Flying Blind

by Howard Hammerman

  Maybe Richard and Henry were the bad guys? Maybe the two dead men were federal agents? I only had my co-conspirator’s explanation, and he had certainly proved to be unreliable. My mind whirled. Maybe the bad guys were the good guys? Maybe I was one of the bad guys?

  Something in my mind shifted at that moment. I came to realize that Maria, with all her faults, wasn’t a wall keeping me from my former life. She was the bridge into whatever life awaited me. Was this the sign I was looking for? I couldn’t go home. I would never mow that lawn again. At that moment I surrendered to Maria and our mutual fate.

  Maria leaned over to me and held my head gently. “Chico, you can’t go home. Someone else will have to mow your lawn.” It was as if she was reading my mind.

  “Are they watching my house?”

  “They might be.”

  Maria got up and looked at herself in the mirror. The suave, well-dressed, confident business woman I met on Monday night was gone. Her hair was a mess. There were dark circles under her eyes. Sighing, she took off her bra. “We can’t talk to the Cartel or to the police. If we can sell the cocaine, we have a chance. We leave first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll be a fugitive. I’ll lose my pilot’s license.”

  “That’s what you’re worried about? Do you want to live? Do you want your family to live? Once we sell the cocaine, we’ll have power. Now, we have none. Enough! I’m not going to try to explain it to you, estúpido. You figure it out. I’m taking a shower.”

  My confusion, worry, and concern for my family melded into a witches’ brew. Sautéed over a fire fueled by lust, exhaustion, and too much rum, the mixture fermented and turned into desperation.

  Desperation can do strange things. It can bring people together and can tear them apart. When Sara was one-year-old, she had a life-threatening infection. We rushed her to the hospital for treatment. That night Beth and I lay next to each other trying to sleep, worrying if the new medicine would do the job and if our daughter would recover. Strangely, it was the loneliest night of my life. We lay there one foot apart, each in our own personal hell.

  This time, desperation morphed into a kind of love. From the depth of these emotions I said, “Maria, I love you.”

  She turned just as she stepped out of her jeans and asked, “What did you say?

  I couldn’t believe it myself. The words lingered in the air like her cigarette smoke. “I said I love you.”

  She looked directly into my eyes. “Say it again.”

  “I love you.”

  “In Spanish, we say, te amo. Say it in Spanish.”

  “Te amo.”

  She nodded and said, “Yo te amo también. I love you too, you crazy, stupid, horny gringo.”

  We kissed. The rum on her tongue ran down my throat. The sweat from her armpits filled my nostrils and mixed with the smell of my fear and desperation. We were hot, worried, dirty and exhausted. We were a little drunk. In spite of it all — in spite of the gun, the cocaine, my cell phone in the trash, and the horrible names she called me — I wanted her. I wanted her in a more complete way than I ever wanted a woman in my life. I buried my head in her chest and hugged her with all my might.

  We fell onto the bed. I cried. She sensed my wordless need and offered her breast. I found the nipple and sucked. She stroked my head while whispering soothing words in Spanish.

  I sucked her nipple as if in sucking I could extract her essence. I sucked seeking the affirmation I wasn’t a bad man — I wasn’t the author of heartbreak and death.

  At its start, the embrace wasn’t sexual — it was a quest for comfort, for security, for sanity in what had become a rapidly changing world. But, in the end, a breast is a breast, and when her nipple became engorged, Maria broke the hold. She held my head in her hands. “Chico, I have no idea how this will end but remember, you are mine.”

  We kissed deeply, and in a flash, we were making love. Or rather I was making love. Maria lay on her back and drew me in, providing the safe place I needed. As my passion mounted, her hips moved with mine, then she whispered, “Now, Chico.”

  It was quick. I was selfish. I didn’t care. I needed her. She was there for me.

  Chapter 17

  Maria’s Story

  I fell asleep in Maria’s arms and woke to the sound of thunder. The clock displayed 3:00 a.m. She slept next to me, snoring quietly, wearing one of my t-shirts.

  I recalled our last conversation as I showered in the adjoining room. We said, “I love you.” We said it in two languages. I said it three times. My mind raced.

  What did we really mean? What about my wife and daughters? Who was Maria, really? Was she ever married? Did she have children? Maybe, even now, it wasn’t too late. Maybe, I could sneak out before she wakes up.

  That plan dissolved as soon as I opened the bathroom door. Maria sat against the headboard smoking a cigarette, staring at the rain.

  “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, aren’t you tired?” I asked.

  “No, if you want to sleep, use the other room.”

  There was a brusque, officious tone to her voice. Maybe she had her own early morning doubts. I just stood there, ashamed of my mutinous thoughts. She noticed my hesitation. “If you don’t want to sleep, we can watch TV.”

  “No, let’s talk.”

  “Haven’t we talked enough?”

  Her eyes, free of makeup, drew me in. Any thought of leaving vanished. “I want to know more about you. How did you meet Don Ricardo? Were you ever married?”

  She lit a fresh cigarette with the butt of the one in her hand. Her eyes followed the smoke as it drifted toward the partly open window.

  “I never married. Besides one teenage crush, you are the only man I ever said te amo to.” She turned to me, her voice hard and flat. What you really want to know is, ‘how did I end up working as a hostess?’ I can see it in your eyes.”

  “Yes, that too.” The wind shifted. I closed the window to keep the wet outside and pulled on a pair of briefs.

  She looked at me critically. “When we get to New York, I’m gonna upgrade your underwear collection. White isn’t your best color.”

  She poured more rum and took a breath.

  “Mama, Roberto, Teresa and I arrived in New York in July. We found a comfortable, three-bedroom apartment in the Spanish-speaking section of Queens.”

  “Did your mother ever learn English?”

  “Except for some of the numbers and a dozen other words she never did. She died last year. But I’m getting ahead of the story.”

  “Sorry.”

  She got out of bed and started pacing. “Soon after we arrived, I fell in love with my cousin, Victor. He was seventeen and very handsome. I was thirteen, awkward, and inexperienced. He volunteered to show me the city. He was my first lover.”

  “Did he care about you?” I could feel my pulse quicken at the thought of an innocent thirteen-year-old being used for sex. It made me think of my own daughters.

  “Not really. I soon found out he had another, prettier, girlfriend.”

  “The bastard.”

  She swallowed more rum. “It wasn’t such a big deal. High school was. Learning English, having to think about everything I wanted to say, was a pain in the ass. I hung out with other Latinas. We learned English by watching soap operas.”

  “That worked?”

  “It worked great. We taped the episodes then we would each take a role. We acted all the parts — even the male roles. We’d do it over and over until we got it right. Sometimes we would perform for our relatives.”

  “Very creative,” I said.

  She blushed.

  “So, go on.”

  “Okay, so I’m in high school and my body’s filling out. Boys started to notice me. I had lots of boyfriends. I even dated the football team’s quarterback. He took me to the prom my senior year.”

  “Was he one of your lovers?”

  “Two horny teenagers, what do you think? It was sort of the price of adm
ission. Are you jealous? Don’t worry, I didn’t love him. The last I heard he weighed 300 pounds.” Some ash dropped off the end of her cigarette onto the sheet.

  “Did your mother work while you were in high school?”

  “I feel like I’m being interrogated. No, she didn’t work. We had the money from the insurance, and from the house we sold in Puerto Rico. Uncle Julio managed Mama’s finances. They set aside a certain amount for Roberto’s college. The rest went into Julio’s clothing business. He paid the rent and gave Mama cash every month. My sister went to work as his bookkeeper.”

  “It sounds like your family adjusted to the tragedy and the move rather well.”

  Maria shook her head. “The crash came a month after I graduated high school. Julio’s real business was importing and distributing heroin. The clothing business was a front. Theresa flew to Panama every month; supposedly check on Julio’s factory. Each time she brought back drugs in her body cavities. The DEA busted her at the airport.”

  “That’s horrible! Did they arrest Julio?”

  “They never got the chance. Someone shot him in the head the same day.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and closed her eyes.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it was the same people you ripped off, the ones that tried to kill me. Maybe there’s a kind of justice.” She smiled as she paced back and forth. I caught a glimpse of her white panties every time she took a turn.

  “He was a real son-of-a-bitch. My sister went to prison. Roberto dropped out of college. Now he drives a taxi during the day and plays trumpet in a band some evenings. We’ll go hear him when we get to New York.”

  “Is your sister still in jail?”

  She shook her head and started to weep.

  “Maria … ”

  “Not now.” She turned around and went to the bathroom. I heard all the usual sounds, only partly drowned out by the storm. I waited patiently until she emerged.

  “What happened to your sister?”

  “She’s dead. She died in prison in less than a year … Heroin overdose. Maybe Julio got her hooked. Maybe, she got hooked in prison. I’ll never know. She changed in prison — became hard, cynical.”

  I held her. She rested her head on my shoulder. I rubbed her back. She stopped crying.

  “Do you want to hear the rest of my story?”

  “Do you want to tell it?”

  “Yes, I think it helps.”

  She took another sip of rum and continued.

  “After Julio died we had little savings and no money coming in. Mama and I moved into a cheaper, one-bedroom apartment near JFK. I lied about my age and got a job at Macy’s. I worked as a waitress at a sleazy diner at night. That’s where I started trading sex for money.”

  She turned away from me and took another sip of rum.

  “Roger was my first. He ate his supper at the diner three nights a week. We chatted when business was slow. One night he asked if I would like to meet him in his car after my shift. At first, I refused. But Mama needed new glasses, and the rent was due. The third time he asked, I agreed. He seemed harmless enough.

  “When we got to his car, he put a fifty-dollar bill on the dash without saying a word. I stared at the bill. My tips for a six-hour shift were only half of that. He pushed his seat back and opened his pants. I followed his directions and pretended to be excited. It lasted only a few minutes.”

  “Was it awful?”

  Maria shrugged. “The act wasn’t half bad and nothing that I hadn’t done before with my boyfriends. Cleaning the diner’s toilets was much, much worse. Roger thanked me profusely. I never got thanks for cleaning the johns. That month, we were able to pay our rent on time.

  “Roger and I repeated the scene about once a week. We became friends. He referred me to some of his co-workers. Soon, I was making several hundred dollars a week.”

  Maria filled her glass with the last of the rum. “Do you really want to hear this? Do I disgust you?”

  “No, I want to understand where you were coming from. Did your mother know what you were doing?”

  “No, she just thought I was getting big tips. In a way, I guess I was.”

  “Bad joke.”

  Maria shrugged and lit another cigarette. “Are you sure you want to hear this? This is the first time I’ve ever told anyone.”

  I took her in my arms. Her hair smelled of smoke. “I want to hear it all.”

  She wiped away a tear and continued. “I stopped waitressing but kept my job at Macy’s. I upgraded my wardrobe, hair, and makeup.

  “I met Don Ricardo about half a year later. We sat at the same table at my cousin Nelda’s wedding. He was very well dressed and had rings on almost every finger. He seemed interested in me, and I thought he might become a client. At the end of the evening, he gave me his card and asked me to come to his office.

  “When I arrived, I found Don Ricardo, his son, Marcos and his comptroller, Arturo. After introductions, Ricardo had me sit while he read from a file folder. No one spoke for five minutes.”

  “That must have been scary.”

  “Yes, it was. Finally, he closed the folder and looked at me with sad eyes. He expressed sympathies to my family regarding the tragedy in Puerto Rico. He asked polite questions about my work at Macy’s. Then he said, ‘Now to your other business — we understand that you occasionally have sex with men in exchange for money.’”

  “Oh, my God. He just blurted that out?” I interrupted her.

  “Yes, he did. Then he said, ‘The organizations that control the sex industry in New York deal harshly with competitors. You could be in danger. I say this without moral judgment, only as one business person to another.’”

  “He had you investigated. Did you think about leaving?”

  “I freaked. My face turned bright red. Every pore in my body released sweat. I just about peed in my dress. Ricardo spoke quietly into an intercom, and a receptionist brought me a tall glass of ice water.

  “I finally found the courage to ask, ‘Am I in danger Don Ricardo?’

  “He shrugged, raised the shoulders of his Italian-made suit, and said: ‘Prostitution is a dangerous business. You’ve been lucky thus far, but you must stop at once.’

  “I nodded yes. He wasn’t done.

  “‘Yet you must earn a living, and the pay at Macy’s can’t support you, your mother, and your sister once she’s released. The wedding made us relatives. I’m taking your family under my protection. But you must abide by my rules.’

  “‘Your rules, Don Ricardo?’

  “‘You must stop your prostitution and work for me.’

  “‘Work for you, Don Ricardo?’ I’m sure I sounded like a demented parrot.”

  Maria went quiet for a few minutes. I wasn’t sure what to say.

  “You were under terrible stress,” I offered.

  “You’re not kidding,” she said and went on again.

  “I quit working at Macy’s and went to work at Don Ricardo’s firm. I started as a telemarketer getting leads for manufactured homes in Florida and passing them on to the agents. I did well. Once I passed the test and got my Realtor license, I sold real estate in Queens and Brooklyn working mainly with Spanish-speaking clients. Three years ago, I started working with overseas investors. At first, it only involved being a guide and translator. Soon, the macho South and Central American clients wanted other, more intimate services, and Don Ricardo made it clear to me that those services were part of the job.”

  I snickered. “So prostitution was a dangerous business when you were your own boss, but not when you worked for him… ”

  Maria smiled a little. “Don’t be cynical. I was always allowed to say no. Sometimes I did. More often I didn’t. I found that when I said yes, the deals seemed to conclude faster and at a higher price.”

  She was done. I said nothing for a while. The sky had changed from black to gray. The rain came down in steady sheets.

  “Wow, that’s quite a story,�
�� I said finally. Then, out of nowhere the hurtful part of my mind added, “Do you have children?”

  Her face clouded over. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Despite all the fucking, I was never pregnant.” That started her talking again. “Some of Don Ricardo’s clients had really fascinating personalities. Some of my assignments were exciting. I really enjoyed working with them and only rarely felt that the intimate services were a burden.”

  She took a breath. “You need to know, I’ve only been in love with two men — Victor and you.”

  The word love came back into the room and hung there like her cigarette smoke. She said she loved me.

  “There you have it. That’s how I became a hostess in a company that no longer exists.”

  We both said nothing. The rain, pounding on the roof, provided the soundtrack for the end of her story.

  “Let’s get dressed,” I said. “We need to leave.”

  “In a minute.” She pulled a piece of paper from her purse. “I found this in your briefcase … ”

  “You went through my briefcase?”

  “Yes, I went through your briefcase. I’m wearing your t-shirt. Some of your sperm are still swimming in my body. We’re a couple, Dan. We can’t have secrets. It’s about time you accepted that.”

  “Yeah, still … ”

  “Now back to this receipt. You rented a safe deposit box the day after you flew to New Jersey to get the coke …”

  “I didn’t fly there to get drugs. Richard tricked me.”

  “Whatever. Your idiot friend took the money and left you the drugs. That’s what you told me. Are you sure Richard had the money in his car when he died?”

  She held the waved the receipt in my face. It was time to surrender.

  “I lied. Richard gave me the money as well as the drugs. He told me to hold it until he got better. If he didn’t, I was to give half to his sister in Jamaica and keep the rest.”

  “Now we’re talking. How much money, Dan?”

  “Just over $600,000.”

  She slapped my face, “Don’t lie to me, you son-of-a-bitch. There is no way anyone would sell that much coke for 600 grand.”