Maxi drives them to River Bank, the sound of the breeze comforting Margot. Maxi must sense her need for silence, because he says nothing. She knows well how he feels about her breaking her back for foreign money, what it takes from her.
“Remembah when yuh asked me what my dream is?” she asks.
He nods, his eyes on the road as though he’s trying not to look at her.
“I gave it more thought,” she says, toying with her seat belt.
“Yuh did?” he asks with one eyebrow arched.
“I want to own my own hotel. Bettah yet, ah want to be in charge of tourism. And it g’wan happen sooner than ah think.” The words seem to fill out her cheeks, and she surprises herself with a light chuckle. She hopes he can’t see the uncertainty in her eyes. The guilt.
Maxi laughs. His laughter is like a faint cough.
Part II. Chicken Merry Hawk Deh Near
11
MARGOT WANTS MORE. THERE’S NOTHING SATISFYING ABOUT leading cattle — a herd of fifteen girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five. Even as she watches them graze, she’s still hungry. She takes the girls under her wing, feeds them, dresses them, teaches them how to carry themselves among moneyed men. Men who have invested a lot of money in the hotel business. Men who come to the country for the sex and weed; and the sex, like the weed, has to be “high-grade.” Which is why Margot spent four weeks scouting the girls. Some came highly recommended. Others she had to go out and find. She patrolled the Hip Strip at nights, skirted her way inside the dark, dingy hallways of brothels. Observed how the girls carried themselves, how they hustled. She followed the ones who struck her fancy — ones with sharp tongues and sharper minds, not afraid to tell the men they’re short a dollar or two, pretty ones capable of fulfilling fantasies, the darker the better. She eavesdropped on their conversations, even in bathrooms at local clubs, their laughter penetrating Margot’s stall like the baby-scented talcum powder they reapplied to their necks and cleavages. She knows who has been on the streets for years as well as who just started two days ago, who has a man and who shares one. Who has the John who can’t get it up and who has had to fight one off. The one who sells herself for the love of her children as well as for the love of sex. The girls’ conversations were unfiltered in these stalls, their confessionals.
When Margot approached the ones she wanted — the ones she knew the men would want — they gave her queer looks. She handed them cards with her number. “I want you to work for me.”
And they would inch away a little, folding arms across bare chests as though just realizing that they were scantily dressed. “Me nuh inna di sodomite t’ing.” Margot then assured them that her only interest in them was what they could do for her new business.
They called. Their voices quavered with uncertainty, unsure about the strange woman who had cornered them in the restroom. Margot brought them to Alphonso’s villa for an orientation. They wore regular clothes since it was daytime, and Margot was able to see their faces without makeup, how they lit up like little girls when they admired portraits of the cream-at-the-top-of-Horlicks faces of the Wellington dynasty. Alphonso made sure Margot had the villa to herself that weekend, sending home the housekeeper. Margot was grateful for this, since the woman was too nosy anyway. She handed the girls contracts she drafted.
“Dis is a contract of secrecy.”
“Secrecy?”
“Yes. Dis is not something yuh tell yuh friends. Under dis contract yuh must not, and I repeat, must not let anyone know about dis. Not even yuh mother. If you know a girl that might be eligible, mek me screen her first before yuh invite her.”
“How much yuh g’wan pay us?”
“I will get to dat in a moment.”
“More than we already getting by we-self, ah hope.”
“Mek me finish, please.”
“Me cyan sekkle fi chump change, boss lady. Me too hungry. Ah have meself an’ me pickney fi feed.”
“Shush, nuh! Let har finish!”
“The clients pay me and I pay you. Understood?”
“Wait, so how we know what we getting?”
“Yuh get what yuh put out. There’s a set rate. And if di customer is pleased, him can add twenty percent tip, which you keep.”
“Wha kin’a answer dat? We want to know how much we getting.”
“Yuh want to know what yuh getting? More than yuh will evah get working by yuhself, patrolling fah men who can barely afford a trip from Mobay to Portland, much less a fifty-dollah fuck. Yuh getting the big-man dem. Moneyman. Man who can at least feed yuh while yuh at it. Yuh getting wined and dined at expensive restaurants dat none ah yuh put together could afford. Yuh getting nice clothes, ah makeovah, an’ a place fi sleep. An’ is not just anywhere you’ll sleep, Palm Star Resort is yuh bedroom. Every sexual favor haffi tek place in rooms dat we reserve for yuh clients. Yuh getting exposure — an opportunity dat yuh can’t get from di run-down holes yuh crawl from. Dat answer yuh question?”
There was silence as each girl contemplated her fate, their minds trying to reconcile the uncertainty of what was being offered to them. They looked at each other because, of course, there was no real reason to back away. Margot waited for thirty long seconds. In the arrested silence, the howling wind rattled the French doors of the villa, flung them open to reveal a glimpse of the Blue Mountains and the sea twinkling in the sunlight. Gradually the girls began to chat and bicker, thickening the balmy atmosphere: Mama can use ah stove. The boys need school shoes — lawd, dem cyan guh barefoot nuh longah. Nuh food nuh deh inna cupboard. The landlord aggo kick we out if we nuh pay next month rent. Margot heard each thought, saw them etched on the young dark faces before her. She knew they wouldn’t turn this offer down, for there was nothing left in their exhausted lungs, which heaved and sighed.
“It answer mine.”
“Mine too.”
“Ah thought so. Now I’ll go on,” Margot said. “Do not accept clients without me knowing about it. I call the shots. If ah don’t think you’re the right girl for the job, then I won’t use you. Because these aren’t just tourists we dealing wid. Like ah said, they are also the men we want to invest in our hotel. Our clients will be able to request their favorites on a regular basis. But it’s mostly my discretion. Lastly, yuh duty is to serve. So yuh have to be willing to do anything that the client asks. Anything. Even if is to lick di dirt off him shoes. I don’t want to hear any complaints from them about stubborn girls. Remembah you’re disposable. One slipup an’ yuh gone. Yuh must be able to satisfy di clients an’ walk away in good standing.”
All fifteen recruits signed the contract, and it was this cohort that Margot introduced to Alphonso and the potential investors of his hotel empire. On the night of this private gathering, she paraded the girls like virgins through Babylon, having them walk out in veils and long cloaks with nothing underneath. Margot turned to Alphonso and his guests. “Gentlemen, I present to you our queens of the night.” One by one the girls dropped their cloaks and lifted their veils. The men were visibly pleased. Privately, Margot admired them, content. She told them what Alphonso told her: “Mek me proud.”
And just like that Margot became a boss lady. A boss lady can be counted on. Does the dirty work. The men dig into their wallets for pleasures pure and deep. Margot’s girls can’t be rivaled. Their customers exit the hotel with long, conquering strides, whistling softly through the lobby. Days later they might return for another round, another hour with an island girl who has them biting their pillows, curling their toes, and swallowing moans that rise from their throats. They’re baffled by their own helplessness when Margot tells them that a particular girl they requested isn’t available. No one has ever made them feel so dependent — not barmaids, not servants, not assistants or secretaries, not tailors of fine suits, not expensive bottles of scotch, not their wives’ silences, not even God.