by Karl Tutt
Chapter Seven
Lobo smiled. Maria Elena kept her head down, but she watched. It was a curious thing . . . the look he gave her . . . seeming benevolence, but with a hint of ruthlessness, and a threat buried deep within his feral eyes. The final result turned her blood to ice.
Still, she felt much better. She had just been bathed by a Hispanic woman. Her cheeks and hips were wide, but her smile was gentle and welcoming. Maria Elena had sat in a warm tub full of bubbles while the soapy rag gently scrubbed her skin free of the residue of sweat and grime. Her raven hair had been pulled back in a small bun. She thought of her mother, the music in her voice and the love in her almond eyes.
“I am Selena,” the woman said, “and you are exquisite. I will christen your beauty, make you a creature of honor, to be desired and celebrated. You must trust me.”
Her quiet voice soothed the child. She fell into a type of swoon. This woman would not hurt her.
As Selena scrubbed Maria’s back, she whispered things in her ear. Gentle, caring, reassuring . . . the kinds of things that a child longs to hear. Things that make her feel safe and valued. Her hair was washed with a shampoo that smelled like blossoms of Jasmine. A sweet, creamy conditioner. Delicate fingers smoothed it into her hair. The result was soft black silk. Selena sprayed a bit of light color in her locks. It gave her hair a subtle tint of auburn. A dab of blush on her cheeks and a bit of lip gloss --- nothing excessive --- just a touch that accentuated her innocent femininity. Then a dress . . . a bit juvenile, but comfortable. It made her feel like a girl, innocent, free, and untouched. She was a bit surprised that she remembered it at all, considering the heavy mist that shrouded her brain, but she smiled to herself. Everything would be all right.
Mig had appeared. He led her into the room, his hand gently squeezing hers. There were four others. One also Hispanic . . . young, but already strikingly beautiful, eyes like two orbs of mahogany, a wave of brown-black hair cascading down her back. The next was pale, blond, and even a bit skinny, but she had a glow that filled the room. The others were both Eurasian. One of them had breasts that strained for release from the tighter black dress that clung to her hips. The fourth was definitely a child, no more than ten or twelve, but with a girlish innocence that almost begged to be protected . . . even treasured . . . or defiled.
“Welcome, my children . . . Gentlemen . . . all virgins, I assure you. Just as usual.”
Six men sat on the overstuffed leather sofa. Each held a glass filled with rich wine or a golden liquid that swirled in the crystal. They smiled, laughed, and eyed the merchandise coyly, none eager to appear oversold or enamored of a particular product. After all, this was to be a negotiation. The violinist played a quiet piece from Bach.
Maria Elena had palmed the last pill that Mig had offered. She scanned the other candidates. They stared into a void, no doubt happy just to be clean and even desirable. None of them seemed to know, or to care, what was coming.
A man who appeared Chinese got off the sofa and approached the girls. Maria was third in line. He moved slowly, stopping in front of each one. He eyed the large breasts of the Eurasian girl and leaned forward to admire the cleavage. The girl stepped back for a moment, but the force of a huge hand held her fast. The Chinese reached for her breast.
“Esteemed one,” Lobo almost shouted, “no one handles my jewels until our transaction is completed. When you choose, delivery will be swift. Then she is yours to do your bidding.”
The man stopped abruptly, took a step back, turned, and bowed slightly in Lobo’s direction. Then he raised his glass and tipped it toward the Wolf. The Chinese spent what seemed like hours in front of Maria. His smile sent something slithering down her spine. She tried to remain motionless, and stare at the floor, wishing desperately for some type of invisibility. He stood before the other two, but only for a moment. Then it was back to Maria.
“Dis wan,” he muttered with a musical lilt in his voice, and returned to the sofa.
She had been chosen.
Mig took her arm gently and pulled her out of the line. He pointed to a chair. She sat and tried not to cry.
The process went on. The young one was the last. She tried to focus on the eyes of the Arab, then fell to her knees. She wrapped her arms around his legs and begged.
“My mother waits. I must go home to tend my brothers. Please, take another. I am not worthy.”
Mig grabbed her by the hair as she wailed. He snatched her up to her feet.
“Best to be respectful,” he growled, “it will go better for you.”
Then he tugged her toward the door. In an instant she was gone, but the howls continued. The men on the sofa laughed. “She will learn,” one of them snapped.
