Moondogs - Alexander Yates [134]
“Solita. So-Lee-Ta? Something like that.”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t have. I have Soo. I have Linda.”
Then, with a jolt, Benicio remembered that he’d taken one of his father’s pictures of her and folded it up in his wallet—a proof and reminder of his own muddy intentions. He pulled it out, keeping the wallet below the table, and slid the picture over to the pudgy woman.
“Solita?” She smiled again, her gold crowns catching in the strobe. “She said her name was Solita?”
“I don’t care about her name. Is she here?”
The woman nodded. “She’s busy now.”
Benicio imagined busy meant: With a customer, and the thought of his father in this place made him want to catch the first flight home. “I’ll pay double if I can see her now,” he said.
“I don’t interrupt,” the woman said. “You can wait.”
“Triple, then. I only want to talk to her. And I won’t be long.”
The woman stood and disappeared again behind the far curtain. She emerged a moment later towing Solita—or the woman he knew as Solita—by the elbow. Her outfit was so clichéd it was embarrassing; panties, thigh-highs and a cheapo corset. As soon as she saw Benicio she set her weight on her heels and extended two middle fingers in his direction. She and the pudgy woman exchanged words. Solita kept her eyes on the floor as they spoke, but didn’t budge an inch as the woman tugged on her elbow and shoulder.
“My girls have a choice,” the woman said as she returned to the table. “She says no.” Two men from behind the bar had accompanied her, their arms crossed over their too-tight shirts. “I’m sorry, but you have to leave now.”
Benicio stood. He felt something rising in him that at first he mistook for bravery but realized a breath later was just the certainty that he would get his own way. He reached into his pocket and grabbed a sum of money that he’d planted there with a scenario like this in mind. It was just over seven hundred dollars’ worth of his father’s pesos, a sum calculated to paralyze. Benicio dropped the wad of bills out on the table carelessly, as though he hadn’t counted every last one twice. “Just talking,” he said. “Just for a minute.”
The woman looked down at the blue and purple bills blossoming on the table. She stabbed them with her finger and overturned the pile to make sure it wasn’t padded with twenties and fifties. Then she said something in Tagalog that made the men behind her uncross their arms. She led Benicio to one of the curtained doorways at the back wall. “You wait inside,” she said, pulling the curtains open to reveal a space about the size of two bathroom stalls. It was hot and dark inside, despite an incandescent bulb that dangled from the ceiling and flickered faintly. As soon as Benicio went in the heavy curtains fell closed behind him. He sat down on the only piece of furniture, a foul loveseat that faced the entrance, and waited.
After about five minutes the curtains cracked open and Solita joined him. She ignored Benicio’s objection that he just wanted to talk and jumped roughly on his lap. Her panties rode low on her hips, and the scar tissue on her abdomen brushed his nose as she grinded and lifted. He saw her tattoo again. What he’d thought was a little sun was really a spider—the rays extending from the center were actually furry legs. He was so hard he could feel his pulse in his crotch. She felt it, too, and laughed at him.
“I don’t want to fuck you,” he managed.
“Then you’re in the wrong room.”
“I have a question. I just have a question.”
She took his chin in her hand and lifted it so they were face-to-face. For a moment he thought they’d hit her, but he realized it was just ketchup in the corner of her lip. “You cost me a lot of money,” she said. “They don’t let me into the Shangri-La anymore. That means more shifts here.”
“I’ll fix it,” he said. “I’ll say I lied about you breaking in.”
“They won’t listen. White boy makes stink is bad news.”
“I’m sorry. Just let me ask my question, and I’ll go.”
Solita dismounted and squeezed beside him on the loveseat.