Spiders in the Grove

by J. A. Redmerski

  I pace the floor. Maybe she’s not there; maybe I had it all wrong and she’s nowhere near this auction. Or…maybe she didn’t make it that far. I shake the thought off quickly, and pace again.

  And then it hits me.

  I stop. “Dante,” I say eagerly, “what about everybody else? Did you pay attention to the buyers, and the masters?”

  “Uhh, a little,” he says, “like you told me to, but mostly I watched the slave girls.”

  “OK,” I tell him, “slight change of plan. Tomorrow night, I want you to start looking at the women in the crowd. How many people attended?”

  “A lot,” he answers. “I don’t know, over a hundred; that doesn’t include the slaves a lot of the attendees brought with them, had them sitting on the floor—boss, this is some weird, freakish shit.”

  “Dante, you used to sell heroin,” I remind him, “and get blowjobs from men to pay for it—your hypocrite is showing.”

  “Oh, y-yeah, right—sorry.”

  “Now listen closely,” I go on. “You may have to do some mingling, just so you can get a better look at everyone—”

  “But I’m not so good at that sort of thing,” he says. “What if I blow it?”

  “You won’t,” I encourage him. “Remember what I told you: confidence; be someone you’ve always wanted to be; you can pull this off. But you’re going to have to socialize with the buyers more, or you may never see her. You can do it.”

  “All right, boss. I’ll get it done.”

  Before we end the call, I say, “Dante—no drugs. Understood? Mingling doesn’t include taking anybody up on their offer.”

  “I know, boss,” he says. “I remember what you told me.”

  He remembers, and I believe he wants to a good job and not screw this up, but I also know Dante used to be an addict, and no matter how long an addict has been clean, or how much his life is looking up, one look at a free line of coke and it’s all over.

  “Don’t use this job as an excuse,” I warn. “You do any drugs, and you’ll end up in my chair again.”

  “A-All right, boss; y-you have my word.”

  I drop the cell phone in my jacket pocket.

  “When is she gonna be back?” Apollo asks, still strapped to the hospital bed.

  “Do you need to go to the restroom?” I ask, ignoring talk of Izabel.

  “Fuck no, man—keep that needle to yourself.”

  I know he’s lying; he’s been squirming in his bonds for the past thirty minutes, trying not to piss himself. But I’m guarding him alone, and I don’t trust him to use the restroom alone, so when he has to go, I drug him first; that way he can’t focus enough to escape, and he’s not strong enough to attack me. I don’t like to fight—always gets my suits dirty.

  “I can’t have you soiling yourself,” I tell him, and get the needle ready.

  “Fuck you, man!”—he struggles in his bonds, his fists tightening; his teeth gritting—“Why do you care, anyway?”

  “Because it smells,” I say. “And it disgusts me.”

  Apollo laughs. “That disgusts you, but the weird shit you do—" His eyes flutter into the back of his head, and his fists relax.

  I give him five minutes before unstrapping him, and I take him upstairs to wait for the nurse I hired to deal with all this stuff: restroom, bathing, and the like. She thinks Apollo is my drug-addicted friend whom I’m going out of my way to help; she thinks I’m a “great friend, and a great man” to be doing this; she thinks there should be more men in the world like me.

  No, Nurse Karlee, there certainly shouldn’t be more men in the world like me…

  Izabel

  Auction - Day Two

  Still no sign of Naeva, and it’s getting to the point I feel desperate enough to flat-out ask about her. But I know I can’t do that, especially since I gambled and waited too long. If I’d asked about her earlier, in an offhanded way, it might’ve been believable. But now that it’s been three weeks, ‘offhanded’ doesn’t apply, and questions about the girl I was brought here with but pretended to have no feelings for, would indicate just that—feelings for her.

  In the past few weeks I’ve spent more time and energy looking for Naeva than trying to pinpoint who Vonnegut might be. And I don’t see that changing. I guess I’ll have to try giving both equal attention, but each time a new girl is brought out on that stage, Naeva shoves almost every trace of Vonnegut right out of my head. I knew bringing her with me would cause problems, but I never expected this.

  Maybe she got word out, like she said she’d do, and the love of her life, Leo Moreno, found her, like she said he would. Maybe. But if I’m listening to my instincts, they’re telling me that no, that’s not what happened, and—

  “Good evening, Miss…?” says a skinny, rat-faced man with oily hair.

  I blink back into the real world and look up at him as he stands awkwardly at my table. Intermission has started, and the guests have all left their tables to stretch their legs and socialize. I’m not sure what compelled this man to approach me, one of the most unapproachable-looking women in the theatre, but I could use a change of scenery.

  Eyeing him disdainfully, I say with warning, “Step away from my property, Mr…?”

  He glances down at Sabine, smiles nervously, and then steps to his right.

  “Dante,” he introduces, offering his hand, palm-up, so I can place mine within it.

  I don’t; I reach for my champagne glass instead.

  After yesterday’s incident with Joaquin, and he not killing me for it, I feel like I can take this Izel role even further. How far is still up in the air; I have to be careful with the buyers, of course, but this one seems skittish enough—nothing like the notorious Iosif Veselov, who I have yet to meet—and I can probably get away with a little disrespect, and prove my intolerance for men all the more.

  “Mr. Ruiz tells me you’re the trainer of the red girls,” Dante says.

  “Actually,” Cesara steps in, sitting beside me, “I am. Lydia is my assistant.” I catch the offense in her voice; she casts a glare across the room at Joaquin talking with someone, but he doesn’t notice. “My name is Cesara.”

  “Ah, I see.” Dante nods, and then offers a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Cesara.”

  She accepts the invitation, and he kisses the top of her hand. He smiles as if delightfully surprised she let him touch her at all, and it takes him a moment longer than it should for him to let go.

  There’s something off about him I notice right away—he seems uncomfortable in his own skin, opposite every other buyer in this room. What is someone like him doing here, buying slaves, when he doesn’t seem the type capable of using them? None of my business, and I don’t care. Naeva. Vonnegut. Getting out of here alive, and with what I came here for—that’s all I care about. Oh, and Sabine. And the other girls. And killing Joaquin and Cesara—I don’t even know why I try to focus on one thing.

  “How can we help you, Mr. Dante?” Cesara offers.

  “Just Dante,” he says, politely.

  Noticing Dante getting too close to Sabine again—unintentionally; he’s too nervous to notice—I grab her by the back of her neck, pulling her away from him.

  “So sorry,” Dante says, and he moves two-feet away from her this time to stand closer to Cesara. “F-Forgive me.”

  After a moment, I nod, just to give the poor guy a break. So much for using him—I feel sorry for him! Wait—why do I feel sorry for a man in here buying slaves? Hmm.

  Shaking my damn head at myself, I go for my glass again, and avoid eye contact.

  “Well, I just wanted to compliment you on your work,” he tells Cesara. “T-The girl I purchased tonight is of…awesome quality.”

  Awesome? I glance around the room just to make sure I didn’t accidentally walk into the High School prom down the hall.

  Even Cesara feels his choice of word is embarrassing; I can feel her eyes on me, seeking mine; we raise a covert brow at each other.

  “Well�
��thank you, Dante,” Cesara says. “Tell me”—she leans forward, an inquisitive look on her face—“where are you from?”

  “Oh, uh, I’m from New Hampshire,” he answers. “United States.”

  I look up, joining Cesara in gazing expectantly at him, waiting for the rest, but that seems to be all of it.

  Cesara nods a few times. “And”—she draws the word out—“what is it that you do in New Hampshire, United States, Dante?” She’s toying with him.

  He laughs tensely, realizing. “Oh, well I don’t, I-I don’t live there anymore. I’ve been in Boston for about ten years now. Great city. You’d like it there.”

  Cesara sips from her glass, probably because it’s the only thing keeping her from saying something she shouldn’t.

  Dante’s smile slips right off his face. He sighs, his shoulders falling into a defeated slump, and suddenly it’s as if the real Dante has taken over for the failing one.

  “Look, I’m not good at this kind of shit,” he says, and we both look right up at him. “A guy—my boss—sent me here to look for someone; paid me a lot of money. I’ve never done anything like this before. And it’s all really”—he looks around the room—“well, it’s really fucking weird. And”—he laughs lightly—“I’ve been into heavy-weird shit, so that’s saying a lot.”

  He has both of our attention now; Cesara and I simultaneously lean forward with great interest; my instincts are kicking-in again, but I’m not sure why.

  “He sent you here to look for who, exactly?” Cesara asks suspiciously.

  “Who is your boss?” I ask, holding my breath.

  Something blinks on inside Dante’s head, and suddenly, he looks as though our interest is on the verge of overwhelming his tiny brain. I should’ve just kept playing idiot Dante, his face reads.

  “I’m an assistant, too,” he says, glancing at me. “To Mr. Amell Schreiber”—(Where have I heard that name before?)—"He’s a very private man; has social anxiety issues, if yah know what I mean. I pretty much do everything for him that involves having to go out in public: shopping, sitting in for him during meetings, stuff like that. It’s hard because I was knee-deep in a heroin addiction when I met him, and as far away from knowing anything about that stuff as I know about”—he waves a hand at the stage—“any of this.”

  “And he sent you here to find who?” Cesara repeats, because that’s mostly what she cares about.

  “Twenty to twenty-two,” Dante begins, “dark hair, blue eyes, small breasts; the girl I purchased—your girl—I think is perfect, but I’m going to hang around and see the others, just in case; maybe I’ll take him back a few so he has choices.” He straightens his tie; he’s still nervous I can tell, but since it’s his first time, I guess that’s expected.

  I practically melt into a puddle of relief—I thought he was here for me. Wow, do I have a big head or what? I shake it off.

  I believe Cesara was thinking along the same lines, though not that he was looking for me, but that he was an implant here looking for a particular girl who had been kidnapped. I glance over at her, and witness how quickly she loses interest in him again; she sighs, and gets comfortable in the chair.

  Sensing he’s overstayed his welcome at our table, Dante straightens his tie again, and then bows halfway at the waist, which is also strange and embarrassing. “Well, it was nice meeting you,” he says.

  “Oh, you too,” Cesara says with a big, forced smile; she even reaches out her hand to him for added effect. “I hope you find the perfect girl for your…awesome boss.”

  Dante catches that jab; a twinge of humiliation flickers in his eyes for a moment, but he smiles, sucks it up, bends to kiss Cesara’s hand, and leaves us, giving me only a nod on his way.

  “Always be on the lookout for infiltrators,” Cesara warns in a lowered voice. “It’s not easy to get into these auctions—we go to great lengths to make sure every attendee is who they claim to be—but you never know what kind of spiders might be lurking in our midst.”

  Deadly ones, Cesara. Deadly ones. I smile, lean toward her, and kiss her red lips for added effect.

  Izabel

  Day Three – Mid-Morning

  I can actually feel something in the air; I feel it in my bones, in my uneven heartbeat, in my sweating palms. This night will be much different than any night I’ve spent here since arriving with my wrists and ankles bound and my hair and face bloodied. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s here, waiting in the shadows, somewhere.

  I lay amid the cool sheets with Cesara in her giant pillared bed, surrounded by painted stucco walls and a wide wall-less space in front of us that allows the Mexico breeze and sunshine into the room; Spanish tile floors stretch many feet out in every direction; the only thing the room lacks is an ocean view.

  Cesara’s girl waits near the open wall; mine, Sabine, sits on the floor near the bed.

  The heat of Cesara’s naked body curls around mine, her leg draped over my waist. I comb her soft hair through my fingers.

  “Are you ever going to tell me, Lydia,” she says, “why you really hate men as fiercely as you do?” Her fingertips walk along my hipbone, inching toward my inner thighs, and then back up again.

  “Men are the cancer of this earth,” I tell her. “I think I was born hating them.”

  “Yes, but something had to happen for you to feel that way, something other than the man you killed. It takes more than one man, one incident, to turn out like you did.” She raises her head from my stomach, and looks at me. “You can tell me anything—I want you to.”

  “Why?”

  She presses her lips to my bellybutton. “Because we all need someone we can trust, confide in, tell our deepest, darkest secrets to.” She works her way up and kisses my breasts. “I want to be that person for you, Lydia.”

  “Not long ago you wanted to kill me,” I remind her.

  A little puff of air expels from her nose; she smiles at me. “Well, that was before I got to know you; there was a reason I didn’t kill you that day, and I know now what it was.”

  She inches upward toward my face, kisses my lips softly. I think she’s about to tell me she has feelings for me, but she switches gears last-second.

  Cesara sits upright next to my hip; my eyes slide all over her body, drinking in her perfect breasts, and her smooth, curved waist that ends in a plump, round butt.

  She smiles and says, “I’ll tell you mine first, if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “OK,” I say. “What is your dark secret, Cesara?”

  The encouraging smile fades from her face, and she glances down into her hands in her lap.

  “I used to be one of them,” she confesses, looking toward Sabine. “I was eleven when my mother and father sold me for fifty thousand pesos”—she looks dejected for only a moment—“It was a long time ago, but it’ll always feel like yesterday. And I will always hate them for it.”

  “You were never sold?” I raise up fully now, and give her all of my attention.

  She shakes her head. “No,” she answers, “but it wasn’t because I wasn’t good enough—someone else wanted me instead.” Her eyes stray, and I get the distinct feeling the person she speaks of she may have loved once upon a time.

  “Who was he?” I reach out and lay my hand on her thigh for comfort. “Or she?”

  She pauses, and then decides she wants to talk about it, after all.

  “His name was Javier; he was Joaquin’s older brother.”

  The muscles in my stomach tense; I keep a straight face, but underneath the mask lies a pain-filled expression. It isn’t unusual, or a coincidence, that Cesara and I share this part of our lives—Javier had relationships with many of the slave girls before me, and probably after me, too—but hearing his name on her lips, looking into the eyes of a woman who once shared Javier’s bed, just as I did, is a shock to my system, nonetheless.

  “Javier used to own all of the Ruiz compounds,” she says. “He took an interest in me; took me away from
the dirt-floor rooms, and the repulsive governesses, and from his sister’s cruel punishments, and he treated me like…a person. I thought he loved me, but one day he just tossed me aside.” She takes a deep breath. “Not that I can complain, really; he could’ve done much worse; he could’ve sold me, or threw me back in with the other girls, but he gave me to Joaquin, and Joaquin gave me a job. That’s how I became a trainer—been doing it ever since.”

  “And this, ‘Javier’, never gave you a reason?” I ask, consoling her. “For giving you to Joaquin?”

  She shakes her blonde head. “Javier never gave anybody reasons for anything he did, and no one ever questioned him—well, except maybe his sister, Izel. She was a heartless bitch, that woman. I celebrated when I found out she’d been killed.” A grin pushes through an otherwise heavyhearted face.

  You and me both, Cesara…you and me both.

  The grin fades, replaced by something indicative of resentment. She stares off toward the blue sky; infuriating possibilities running through her mind, it appears. “But there were rumors,” she says, still looking forward. “And around here, rumors are almost always true.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  She looks over at me and smirks; shakes her head and turns back to the blue sky.

  “And I knew they were true because even Izel talked about it with such hatred and vengeance; it was the only reason I wished Izel had never been killed—she wanted to kill that girl, and she would’ve eventually.”

  She breaks away from the scenery, and looks at me. “Everybody said she was Javier’s downfall. And she was.”

  Izel?

  “There was a slave girl,” Cesara goes on, “in a different compound. Javier fell for her. Not like I thought he did with me, or the way he did with the other girls; no, this one was different, and they were right when they said she’d be the death of him. But he pushed everyone else aside for her; he lost his way…and his life.”