I was so terrified. I could barely speak as he guided me to the entrance of the Towers in Spanish Harlem from the taxi. Things had changed since I left.
“I gotta live in this shithole now because of you. You know how I hate the Towers, but I’m stuck here because of you.” Faustino didn’t want to lose any more girls. He forced Arana to move into the Towers to keep a close eye on all the girls. I’d literally turned Arana’s life to shit. He’d been living in a posh, upscale two-bedroom apartment in Corona, but now he had to live in the ghetto, no choice.
One advantage I had here, the home turf. I had a chance one of the girls or neighbors might recognize me. If someone connected to Faustino found out I was here, Arana wouldn’t be able to get rid of me so easily. He’d be forced to hand me over to Faustino. If I could survive a couple days, till Enrique and Faustino returned from Panama, I had a chance of making it out of this mess alive.
Ideas churned in my mind – ways to negotiate with Arana. I may be able to talk him into ransoming me to Enrique. Surely I was worth fifty thousand or more to Enrique, enough cash to grab Arana’s attention. Inspiration struck. I could pay Arana the thirty thousand I had in the bank right now, my employment signing bonus and my first month’s salary. I saved virtually every penny of that money for use on something worthwhile. Saving my life seemed worthwhile.
Arana didn’t give me a chance to negotiate. As soon as we entered his apartment he threw the double deadbolts and turned on me with a vicious right hook I never saw coming. He put me down and out.
I woke up sometime later on my back, tied down to the bed posts, naked, legs spread open. I’m pretty sure my nose was broken. It bled all down my face. My head pounded like a tribal drum competition. I’ve never had a broken anything before, it hurt like a motherfucker. My throat was slick with blood and mucus, I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t stop it before it happened, my stomach flopped and I puked, which made my head hurt worse.
Arana stood over me, looking at the mess I made, shaking his head in disgust. “I always knew you were a dirty puta, but this is a little too much. I can’t work in this mess.”
The work he spoke of was the task of beating me to a pulp, which he looked forward to with anticipation. He left for a few seconds then came back with a wet washcloth. After a few minutes he had cleaned me up and stood there staring with those soulless dark eyes, the eyes of a killer who enjoyed his work.
“Now we can get down to business.” He spoke quietly without emotion. He was known to be a merciless son of a bitch.
“I can pay you! I have the cash in the bank right now!”
He shook his head. He didn’t think I had any real money, not enough to change his mind.
“Thirty thousand cash. I can get it for you first thing in the morning when the bank opens. You don’t have to do this! We can have a little fun tonight and I’ll pay you in the morning. You don’t need to tie me up, I won’t fight you.”
I had tempted him. He thought about it seriously. He wanted the cash. He thought of ways to hurt me that wouldn’t leave obvious marks. He wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He figured he could have some fun, take me to the bank in the morning, and then bring me back here to finish what he started. Arana was nothing if decisive, a quick thinker. He made his plan and decided to go for it. He dropped his weight right into my gut with a wicked right-hand punch. Felt like his hand reached all the way through to my spine.
As I whimpered in agony he casually removed his clothes and laid them out in an orderly pile on the dresser.
“Please don’t hurt me. I’ll pay you, I promise. You don’t have to do this, it’s not necessary.”
I tried my best to stay calm, but I was in pain, crying. He moved up on my body slow and deliberate, like a cat settling in on its prey once mobilized. Arana feasted on my fear. He wanted me to be afraid. I knew everything he planned, and I was very afraid.
He made me sing with pain. The sounds of my suffering were an aphrodisiac for him. I swear his cock hardened every time he hit me.
He never touched my face. I had to look good for the bank in the morning. But no other part of my body was off-limits. I passed out from the pain when he broke my ribs with a vicious right hook. What made it worse was that he kept settling his weight into me, into my bruised broken ribs as he fucked me.
I cried and begged shamelessly. “Please stop. I’ll give you all my money, I’ll do whatever you want, please stop hitting me!”
He liked it better when I begged. Crying, passing out unconscious, none of this made a difference to him. He got exactly what he wanted and nothing I did or said could change that. I would wake up to the shock of cold water on my face, another form of punishment. I don’t know when he stopped, probably when I was unconscious. He could hardly get me to wake up. All that alcohol, pain, and exhaustion was just too much. I vaguely registered his concern that I wouldn’t be able to walk in and out of the bank tomorrow.
I had thought Arana wanted to know where I had been, what I’d been doing all this time. He really didn’t care. All he wanted was to get his kicks punishing me. The last thing I remember that night was being face down. He had untied me only to flip me over, to tag me from behind. He was going at it like a madman. He donkey punched me in the back of the head and I was out.
***
CHAPTER 20
I awoke to pain, the memories of last night’s ordeal flooding in as my ribs screamed and my head pounded. I needed a bite so bad I could kill for it. I’d gladly claw somebody’s eyes out to get a bite. Just one bite. I tried to imagine being in Enrique’s arms, feeling his teeth sink into my neck, the heavenly euphoria wiping away all the pain. And he wasn’t even in the country yet. Somehow I knew it. Enrique was still in Panama, sleeping the day away while I counted the hours till Arana beat me to death.
I needed time. The clock said nine-thirty a.m.. I was still tied to the bed. Arana walked in the door, “Vamos, puta. We got a date with yo’ bank account.”
He untied me, but I couldn’t move, my arms and legs too stiff. I lay there looking him in the eyes, praying to a God I don’t believe in, that somehow, some way I could escape. Escape wasn’t much of reality just yet, I could barely move.
“Get up, take a bath, get some makeup on. I want you ready to go in an hour. Cover up your bruises. There’s some clothes there.” He pointed to jeans and sweater on the chair and walked out the room.
I’d gone thirty hours without a bite. Thirty miserable hours of hell. Lia hadn’t even given me one for the road. I so wanted to kill her, kill someone, kill something.
My hate got me moving. I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and showered away the blood and stench of Arana’s body that lingered on my skin. Stupid bastard left his DNA all over me. If he killed me they’d have his semen and his DNA. Not a very intelligent killer. In this age of CSI forensics and cop shows, everyone knew this crap. Only an insane idiot would leave their DNA all over a dead body. Arana wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.
The mirror revealed, my bruised looking eyes and tender bruises on each side of my chest. My broken nose and ribs didn’t seem to be all that bad off. As a matter of fact I looked pretty damn good for the beating I took. I looked like I’d had a rough night partying – a good hangover. I was almost certain he’d broken my nose and probably a rib or two. Could I have been mistaken? Sure hurt like something was broken at certain points last night.
I felt okay, healthy, strong, a little stiff from being tied up. Nowhere near as bad off as I’d thought. Arana didn’t know this. All he’d seen was the dried blood and bruises. Given the opportunity, this may become an advantage.
My mother once told me hope springs eternal, hence my name. That turn of phrase never meant so much to me as it did right at this moment. I had hope, and where there’s hope there’s a way.
I dressed and dabbed on some makeup to cover the bruises, wishing every minute for something to fight off this intense need. I just needed one little bite and everything would be
better.
We arrived at Bank of America at around noon. I needed a bite so badly my whole body shook with cold sweats, my jaw muscles clenched up, teeth grinding. I felt so angry. I wanted to scream at the world, and Arana, at Lia, at Enrique, at the cab driver who couldn’t stop staring at me.
I started to lose it. I growled when he tried to push me out of the taxi in front of the bank. “Hey, asshole! I need a bump, or something!”
I was on the edge of the precipice. If I didn’t get something strong in my system right now I’d start screaming. Once I started I didn’t know if I could stop. I’m sure he saw the wildness there under the surface, the madness in my eyes. He pulled out a baggie and handed it to me without protest.
I took my sweet time hitting each nostril three times over. Never have guessed my nose was broken a few hours ago the way I devoured that cocaine. I probably snorted more than a gram by the time he snapped, “Hurry up!”
I felt a little calmer. My jitters subsided. The need was appeased – marginally. I could at least function without screaming in someone’s face.
The Abdul-Camel Jockey cab driver stared at me hard in the rearview mirror as I took a fourth bump up each nostril. The asshole thought I was a coke whore.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” I barked at him. He flinched at my verbal assault and looked away. But his nasty thoughts were still pointed in my direction.
“Tell that asshole to stop staring at me,” I growled at Arana.
The Jihad cab driver snapped back, “I hope you know the meter’s still running. Are you finished yet?”
Arana looked back and forth from me to the driver and shook his head. He threw fifty bucks at the driver. “Vamos, let’s do this.”
He pushed me out into the street. The idiot didn’t even care about the bank’s curbside cameras. If I came up dead, the camera footage would attest to the fact he’d been the last person to see me alive. Pinche tonto. Estupido. How he ever got this far without getting killed or doing life in the penitentiary was proof that miracles still happen today. I would need one of those miracles shortly.
It took an entire hour to get $31,863 out of my account in cash. The bank teller had to get the assistant manager, who had to get the manager, who then proceeded to try to convince me to withdraw funds in some form other than cash. They asked repeatedly why I needed all that money in cash. Wouldn’t it be better to have that in a cashier’s check? No – it wouldn’t. Wouldn’t you prefer to have traveler’s checks? They’re so much more secure than cash. No – I don’t want traveler’s checks. Why not send the funds out directly as a wire transfer – much better than carrying around all that cash on the streets of New York. No thank you, I prefer cash.
At one point the teller leaned over the counter and whispered, “You know … If you walk out with all this cash you could get rolled on the street.”
I snapped back, “Are you planning to follow me out the door?”
“Oh no! I’m just saying …”
“Then I have nothing to worry about, do I?”
“Well, it’s not wise to carry that much money at one time, especially not on your person.”
“Get me my money! All I want is my money! It’s my fucking money and I want it now!” I was starting to sound like a commercial for JG Wentworth.
My voice had gotten loud. People stared at me. I felt like snatching that little, bitch teller up from the other side of the counter and wringing her neck. My hands flexed, itching to grab ahold of her. The manager wisely guided me over to the waiting area and proceeded to placate me with assurances my withdrawal would be ready in a few minutes. Arana watched out the corner of his eye, sitting a few yards away pretending to read a newspaper. Ignorant bastard could barely read the traffic signs. The NY Times might as well have been in hieroglyphics for all the good it did him. He had that pistol under his shirt, ready to start cutting a swath through this bank if I did anything stupid.
I so wanted to tell one of these bank employees to call for help, but who would they call? Cops. Snitching out a Traqueto to the cops is pretty much a guaranteed death sentence. That kind of betrayal is not tolerated. The cartel sends out a whole posse to hunt snitches down. Much more exciting than watching Monday night football.
Besides, I don’t trust cops. I have never trusted cops. I trust them about as much as I trust bank employees. Everyone in authority thinks they can help you, but all they really want is an excuse to exercise their power in your life. Bank employees think and behave a lot like cops these days, that whole know-your-client thing.
I had banked with B of A since arriving in New York. They are one of the only places where foreigners without a social security number can get a bank account. I remember back when there was a big controversy in the media about all these foreigners with bank accounts getting credit cards when average US citizens can’t qualify for credit. The issue was that noncitizens were catching credit without any credit rating. I guess no credit is better than bad credit, or something like that. I had one of those cards – a hundred fifty dollar credit limit. Big deal. Most Americans are several thousand in debt on credit cards. It’s no wonder banks don’t want to lend out more. I thought it was cool, a status symbol. Obviously I’m biased for the foreigners. But I did feel sorry for all the Americans who owe more money than they make.
Foreign-born Latinos know credit is a total scam. Very few of us have any debt. I personally have none, apart from Faustino’s entrapment. I never use the damn card, it’s not even activated. It sits in my purse looking good. As of this day I may never use it. I seriously considered changing banks, if I survived this mess.
I eventually realized it wasn’t the teller’s fault. The bank policy was to deter clients from using too much cash. The bank doesn’t stock all that much cash anymore. My transaction cleaned them out. I didn’t care, I just needed the money.
Walking out of the bank with all that cash in a little canvas sack, panic struck. I knew I was dead if I gave up this money. I ran. I might’ve made it if I hadn’t tripped over somebody’s damn dog. Sprawled across the sidewalk trying to scramble to my feet, Arana was on top of me instantly. He politely helped me up. His pistol, hidden in his folded over jacket was stuck in my back the entire time. I wanted to scream.
“Listen to me, puta, I’ll kill you right now and take every dime you got. I don’t give a shit. You go quietly, we have a little more fun, and then I give you back to Faustino. You keep your mouth shut, don’t say nothing to nobody, I let you live.” He was lying about letting me live and handing me over to Faustino. But he wasn’t lying about killing me right here and now if I didn’t cooperate.
Standing outside the bank, waiting for a taxi, in full view of the curbside cameras, I handed him the canvas sack of cash. If he killed me, I hoped he fried for it. The circumstantial evidence against him was piling up fast.
“Please let me go. I’ll never say a word to Faustino or anyone. It’s our little secret. I’ll leave New York right now. You’ll never see me again. No one has to know anything!”
He was pissed that I ran. He didn’t like listening to me whine. He snatched up my jaw in his hand, squeezing hard as he spoke with gritted teeth. “We have a score to settle puta. You owe me. You got me all fucked up when you took off. I’m gonna take it out on your ass and then I’ma give you back to Faustino. We see if there’s anything left of you after he finish.”
He directed me to a taxi, making it impossible not to get in first as he followed me. That gun never left my body. I had to do something. I hadn’t swayed him at all.
“It wasn’t me, it was the China! She kidnapped me and held me in her apartment all this time. She only called you to get rid of me, so I wouldn’t call the police on her. She’s using you to make me disappear. She’s playing you.” There was simply no way to explain what had really happened. I tried my best to relate the complexity of my situation in partial truths.
“And where did you get all that money, puta? You expect me to believe these
lies? The China give you thirty thousand dollars while she got you locked away? No soy tonto cabrona!” I’m not stupid.
I was screwed. What could I say that made any sense? I had to try a new direction, a new motivation to keep me alive.
“No … Listen. The China has a boss … he made me work for him. He likes me – I’m valuable to him. She’s using you to get rid of me out of jealousy. Her boss will pay you fifty thousand to get me back, unharmed.”
I hoped the taxi driver overheard our conversation. Maybe he’d call the police and report it. No luck there, he was blissfully ignorant of our little drama, watching traffic and listening to the radio. The driver hummed along with a gritty, alternative rock tune, something about bleeding it out and digging deeper, just to throw it away.
The chorus line of the song repeated over and over with a fast paced beat and ripping guitar riffs. The words belted out in a scream of frustration and angst. The message was eerily symbolic of my situation. I bled out all my hard-earned money, digging deeper to ransom myself to Enrique, and for what? Arana wanted me dead. He’d probably find a way to get his hands on Enrique’s money, and kill me anyway. I bleed it out, digging deeper, just to throw it away – the story of my life.
Arana assumed I lied. “And what makes you so special? Why would they lock you up, pay you all that money, and then call me to get rid of you? You not telling the truth. I’m gonna have to hurt you some more to get the truth.” He wanted to hurt me anyway. Anything else was just a bonus.
The heartless bastard watched me cry silently as we crept through the city, making our way back to Spanish Harlem, to his apartment, where he planned to hurt me really bad.
I had to up the stakes. “He’ll give you a hundred thousand for my safe return. If I call him tonight, he’ll have it for you tomorrow. He lives on Park Avenue, he’s rich. I’m telling you the truth!”
“Tell me why, Esperanza. Why would some rich cabron on Park Avenue pay for you?”
Spice Box; Sixteen Steamy Stories Page 216
