South by Southeast

by Blair Underwood

  Chela tried to wipe the confusion from her face. He was standing as close to her as Enrique had been, and her heart was pounding so hard she wondered how he couldn’t feel the vibration. She fought the urge to bring up Maria.

  “You could say that,” she said blandly. She looked away from him as if he were crowding her. Their avoidance of Maria was excruciating.

  “Don’t you remember me?” he said. “I met you the other night. With your friend.”

  “I remember you.” Thank goodness he had finally brought up Maria. Chela stared at the floor, allowing sadness into her face. “I guess you heard.”

  He clucked. “She was a lovely girl. But I don’t think she was careful.”

  If Raphael were a doctor, he would have terrible bedside manner. He barely sounded sympathetic. All of the lights and sounds in the room sharpened as Chela’s heart sped.

  “No one is careful all the time,” Chela said.

  He winked at her. “But you are. I saw that from the start. Maria took too many chances, but not you. You would never swim alone at night.”

  Whether or not Raphael was a suspect, he was pissing her off. He had a lot of balls, considering that he might have introduced Maria to the man who’d killed her—if he hadn’t killed her himself. “So that’s still the story? She went swimming and drowned?”

  She couldn’t swim, jerkwad. You didn’t know that?

  He conceded by canting his head. “Whether it is literally or not. My only point is this: I admire your . . .” He paused, searching for a word. “Discretion? I share it, in fact. I apologize if I’ve spoken too harshly of your friend. I did not mean to offend. And I apologize for my behavior when we met. It is not my nature to approach a stranger that way. Who can blame you for not wishing to speak to a stranger?”

  His jade eyes bored into her. Chela looked away and noticed Enrique staring at her from the huddle with his friends. Enrique shook his head slowly back and forth, like a disappointed older brother. The way Ten would have.

  Chela didn’t look away quickly enough, and Raphael followed her gaze.

  He smiled gently. “That one is a schoolboy,” he said. “Spending Papa’s money. A waste of your time.”

  “I think I should go,” Chela said. She blurted the words so unexpectedly that she wondered if she meant it. Her proximity to Raphael warmed her skin in a way she didn’t like. His scent was pleasant bath soap, more intimate than cologne.

  Raphael held up a hand as if to stop her in her path. “Again, I apologize. I am too blunt. But Maria was an associate of mine, and I know she cared for you . . . so I can’t help the urge to give you advice. While you are enjoying yourself on holiday, be careful while you make friends. Many of the friendliest men in here carry badges and handcuffs.”

  “And you’re my friend?”

  His smile radiated kindness. He leaned close, as if to combat the throbbing music, but in reality to create a false intimacy. “I could be, if you were receptive to friendship.”

  “No offense, but Maria was your friend, too.” Chela held her breath, waiting for his reaction. Maybe she shouldn’t have said it, but it was a fair observation.

  Raphael didn’t blink. “True—and I will forever be haunted by my last words to Maria,” he said. “I asked her to stay here with us. With the other girls. I asked her not to go out alone.”

  Bull, Chela thought. Why would Maria have left the gold mine inside Club Phoenixx? Maria’s last conversation with Chela had been all about what a great connection Raphael was and how she’d hoped to make a play for that horrible guy with the big nose.

  A more terrible thought came. What if Raphael was telling the truth? Maria might have left Club Phoenixx to go look for her or to make sure she made it to Julio’s van. Mouse Girl had told her that Maria had hung out with them to drink champagne for a while, and then she had disappeared, leaving her phone and purse behind. Maria’s death might have nothing to do with Raphael and the man he’d tried to set her up with.

  Chela needed more information, and she could only play hard to get for so long.

  Raphael leaned forward with both of his elbows across the bar, staring straight ahead as if he weren’t talking to her. “An intelligent girl like you will want to weigh her options, of course, but I would like to make an invitation, Chela.”

  She hadn’t reminded him of her name, so he had remembered. Raphael was probably a genius with names. “Freedom of speech,” Chela said. “Go on.”

  Almost imperceptibly, he brushed a single fingertip across her knuckle, and her hand was aflame. The effect surprised Chela so much that she stared at her hand. Raphael’s sensuality was so quiet she hadn’t noticed it until he touched her.

  “You are very beautiful, and I like to spend time with beautiful women,” he said. “It is, in fact, my greatest weakness. I have friends who share my weakness. You are free to take your chances with schoolboys and undercover police here at Club Phoenixx . . . or you may accompany me to a private party with my friends who have too much money in their pockets, and join some other girls. These are girls you have met—girls, like you, who cared very much for Maria. We can all drink a toast to her. And then, I hope, we will no longer be strangers.”

  Chela’s pounding heart shook her toes. The scenario he’d described was so perfect that it seemed too good to be true. Now she would have no reason to wait around the club until Mouse Girl arrived at midnight—if she really was planning to come meet her. Chela clasped her hands behind her back, both to prevent more touching and to keep Raphael from seeing her fingers trembling. She was more frightened of herself than she was of Raphael.

  “But you’re still a stranger,” Chela said.

  “This is true,” Raphael said. “But we would never be alone—not for an instant.”

  “Where’s the party?” Chela said.

  “Not ten minutes from here. At a very nice luxury hotel friendly to me and my girls.”

  “Tell me the address,” Chela said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Raphael’s smile grew. Gotcha, his eyes said.

  “Nonsense,” Raphael said. “My driver will take us.”

  Although it was parked in a row of stretches, Chela had no trouble finding the black Mercedes limo across the street from Club Phoenixx with the sign taped to the windshield she’d been told to look for: M. GARCIA. In Miami, that was like saying the car was for J. Smith.

  Raphael must have phoned ahead to his driver, because a white-haired, white-bearded man in a formal black uniform appeared as soon as she saw the vehicle, opening the rear door with a grin. His face was so wide and jolly that if his beard had been longer, he’d have been a ringer for Santa Claus. She’d wanted to take a photo of the license tag, but she couldn’t now.

  “Evenin’, miss,” the driver said. “My name’s Ian. Pleasure.”

  He even had a British accent. Not English, though. Ireland or Wales or Scotland. His attention awakened a familiar feeling in her, the notion that she’d earned her membership in a special, secret society. Only suckers took cabs or paid for their own drinks or meals, or lived life any other way.

  The limo was an older model, probably Raphael’s personal property; it was immaculately kept, the seats as soft as baby skin. She guessed that it might seat eight people with room to spare. An open bottle of Cristal cooled in the gleaming silver ice bucket, so she helped herself to a glass for the sake of appearances, only filling it halfway. No way was she getting buzzed tonight. A tentative sip told her it had been freshly uncorked. She’d always liked champagne, since it reminded her of soda pop.

  “Forgive me,” the driver said, “but I’ll need to drive you around the block. Traffic is a nuisance, but I can’t stay parked now you’re here, or I’ll get a ticket.”

  Chela knew that Raphael had sent her out first so he wouldn’t be seen leaving the club with her—a precaution that probably helped him stay in business—but in the ten minutes Ian took her in a circuit around the block, she forgot her anxiety and made herself at h
ome. She turned off her phone, since she didn’t need Mouse Girl anymore. When she noticed a television monitor, she found the remote beside the champagne tray and flipped the channels until she found BET, a rerun of Black Girls Rock. She stretched out her legs and watched the blur of neon lighting up the crowded streets of the Magic City. She remembered M.C. Glazer and the parade of celebrities who had treated her like a queen. Until now, it had all seemed like a faraway dream—but the dream had been waiting for her in Miami.

  Then the limo pulled up in front of the club, and the dream ended.

  Raphael opened the door and climbed in beside her. He didn’t speak to the driver, only gesturing, and the limo took off again as quickly as it had stopped. Chela muted the TV so she wouldn’t miss a word he said.

  Raphael’s features were more severe in the light from the TV monitor, his pockmarks like craters, and he seemed taller in the car beside her. Chela felt self-conscious at how high her black mini-dress was riding on her thighs now that she was sitting down, but she couldn’t show modesty now. Her beach wrap was crumpled on the seat beside her, useless.

  “Good, you found the champagne,” Raphael said. He poured himself a glass. “Let’s have our first toast, then—to new friendship.”

  She pasted on a smile and clinked her glass with his. “To new friendship.”

  She was glad when she saw Raphael take a thirsty sip. She’d sipped twice already during the drive, forgetting Ten’s warning not to take drinks from anyone. And from an open bottle! This time, she kept her lips pursed, only pretending to drink. She promised herself that she wouldn’t make any more stupid mistakes.

  “You look like an angel, Chela,” Raphael said. “You can be royalty here. So . . . untouched. So . . .”

  “Fresh,” she said, Mother’s word for her.

  Raphael’s smile became a grin. “Yes,” he said. “A fresh flower.”

  Slowly, he took off his jacket and laid it on the empty seat an arm’s length from him. He moved with grace. From habit, Chela sought out things to like about him: his fluidity, his manners, his swirling curls, his Italian accent. There was nothing wrong with Raphael. Yet.

  “I intend to show you that I do not make empty promises,” he said. “I am a man of my word.” He gestured toward the side pocket of the door closest to her.

  The limo was so old-school that Chela could see that her door was still unlocked, a silver pin standing at attention. With traffic crawling so slowly, she could open her door and jump out at almost any time. They hadn’t left Ocean Drive. She could find her way home. Reassured by her escape plan, Chela reached into the pocket and found a sealed white envelope. It was thick. Chela recognized the weight and shape of its contents.

  “Go on,” Raphael said. “For you, my flower. Open it.”

  With the envelope in her lap to disguise her unsteady hands, Chela tugged at the seal, which gave easily. She knew the scent before she saw the crisp stack; the visible bill pictured Benjamin Franklin, and she guessed he had twenty twins. At least. It had been years since Chela had held two thousand dollars in her hands.

  “Before you accompany me to my party,” he said, “I would like to know you are someone who keeps her word as well. Who is what she seems to be.”

  The door remained unlocked, but Raphael pushed a button, and a dark panel began its silent, seasoned slide across the front seat to give them privacy from the driver. Ian was only a few yards away, but now a gulf separated them. Chela’s heart clogged her throat, but the tightness went away when she stared at the carnival of muted lights through the tinted window.

  Raphael had promised they would never be alone, after all. He was a man of his word.

  Chela closed the envelope without counting the bills. Her purse was small, but the bulk fit inside when she folded it, nestled outside the compartment where she’d stashed Maria’s license. She tried to think of a plan, but some part of her had known the plan from the start.

  When Raphael’s smooth hand found her thigh, Chela did not flinch away.

  She smiled.

  Chela never allowed her mind to go quiet, concentrating on her performance, the caress of the leather seat against the side of her face. She had begun her trade in cars, long ago. Her mind knew where to go without prompting. For one horrible instant, she thought about Bernard, but she banished him by clenching her body so tightly that Raphael forgot his English and hissed Italian words she did not know.

  She touched the right places and made the right sounds, whispered the right words, and Raphael’s grunts were a scorekeeper’s tally. He knew better than to kiss her on the mouth but welcomed her mouth upon him. He produced a condom before she had to insist. No big deal. He was pleased with her. That was the important thing. How else could she win Raphael’s trust? Now she could send the money to Maria’s daughter.

  Their clothes were back on, perfectly in place, by the time they pulled up in front of the Swordfish Hotel, coasting to a stop in the gilded motor lobby.

  Raphael kissed her forehead. “You will find a makeup tray beneath your seat,” he said. “A brush, mints, perfume, whatever you like. Take all the time you need.”

  And he climbed out of the limousine to wait for her. Such a gentleman.

  Chela wished she could shower, but baby wipes and a swish of mouthwash made her feel clean enough. She forgot about the silent driver behind the panel, and she hoped he had forgotten her. With every passing moment, her time beneath Raphael felt less real. Old memories tried to surface and blend with the sharp scent of Raphael’s soap coating her nasal passages, but she buried them while she applied new lipstick in the lighted mirror, refusing to meet her own eyes.

  She had made two grand in ten minutes, and she had done it for Maria. Soon this night would be over, and she could go home. It was only a big deal if she made it one.

  Raphael was waiting outside the limo, and he extended his hand like Prince Charming ready to escort her to the ball. Strangers admired them as the doormen held open the doors and they graced the hotel lobby, walking hand in hand.

  She could feel observers wondering who she was. An actress? A model? A singer? Watching eyes no longer bothered her; they gave her the power to silence her memories.

  Chela noticed Raphael’s protectiveness, how he kept her near him, angling his body between hers and any man who walked too close to her. Chela had never known Maria to work with a pimp, but she understood why she had chosen Raphael. He wasn’t like the men who ran the streets, wrangling women like circus animals who needed whips to perform. He felt more like a manager, or even a date, opening every door, warning her to watch her step, protecting her like china. Her palm felt damp and moist nestled in his; nervousness she could pretend was attraction, fooling them both for a time.

  “We’ll visit a suite with a private party upstairs,” he said, “but first, if you don’t mind, I would like to take you to the bar. A new face is a welcome novelty.”

  Chela spoke for the first time since they had left the limousine. “No one else tonight,” she said. That was her old rule from her time with Mother, who had insisted upon nightly exclusivity no matter how much money she was offered. “Never treat yourself like a garbage bin with endless deposits,” Mother used to say. “Professionals don’t play the street whore’s game.”

  Raphael’s smile looked genuine. “I would not have it any other way. Tonight, you are with me, and I am with you. These are introductions only. You have no reason to be nervous.”

  Obviously, he could feel her palm and her quickened pulse. Chela drew in a deep breath, willing herself to be calm, and returned Raphael’s smile. “Good,” she said. “I have rules.”

  “Hear me, my angel . . .” He leaned close to her ear for dramatic effect, and she caught herself before she flinched away and destroyed her night’s work. “My only fear is that I will grow possessive and want to keep you for myself—always.”

  Chela’s fixed smile turned to steel. That was a pimp’s line, all right. Pimps, at heart, were shrinks gone
to the dark side. It’s all for you, Raphael. Anything for you, Raphael. Am I your main girl, Raphael? Do you love me, Raphael? Raphael might have been the last person Maria ever saw. Was drowning his idea of “keeping” someone for himself? Chela’s stomach grew taut as the memory of the back of his limousine tried to break free.

  They passed a wall-sized aquarium display teeming with tropical fish, and Chela recognized the tetras Ten kept replacing in their home tank when older ones died. Thoughts of Ten turned her stomach to stone. Was he trying to call her now? Was Bernard? To Chela’s horror, her eyes suddenly stung her fiercely. She kept them open wide, afraid to blink, trying to remember Mother’s Rules for keeping her thoughts controlled. “Think of parts, not the whole. What you are doing, not what is being done to you. The mask, not the heart it protects.”

  She imagined her hand in Raphael’s slowly turning to ice, going numb, and willed the numbness to travel throughout her body, to her face, until the stinging was gone. She spotted a pudgy middle-aged woman in a ridiculous leopard-pattern dress across the room, and a laugh rose in her throat.

  “This will be fun,” she said, capitalizing on her unexpected laugh.

  Raphael squeezed her hand, approving. He didn’t notice when she flicked at her eye to dry it.

  The bar was populated with businessmen, an older crowd than at Club Phoenixx, with wider paunches and grayer hair. Still, none looked as bad as the man with the big nose. Even while she searched, she wondered what she would do if she faced him again. Would she have to flirt? Let him touch her thigh? Gooseflesh flared on her bare arms.

  The men at the bar did everything but applaud when Raphael arrived with her on his arm. Their admiration was open, like patrons at an art auction viewing a surprise masterpiece. But Raphael kept her at a distance from them even while he paraded her.

  “I’m flying to Dubai tomorrow!” complained a squat man in a white guayabera like the ones Captain Hardwick often wore. “Only two weeks, Raffi. Will she travel?”

  Hell no, Chela thought.