30 Red Dresses

by Johan Twiss

  “Wow, that lot of cash,” Munny said in surprise. “I not believe you carry that much money. You pay him way too much. One red bill more than plenty.”

  The doorman eyed the bills greedily and reached out to snag them, but James pulled the wad of money back and peeled away one of the red bills.

  The doorman started yelling at them, pointing at the remaining cash in James hand.

  “He say you pay all money in wallet or he kick us out,” Munny translated.

  “What? No way!” James yelled back at the man. “You can tell this greedy little—” but James’ words were cut short when the doorman produced a large handgun from his back waistband.

  He waved the gun at James and reached out for the rest of the money.

  “Seriously? You’re robbing us?!” James shouted, pulling the wallet close to his chest. “Do you have any idea what it’s like outside?”

  James flared his nostrils, his temper rising out of control. He took a menacing step toward the doorman. His chest heaved up and down as he stood up to his full height, towering over the bouncer.

  Munny put a hand on James’ arm and pulled him back.

  “What you doing? You crazy? He has gun, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” James said through gritted teeth, slowly backing down. “But if he didn’t I’d kick his can to Timbuktu! Dirty little...”

  James continued to grumble under his breath as he handed the money to the bouncer. “Does this happen to you often?” James questioned Munny. “Did you bring me here on purpose to get robbed? How much do you make off this? What’s your cut?”

  Munny paled and nervously rubbed his hands together. “I so sorry, Mr. Moore. I never bring you to place like this on purpose. I promise. I cut no. No cutting for me. I swear. This storm crazy. It brought us here. It not normal.”

  James scoffed at his translator, even though he believed Munny. He knew their current situation was not completely Munny’s fault, but he still wanted someone to blame.

  The bouncer stuffed the soggy money into his pants pocket and smirked at James. He nodded for them to go through the next door into the building. He started to put his gun away, when a deep, ominous roar reverberated through the ground and up the walls.

  “What is that?” James asked, the roar growing louder and louder—like a freight train barreling toward them.

  The door to the alley began to creak and moan as water seeped underneath it. With a scowl, the burly man pushed Munny and James aside to inspect the disturbance.

  As he reached to open the alley door, realization dawned on James.

  The rain. The hail. The new dam on the river.

  “NO!” he shouted.

  But it was too late.

  CHAPTER 3

  Veata felt dizzy under the bright lights of the stage. She was thirsty, hungry, and her face stung where she’d been slapped.

  A shorter man with a thin goatee tapped on the glass in front of her. Veata looked up from the floor and saw him smiling hungrily at her. Even through the blinding lights of the stage, she saw his colors flare purple and dark blue, like the colors her uncle turned whenever he brought a woman home and kicked Veata out of the hut for a few hours.

  “That one,” he eagerly called, pointing at Veata. “The young one. Number 30.”

  Heavy footsteps marched up behind her and spiky-hair’s rough hand grabbed her by the arm, squeezing tightly, as he pulled her off the stage.

  He brought her down a narrow hallway and knocked on a door with a tinted window.

  “Come in,” a dry voice called.

  Veata was shoved into the room and nearly gagged on the overpowering smell of incense burning atop a shelf on the wall. Sitting behind a desk was a new man she had not seen yet. He was heavy-set with a thin mustache and black hair slicked into a ponytail. He wore a red button-up shirt with a yellow flower print, and there was a cigarette hanging from his lips.

  “Is this the new one?” the man behind the desk asked.

  The guy holding her arm nodded.

  The man behind the desk tilted his head to the side, looking Veata up and down, then stroked his mustache approvingly. “What’s your name, child?”

  Veata’s jaw still hurt from where she’d been slapped, but she whispered out, “Veata.”

  “Veata,” he said smoothly. “What a beautiful name. We will keep your name. Sometimes we change the girl’s names, but we will keep yours. Come closer so I can see you better in the light.”

  Veata’s heart beat faster. She took in the man’s colors and shook her head. So much blackness, red, and violet. So dark. So dark.

  The red, black and violet swirled around him like a mist in bad storm. She took a few steps back, but the man holding her arm yanked her forward toward the desk.

  “You are young. Very young. Customers will pay extra for a girl like you—the clean ones with no diseases.”

  The man reached across the desk and held Veata by the chin, tilting her head side to side. “Good. Very good. You will make me money for a long time.”

  Releasing Veata, he took a long drag from his cigarette before squashing the embers in an ashtray. “My name is Rithisak. Your uncle sold you to me. That makes you my property. Do you understand?”

  Veata’s lip trembled and she shook her head.

  Rithisak raised an eyebrow. “It means you do as I say. If you try to run, I will catch you. If you go to the police, they will bring you back to me. You have no more family. You have no more friends. You only have me. I will take care of you, Veata, if you listen and obey. Now, do you understand?”

  Veata’s chin quivered, and fresh tears welled in her eyes, but she nodded.

  “Good little girl. Teng says a customer has already chosen you. Well done. Starting tomorrow, you will serve fifteen to twenty customers a day. Do what they ask to make them happy. If you do a good job, you will get dinner each night and special medicine to take away any pain. But if you’re a bad little girl—”

  The man’s voice rose and he shook his head, his dark eyes narrowing. Veata gasped, flinching as his colors flared black and red, shifting violently like a thunderstorm.

  “Good. I see you understand. You are a quick learner.”

  Rithisak reached across the desk and lifted Veata’s hand to look at her wrist. “Teng,” he growled to the spiky-haired man at her side. “Why isn’t she marked yet?”

  Teng shrank back at Rithisak’s words and Veata wondered if he could see the stormy colors as well.

  “Idiot!” Rithisak yelled. He picked up a stapler from his desk and threw it at the man, hitting him in the side of the face before he could react. “You are trying my patience, boy! If you cannot follow my simple rules, you are useless to the Sen Zi. One more mistake and I will have you beat, your mother and brother beat, and then have all of you thrown out of your apartment and into the street! Do you understand?”

  Teng nodded vigorously. “Yes, Rithisak. I’m sorry. The show was about to start and I thought it best to put her on immediately. I—”

  Rithisak cut him off with a sharp hand gesture. He glared at Teng and Veata watched his color swirl dark red, like blood.

  “I will not tell you this again. All new girls must be tattooed before they serve any clients! Take care of it quickly so the customer is not kept waiting. Go!”

  Teng gave a curt head nod and nearly yanked Veata’s arm out of her socket as he pulled her out of the room. She struggled to keep up with his pace as he half-dragged her down the hallway into another room.

  The room was small and windowless with an old wooden table and some chairs in the center. Against one wall were some cabinets and a half-size refrigerator that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. An older teenage girl sat at the table, smoking a cigarette between eating bites of rice from a bowl. Veata noticed the girl wore a similar red dress to hers, which contrasted sharply against the dark blue colors swirling around her.

  She’s sad. Very, very sad.

  “She needs to be
marked,” Teng said to the girl. “I’ve got to go back to the stage. She has a customer waiting in stall fifteen. Take her there after you’re done. And Rithisak wants it done quickly.”

  The girl extinguished her cigarette and nodded.

  After Teng left, the girl stood and pulled something out of a cupboard.

  “Come sit,” she said in a flat tone. “My name is Chemsi. What’s yours?”

  “Veata.”

  “Are you scared, Veata?”

  Veata nodded.

  “Good. This is a scary place. It will always be a scary place, but the first week is the hardest. I’ll help you when I can—to make things easier. But whatever you do, don’t make Rithisak mad. Trust me, you don’t want that.”

  Veata nodded, already scared of the large man.

  “Good. Sit down and lay your arm across the table.”

  Chemsi took Veata’s right arm, turned it over so the inside of her wrist was exposed, then poured a few drops of clear liquid on her wrist and rubbed it around.

  “Cheap vodka,” Chemsi said. “Sterilizes the skin and needle. They used to mark the girls without cleaning first, but I try to keep it clean. We don’t want to share any…sickness.”

  Veata flinched when Chemsi flipped on a small device with a metal pointy end and brought it toward her wrist.

  “This will hurt, like ants biting,” she said evenly. “But, I will be quick. If you can be strong and not cry, I will give you a special piece of candy. I know where Teng hides the candy.”

  Chemsi held her arm tight, pinning it to the table, and softly sang a lullaby. Veata was surprised when she recognized the song. It was a lullaby her mother had sung to her before she died.

  Sleep, my darling, sleep.

  Don't cry, my baby.

  Your rice with honey,

  Is already prepared.

  Veata’s pulse quickened. The blood in her veins burned like hot coals as the vibrating needle inched closer to her wrist.

  When you wake up

  I'll feed you.

  After you've eaten

  You'll play over here.

  If there's a chore,

  I'll call you,

  No need to go far

  To get you.

  The needle touched her arm, stinging like a wasp. Veata wanted to scream—to cry and pull back her wrist—but she bit her tongue, breathing hard and fast.

  Don't cry, my love,

  I'll hold you in my arms.

  When you grow up

  You'll go to school,

  Chemsi choked on the word, school, lifting the needle for a moment. Veata watched her colors change to gray. But Chemsi quickly recovered and continued her song. Veata squeezed her eyes shut as the tattoo needle bit into her skin once again.

  You'll gather knowledge,

  You'll learn.

  One day, my love,

  It will help you.

  Don't cry, my love,

  I'll worry.

  I need to earn a living

  To take care of you.

  The singing stopped.

  The hum of the tattoo needle went silent.

  “All done,” Chemsi whispered.

  Veata opened her eyes, tears falling down her cheeks. Her wrist throbbed with pain, but she was thankful the stabbing was done. She inspected the tiny black letters imprinted on her skin. There was a black circle around them, no larger than a small coin, and a red welt swelled behind the tattoo.

  “What does it say?” Veata asked through gritted teeth, trying to fight against the pain. “I can’t read.”

  Chemsi nodded, as if expecting this. “It says, ‘Sen Zi. You are now property of the Sen Zi—like me.”

  Chemsi held up her wrist, revealing an identical tattoo. She used a small rag to dab more of the vodka onto the new tattoo, causing Veata to flinch.

  “It stings! It stings!” Veata cried.

  Chemsi ignored the cries and pulled out a piece of hard candy wrapped in yellow cellophane. She twisted open the wrapper, unveiling a dark purple hard candy, and offered it to Veata.

  Veata hesitated for a moment, but her stomach growled for something to eat. It was late afternoon and she’d not eaten a thing since breakfast. Snatching up the candy, she popped it into her mouth. Immediately, she welcomed the sweet fruity flavor. It tasted like a mangosteen, her favorite fruit. She savored the taste and desperately tried to hold onto the only good thing to happen to her that day—the only gift she had received on her birthday.

  “It’s time to go meet your first customer. I’m sorry. I can’t protect you, but the candy I gave you is special—like magic. It will help dull your pain. It will help you forget.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A raging river of filthy water slammed James into the wall. To his side, the burly doorman hit his head against a wooden support beam and slumped on impact. James grabbed him by the collar and struggled to keep both of their heads above the rising flood.

  “Munny!” James shouted, looking for his translator, though fearing the worst.

  “Over here!” Munny shouted back from a dark corner of the entry room. “I right here. You okay?”

  James sputtered as water rose to his neck and splashed into his face.

  “No! I can’t...move. Water has me...pinned. Got to...get...the inside door open,” he yelled between waves of water.

  James jumped up and down on his tippy-toes, still struggling to keep the guard’s head above the water as well. In a few more seconds, he knew he would have to let the man go if he wanted a chance to save himself.

  To his surprise, Munny nimbly climbed up a support beam, then pulled himself on top of a ceiling rafter above the inner door. With the grace of a gymnast, he swung back and forth from the rafter, gave a loud grunt, and kicked the internal door open.

  Whooooosh!

  A wave of water sucked James and the guard through the door, spilling them into a large, dimly lit room that looked like a nightclub. Screams echoed around them as the club filled with water—first one foot, then two feet. James propped the bouncer on the bar countertop and felt a sharp stab of pain in his bad knee.

  “Munny!” he called, hoping the little gymnast was okay.

  Dropping from the rafter, Munny waded inside. “I right here. You okay, Mr. Moore?”

  “Sure. Couldn’t be better. Thanks for asking,” James said sarcastically, giving two enthusiastic thumbs up and a grim smile.

  Dirty water continued to rise, now swirling past his thigh.

  Scanning their surroundings, James saw a small stage with open curtains and a large glass window. A dozen or so tables and chairs were upturned, floating in the rising water, and men threw each other out of the way as they raced up a small flight of stairs in the back of the club. A handful of young girls in short red dresses screamed as they struggled to move in the same direction, being pushed back behind the men as they fled.

  James had never been one to follow the crowd, but in this instance, it seemed appropriate.

  “Help me with this clown,” he shouted to Munny, heaving the bouncer’s arm over his shoulder. The sharp pain in his knee intensified under the weight of the extra man, and the water was now lapping at his waist.

  Munny hurried over to help, throwing the bouncer’s other arm over his shoulder at an odd angle since he was so much shorter than James. Together they dragged the man across the room and up a handful of steps that led to a narrow hallway. The steps took them high enough to get out of the dirty water, but James feared it would not last long as the flood waters crept up the stairs behind them.

  The dim hall lights flickered for a few seconds before the power went out. James pulled out his cell phone, amazed it still worked after being submerged in the water, and used it as a flashlight.

  “We need to be careful,” Munny whispered as they followed the crowd down the hallway. “This is bad place with bad men.”

  James nodded. “I kind of guessed that after this moron waved a gun in my face.”

  “It not jus
t gun. Tattoo on his arm,” Munny said, pointing to a circular tattoo on the man’s inner-forearm. It had a Cambodian symbol that looked like the letter T with three stars surrounding it. “He part of Sen Zi. They is mafia. Bad karma. Very bad karma.”

  After seeing the stage and the young girls, James had his own suspicions what a mafia like the Sen Zi used this place for. They turned a corner in the hallway, entering a long room, and his suspicions were confirmed.

  Dim, hazy light filtered through a few small windows covered in newspaper. The flood water had reached their ankles and was still rising.

  The retreating mass of men and girls ran toward another flight in the middle of the room. Against the walls to their left and right, James made out rows of restroom-like stalls with brown curtains across them. From inside the stalls, men flung open the curtains as they heard the tumult outside and struggled to dress themselves amid the shock of rising water.

  In each stall was a small, dirty cot. On each cot there was a young girl. Some of the girls were half-naked while others still wore red dresses.

  James’ stomach curled at the sight and bile rose up his throat.

  This is sick. These girls are no older than my granddaughters.

  The thought sent a wave of boiling heat through his old bones. The pain in his knee was forgotten, replaced with mounting anger.

  Above the fierce clamor of those fighting to escape up the stairs, James thought he heard a scream for help. The words were in Khmer, but he didn’t need a translator to know what they meant.

  “Help! Please help!”

  “Do you hear that?” James asked Munny, spinning in a circle as he tried to pinpoint the sound. “Someone’s calling for help.”

  Munny shook his head. “I hear nothing, beside people screaming who go up stairs. We need go too. Water keep coming.”

  James nodded dismissively. “I know, I know. But listen. Can’t you hear it? Those screams! Where are they coming from?”