. “I am selling her to Mr Chalk.”

Amili’s eyes flashed. “Absolutely not. The man has rabies.”

Orzibel ignored Amili. “Upon delivery we receive one hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars. Some time later we will send someone to pick up and dispense with the … leftovers.”

“You’ll do no such insane thing, Orlando. It goes beyond all bounds.”

Orzibel uncurled from the wall and advanced. “Yes I will, little Amili Zelaya. And not only will Mr Chalk pay us to remove our problem, it will never be recorded on your books. You have not submitted the reports for this month. To El Jefé, Leala Rosales does not exist. That’s how it will stay: You will remove her from all accounts, her arrival, the rental by Cho … everything. When Mr Chalk’s payment arrives, you will not record that either.”

“You have gone mad, Orlando.”

“You, for being such a good little girl, may have twenty-five thousand of Leala’s price. My generosity marks the start of our … what are the words, splinter enterprise?”

“Our enterprise?”

“Kazankis – let us break the rules for once and use his name – takes small risks and makes huge profit. I take huge risks and make small profit. I realize he invented the enterprise and devised a clever way to find the right workers, but I am worth far more than I am getting. That is about to change.”

Amili studied Orzibel. “You forget my closeness to El Jefé, Orlando. For your sake I hope you are joking. But it is in poor taste.”

“Do you see laughter on this face? Or is it delight at bringing you a gift, sweet Amili?”

“Gift?”

Orzibel made a show of patting at his pockets. “Where is it … Ah, here we go.” He produced the gift-wrapped package from his jacket.

Amili froze, then regained herself. “And just what is that?”

Orzibel set the package on the desk and used his forefinger to push it slowly to Amili. “Your gift from Pablo Gonsalves.”

“I know nothing of such a man.”

“He seemed to know you very well, Amili. He wanted you to have this, something about you needing your dreams.”

Amili pretended to find a memory and her smile appeared. “Ah, Gonsalves, the poor man. I met him once and now he tries to buy my charms with baubles. As if I wish to be flattered by a—”

“No, no, conchita. I opened the package. It holds several grams of heroin, extremely pure. Gonsalves called it your monthly gift. That’s a muy grande habit, Amili.”

“This is all a lie and a set-up,” Amili hissed. “Get out of here before I call—”