Deceit

TWENTY-TWO

Luiza needed to come in and clean my motel room.

So she’d proclaimed in broken English through the crack of my motel door.

This was sometime yesterday.

She’d appeared to be by her lonesome. I say appeared to be, since my peripheral vision was dangerously restricted by the eyehole in the door. I could see Luiza, all right. I could see her vacuum and blue pail and linen cart.

I couldn’t see what was waiting on either side of her.

“Pleeeeeze… Meeester Vallee…” Luiza said. “Iz been two weeks.”

Had it been that long?

Two weeks?

Maybe.

There were scattered beef jerky wrappers around the room. Empty cracker boxes. Yellowed newspapers. Several houseflies dive-bombing half-empty cans of Fresca. My clothes, what remained of them, were thrown around a threadbare carpet. My shades were drawn tight.

“Pleeeze… Meester Vallee…” Luiza again.

To open, or not to open?

She seemed genuine. On the other hand, how did I know what genuine sounded like coming out of Luiza’s mouth? There was the whole accent thing to deal with. Genuineness could get lost in translation.

Still. If I didn’t let her in to clean soon, she was liable to get the manager to intercede on her behalf.

Me and my friends, Smith and Wesson, weren’t desirous of company just now.

I patted the bulge in my right pants pocket, took a deep breath, let the latch off.

I stepped back into the center of the room.

“Okay, Luiza. Come in.”

The door opened as if in slow motion. A second or two later, Luiza’s head peeked through the crack.

It’s possible she was as apprehensive as I was. She’d probably been wondering what awaited her on the other side of the door. Or was it something else? Maybe she knew exactly what awaited her-had been prepped and primed.

He’ll be standing back from the door to protect himself. He’ll be armed and dangerous. But don’t worry-so are we.

I whispered hello to Mr. Smith, assured Mr. Wesson that we were, in fact, locked and loaded.

Luiza’s little body followed her head though the door.

She averted my eyes, turned around, and began pulling the linen cart into the room. Sunlight shot past her shoulder, illuminated the twisted bedsheets and jumbled clothing, the litter fest that had become home.

I danced a few steps to my right, in an effort to improve my sight line. The dazzling sun felt like splinters of glass.

The first rule of guerrilla warfare is what?

Try to catch them with their eyes to the sun.

I rushed past her, slammed the door, and relocked the latch.

Luiza turned at the sound of the chain being lifted back into position. She looked, well, nervous.

“How long do you need?” I asked her.

She shrugged without answering me. Instead she pulled a black industrial-size plastic trash bag from the cart and began filling it up with the detritus of two weeks.

I took a seat on the only chair in the room and carefully watched her.

“Where you from, Luiza?”

“Ecuador,” she answered, not bothering to look in my direction. She wore plastic yellow gloves on both hands.

“How long have you been here?”

“Two year,” she answered.

“Two year, huh? You have family here?”

“My husband,” she said, this time taking a quick peek at me.

“Your husband. That’s nice.”

It might sound like we were engaging in polite small talk. You’d be wrong. I was conducting an Abu Ghraib-like interrogation. Minus the humiliating photographs and electrical wires.

“Has anyone been asking about me, Luiza?”

“I don’ understand…”

“I’m asking you if anyone-anyone at all-has asked you a question about me? Like, who is that man in number four? Like that?”

“No,” she said.

“Good, okay. Great. So no one’s said anything to you?”

“The manager.”

“The manager?” I felt a sudden flush of fear. “The manager asked about me?”

Luiza nodded.

“What did he say?”

“He ask why you no let me clean the room.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I tell him you no want me to clean. You sleeping. Or you working.”

That had been my story when she’d knocked on the door. That I was sleeping. Or I was working. That she should please come back tomorrow. Tomorrow had become two weeks.

“I have been working,” I said. “See,” pointing to the laptop sitting open on top of the cluttered desk. I am writing this as fast as I can.

She nodded.

“I write… plays. That’s why I don’t answer the door. Because I don’t want to be disturbed. Because I’m finishing a play. You can tell him that.”

“Okay.”

“Great. Almost done.”

Luiza didn’t really appear interested in whether I was done or not. She made a hurried visit into the bathroom, towels in hand, then quickly reappeared and commenced vacuuming.

“Other man ask me too,” she said, after she’d attached the trash bag to her cart and begun rolling it back to the door.

“What? What did you say, Luiza?”

“Other man. He ask me who you are,” she said. “I forget.”