Illegal

SIXTY-THREE

It was dark outside the window when Marisol tried her door again.

Locked from the outside.

Dizzy, she returned to the bed.

They must have put something in her food. An older black woman, a uniformed housekeeper, had delivered a tray. Grilled vegetables, a green salad, and rice pudding.

"They don't want you putting on any weight, honey."

Now, lying on her back, looking at the mirrored ceiling, Marisol heard voices in the corridor. Laughing men, voices fueled by liquor. Giggling women, teasing talk. Grunts and yells through the wall next to her bed. A man brayed like a goat. A woman fired off words like bullets from a machine gun."?Si!?Si!?Si! No! No! No! Don't stop!"

Marisol wondered if that room was like her own. Dim lights. Mirrors. No telephone. A television that played only filthy movies. A tiny bathroom with a shower and toilet and a dozen hand towels.

She heard a key turn the lock, and the door opened. A heavy-bosomed American woman with teased platinum hair came in, carrying a satchel. The woman's translucent skin was stretched tight over her cheekbones, but her neck crinkled with turkey wattles. She was either forty or sixty, no way to tell. The woman opened the satchel.

"For you, dearie."

Out came lingerie, black as midnight, glittering with sequins. A leather bustier with tie strings. Leopard-spotted bras and panties. A satin slip with garters and stockings. Items she'd never seen except in the movies, the American woman calling them teddies and baby dolls, camisoles and peek-a-boos. Giving her shoes with velvety skin and heels longer than a sixteen-penny nail.

"I do not belong here," Marisol said.

A shrug. "Who does?"

The woman showed her how to apply layers of makeup and hauled out small bottles of lotions and tubes of lubricants. Plus lipstick a whorish red.

When tears filled Marisol's eyes, the woman said, "Honey, I can share a few tricks that'll make it a bit easier for you. Let me show you how to make a John think he's getting a blow job when you're really just jerking him off."

A man appeared in the open doorway. "Helen, get out of here and take that shit with you."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Zaga." The woman gathered up her satchel and left the room.

The man was as old as El Patron. But smaller. Hispanic features. Grayish hair falling nearly to his shoulders, a Western shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Arms corded with thick veins.

Marisol tensed as he approached. If he grabbed her, she would fight.

"Relax, chica. I'm here to talk, not fuck. Back home, did you read newspapers?"

It was such an odd question Marisol had no answer.

"You understand English?"

"Yes. I read newspapers. Books, too."

"What's your favorite book?"

"Why do you ask such a thing?"

"Just answer me."

"El Amor en los Tiempos del Colera."

"You read it in English or Spanish?"

"English. My father insisted. Why do you care?"

Appearing unhappy, the man mumbled to himself, "What the hell are we gonna do with you?"

"I do not understand."

"Rutledge has a soft spot for your type. Those damn gypsy eyes."

Marisol felt dazed, the dizziness returning. "And he cares if I read books?"

"He don't care if you can count to ten. But it's my job to protect him from himself. You're not some illiterate campesina. We let you go, you could cause the boss some real problems."

"No. I would never-"

"Five, ten years ago, it might have been different. But it's too hot out there. Too many people want the boss's scalp."

"I swear I will not make trouble."

"Damn right you won't."

He turned and left the room, locking the door from the outside.