The Orchid Tattoo, page 9
Jefe entered Lillian’s small office, his hand trailing across her back as he sat across from her. He wore his gardening hat and dirt-dusted chinos, probably from working in his beloved greenhouse.
“Any luck?”
“Where did Drew find these girls? The Walmart parking lot? He’s got to do better.”
He leaned against the table and removed the hat. His dark curls, thick on top, trimmed on the sides, had started to grow threads of gray. “Or maybe you’re too particular.”
She didn’t like his implication but said nothing.
“Drew’s working a few today. I told him you’d come by.”
She hated being a part of the recruitment process. It made painful memories surface that she did her best to keep underwater. But she’d never tell Jefe “no.”
“Where?”
“He’s working local. Over at the Baybridge Hotel. The one near the fort.”
She looked at her watch. “When?”
Jefe smiled and handed her a slip with a room number. “He’s using the modeling agency strategy. First interview’s at one.”
Lillian went upstairs to change into her business suit. As she removed her top, her gaze fell on the tattoo that bloomed beside her breastbone.
It had been a “gift” from Jefe. She’d been with him for a year the day the goateed man arrived with this magic kit. He and Jefe shared a joint while Jefe selected the image he liked best—an orchid blossom with purple curving petals. In the center of the bloom, the color shifted to gold, with threads the same color veining the petals.
It had hurt like a mother and wasn’t something she wanted, but the result was quite beautiful. She knew what it meant. For some reason only Jefe knew, he had a fondness for orchids, as was clear from the design molded into the estate’s entry gate and the greenhouse full of them behind the pool. He was marking Lillian as his, and she was. Yes, it bothered her that other girls were branded the same way, but she had been the first. She was always the first.
At twelve fifty, Lillian entered Room 212 at the Baybridge, a plain hotel with exterior room doors and an ice machine that rumbled like a locomotive. Drew had rearranged the furniture in the double room by pulling the desk from the wall to serve as a table, which he sat behind. A stack of manila folders served as a prop to make it look like he was conducting real interviews. He’d probably advertised on bulletin boards at high schools, the city parks, and the mall. So many girls, eager for the exotic life of a model, would take the bait.
Flyers for Debutante Modeling lay scattered across the floral spread on the double bed.
“Jefe sending you to the front lines. Wow.” Drew flashed his dimpled smile—the one that always worked on the girls. It never worked on her.
“We need to expand the stable, and you’re sending us shit for choices. So here I am.”
She took a seat in a folding chair beside him. Drew had a boyish appearance that made it easy to convince girls he was in his teens. Today his persona was more executive—linen suit, silk tie, and shiny black shoes. He smelled like too much Stetson.
“How many we have coming?”
“I got thirty calls. Ten scheduled for today. We’ll see who shows.”
Lillian pointed to the bed. “This location doesn’t make them suspicious? Shouldn’t we at least be using a conference room?”
“Nope. I’d be surprised if anyone says anything about the bed. And this is a lot more private than downstairs.” He always spoke with a cocky confidence as though she were ridiculous to question him, but he had a point. They didn’t want the hotel staff or other guests to know about their interviews.
A firm knock signaled the first arrival.
Drew let her in. Dark hair with blond extensions, nice, rounded figure with plenty up top. Red miniskirt showed a full, well-shaped rear and long, lean legs, but her steps faltered on the five-inch heels. As she sat across from them, the girl’s eyelash extensions fluttered like bat wings.
She handed them a slip of paper. On it was scrawled her vitals: Desiree McMann, height five-eleven (she’d clearly measured in the heels), weight one-twenty (no chance in hell that was right). Age, eighteen, also probably a lie.
“Desiree,” Drew began. “Tell us about yourself.”
“I live in Florence, and I’ve always wanted to be a model.” She flicked back her hair, the eyelashes fluttering. “People are always telling me I should be one, you know. Teachers. Friends. Sometimes people in stores will stop me and say, ‘are you a model?’” Another flip of her hair. Her nails gleamed, dark red and long like daggers.
“I’ll bet.” Another grin from Drew as he scanned the form. “You’re . . . eighteen. Do you live alone? With your family?”
“I live with my folks, but that’s temporary. Just till I get my career going.” She flashed a smile that looked more sweet than seductive.
Sixteen years old, Lillian decided. At the most.
“Do your parents know you came to this interview?” Drew asked.
“Well, no. I mean, it’s not really their business. This is my life, not theirs.” Petulant. Maybe younger than sixteen. Desiree had potential, with her round cheeks and full, overly lipsticked lips. Her teeth needed work—crooked and brushing against her bottom lip. Braces might have been a good idea, but she’d never get them now.
“Stand up for us and walk to the bathroom and back.” Drew drummed a pencil against the table, as though prepared to assess her catwalk skills. Desiree stood, teetering on her shoes, and strutted to the door, hips swinging, mouth puckered as though kissing the air. She paused to turn and gripped her hip, shoulders pulled back, breasts pushed forward, as though she’d been training herself via YouTube videos.
“Very nice, Desiree,” Drew said.
She sauntered back with more momentum in the hips. Lillian felt an uneasiness deep in her stomach. Desiree thought she was about to be discovered. Instead, she was about to disappear.
“Have a seat again.” Drew shot Lillian a look. She shrugged, not convinced that Desiree would work for the Estate. Maybe after a stint at the massage parlor or Roman’s trailer to learn some tricks, so to speak, she could be promoted.
“I can start anytime.” Desiree leaned forward, breasts nearly resting on the table. “I mean, I want to get started right away.”
“And we want that, too. I tell you what. I don’t usually do this, but we have a shoot in Atlanta this week. One of my models got sick and, well, you might be the perfect sub for her.”
“Really?” Her eyes widened.
Drew nodded as though the idea was taking root. “Yes, really. You have the look we want. But here’s the thing. We’ll need to leave soon. This afternoon, as a matter of fact.”
“I can do it! Just tell me what to do.” She looked like a kid prepping for a trip to Disneyworld.
Drew told her to meet him back here at the hotel at six so they could catch an evening flight. “We’ll get you a first-class ticket, of course.” She wrote down the details, asking questions about what to pack and appropriate clothing.
“We’ll take care of all that,” Drew said. “But one more thing. This photoshoot—it’s strictly confidential. We value the privacy of our clients, and this one is a very well-known designer about to release their new fashion line. He’s very worried about spies from other fashion houses.” He lifted a finger. “Desiree, this is important. Nobody can know you’re meeting me or that we’re going to Atlanta.”
Hesitation flashed on her face. “My parents will want to know.”
“Of course, they will. And you can call them the minute we land. Like you said, it’s your life. This will prove to them you’re ready to be an independent career woman. And, if the shoot goes well, a very rich independent career woman.”
Hook, line, and sinker. She had to hand it to Drew. He’s a master at this.
Her smile reappeared, the nails clutching at her chest. “You think I’m that good?”
He nodded. “I do. But I need to see that I can trust you. Modeling at this level—you have to show some discretion. Will I see you at six?”
“I’ll be here. And don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul! You can trust me. I’m very trustworthy.”
“I’ll just bet you are.” Drew showed her out and shut the door behind her. “Well?”
“Not ready for the Estate. But maybe the massage parlor or Roman’s place.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Linda’s looking for a few girls. Massage parlor it is.”
Of the next four candidates, two were promising. The one who brought her boyfriend was immediately rejected, as was the older girl who demanded pay information, references, and the home office address. No way someone that assertive would work in their operation.
The last girl arrived with a tentative knock. As she came into the room, Drew arched his brows at Lillian. The kid was stunning. Long blond hair. Lithe physique. Pale, beautiful skin, with a perfectly upturned tiny nose. She wore a simple dress and carried a book bag as though she’d just left her middle school. When she sat, her timid green eyes looked at each of them. Dazzling eyes, even without makeup.
“What’s your name?” Lillian started.
She cleared her throat. “Isabelle Murphy.”
“And you want to be a model?”
Before she could answer, her phone rang. Embarrassed, the girl fumbled in her pack for it and changed the setting to silence.
Drew began with his questions. She lived with her parents. She admitted to being only fifteen but knew of other models who began younger. She’d even done some modeling for a local department store. Her answers were short and articulate, another plus for Lillian.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked her.
“Why?”
“Because we do photoshoots all over the world,” Drew said. “You’ll be traveling all the time. It’s best if you don’t have any ties to hold you down.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“That’s good.” Lillian smiled. “As lovely as you are, it’s a surprise.”
She shrugged. “I’ve always been kind of . . . shy.”
Shy? We could play on that. A timid teenager looking for a daddy figure, perhaps. We’ll call her Bella. She’ll make Jefe a fortune.
Drew went into his spiel about her returning at six, and not telling anyone, and the girl agreed without reservation. It couldn’t be more perfect. In her mind, Lillian designed the room Bella would use, the clothes she would wear. The customers she’d satisfy.
It was when she opened the door to leave that all hell broke loose.
“There you are!” A woman burst into the room. She stood close to six feet tall, square-shouldered, streaked brown hair torn free of a ponytail, her expression one of panic.
“What is this? What are you doing with my daughter?”
“Mom!” Isabelle said. “It’s a job interview!”
Drew whispered to Lillian, “Run!”
As Lillian slipped behind the woman confronting Drew, she heard shouts of, “Who the hell are you?” and “Why are you in a hotel room with a fifteen-year-old child!” She didn’t know what happened next, because she ran down the metal steps to her car and sped away.
The hammering in her heart settled as she reached the outer edges of town. She wondered if the woman had called the cops. If Drew had gotten away. One wrong step and Jefe’s house of cards could collapse. There was nothing more dangerous to their work than a determined, protective mom. Lillian pulled over and took a few deep, steadying breaths. She’d gotten away.
And it surprised her that, somewhere deep inside, she was glad Isabelle had escaped, too.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kitten felt a little stronger every day. Her bruises had faded. Her muscles no longer ached when she stretched them. That word, stronger, flashed in her mind like a beacon. She would get away from Roman and Jefe and this miserable life. She should never have trusted the lady, just like she should never have trusted Drew. She was done with trust. When she left again—and she would, she was sure of it—she’d do it on her own.
She used to be fit. In elementary school, she was the second or third chosen for kickball, always after Barbara Pabst, who could kick a ball to Pluto. In her first year of middle school, she’d done fine on the softball team. In those days, she could jump rope for hours and hardly break a sweat. Yet the other day, trying to run from the store, she’d gotten so winded she had struggled just to keep moving. Inexcusable. She’d be stronger next time. And faster. And she’d get the hell away.
After gathering her hair in a rubber band, she slipped on a T-shirt and shorts and dropped to the floor. The first ten sit-ups came easy, but the last fifteen made her groan. Still, she did them. Push-ups came next. Less successful there—only managed three—but she’d add to this total every day. Jumping jacks had her winded before she’d finished twenty. She eked out thirty.
What else? She wished she could run because that would quickly build up stamina. When she was back in Pennsylvania, she’d planned to try out for the track team, but of course, that hadn’t happened. If she could run now—just up and down the dirt road leading to the trailer—it would help her muscles strengthen. But Roman would NEVER allow it.
But she could run in place in her tiny little room. She cleared a spot in front of the dresser and started with a slow jog, gradually working up to a low-impact trot. Breath in, four steps, breathe out. The rhythm helped but sweat dripping from her face meant she’d have to shower before working that night.
“Kitten!” Roman bellowed from the living room. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Uh. Nothing,” she huffed.
“Be quieter with your nothing.”
“Okay.” She stopped, relieved he hadn’t burst into her room. Next time, she’d find a quieter way to exercise. If she snuck that scratchy bathroom rug into her room, and jogged on that, it might muffle the sound.
She’d be back in shape in no time.
Later that afternoon, Kitten wiped the sweat dripping around her eyes and tried to dab pink blush on her cheekbones. What was the point of putting on makeup if the heat melted it right off? Her sequin T-shirt clung to her moist skin like plastic wrap. She wished Roman would turn on the air conditioning, but he was too cheap and only let it run when Jefe visited, or when Kitten had the right buyer. Funny how he wouldn’t spend money on cooling but paid a fortune for his stupid pay-for-view Latino wrestling matches. When they aired, all brothel business stopped. The men gathered with beer and stinky snacks and yelled at the screen like they were watching the Superbowl.
She wiped perspiration from under her nose and lined her lips with a mauve pencil. The fuchsia hair ribbon was a gamble; tying her hair up would feel much cooler, but Roman liked it hanging loose when he took her to the cantina. She tugged a few blonde strands free to frame her face, the way Dulce had shown her, and hoped he didn’t gripe.
The trailer’s front door banged open and Roman spoke in rapid Spanish to whoever arrived. Kitten peeked out the door. She recognized the visitor, one of Jefe’s men, with slick black hair and skin the color of weak tea. He had two inches on Roman and lacked Roman’s blubbery belly. The Mexican, Javier. When he spotted Kitten in the doorway, his lips curled down.
“How many?” Roman asked him.
“Three. Just got in. You’ll have them till tomorrow. They’re headed to the farm.” Javier’s English was perfect. It had been in Charlotte that she’d first seen him. After Jefe had stashed her in a nasty hotel room with another girl, Javier had brought them food and sodas, always rushed, all business, but he hadn’t touched her.
Javier pointed to Kitten. “Chiquita doing good work for you?”
“Chiquita’s a pain in the ass. Tried to run away a few days ago. I wanted to move her to the plant or the farm, but Jefe says she makes good money here.”
When she first arrived in South Carolina, they’d put Kitten on a farm near Columbia to work as part of a small crew, mostly Mexicans but a few Thai, planting turnips and other greens. Only one other person spoke English. The air had been cool, yet the sun had pinked her arms and neck. Blisters wept on her feet. One scratch on her hand got infected because there was no way to keep it clean. The one thing good about the farm was that was where she met the lady. The promises—the broken promises—came later.
On the day Roman came for her, he called her out of the field. “Jefe has a new job for you,” he had said, smiling like a cartoon cat. The other workers cursed her as he grabbed her arm and shoved her into a van. She hadn’t cared; anything was better than the farm. Or so she had thought. Thirty minutes later, they pulled up in front of the trailer. She remembered relief at climbing out of the disgusting van only to be greeted by an irate Dulce, dressed in short-shorts and a halter top, regarding her from the top of the rickety steps. “Another new chica? She’s too scrawny! You never bring girls with boobs.” Dulce punctuated her comment with a hand shaking her own breast.
Of course, it turned out that being flat-chested made it easier to convince buyers that Kitten was twelve, or thirteen, or whatever age they needed her to be. The appetites of these men sickened her, yet she’d learned to please them. It kept her alive.
When the door to the trailer opened again, Lito entered, sweat stains covering his shirt and a wet rag dripping on his shaved head. He held the door as three dark-skinned teenage girls stumbled in. They wore dirty work shirts, pants, and scruffy sneakers. Had they come from Mexico? Did the boss promise them a beautiful life in America? How much had their families paid for them to become slaves?
