As things wound down, the men in the group did the Cuban cigar thing, while the women gathered around Trisha to give her the lowdown on shopping and restaurants back in Tegucigalpa. Trisha found herself engaged by the conversation and felt something like her old self again. It was the longest time she’d gone without thinking of her dad in months.
“But there’s one thing,” Pam Richter, a junior analyst, said, her voice turning suddenly serious. “When you’re in Teguz or anywhere in-country, you don’t want to—”
“Come on, Pammy, don’t spoil the evening with this shit,” chided Maggie Wilson, a five-year Paisley Shutter vet. “It’s nonsense and Trisha’s only going to be here a few days.”
Trisha waved away Maggie’s concern. “No, go ahead, Pam,” she said.
“It’s not safe for American women to walk the streets alone in certain parts of the cities, especially after dark.”
“Why only American women?” Trisha asked. “Baby thieves!” Pam blurted.
“What?”
“It’s a Central American urban legend. You know, like the one back home — about a couple who snatch a kid in Toys ‘R’ Us and change his clothes in the bathroom and dye his hair. The baby thieves myth is even bigger here, and in Guatemala too.”
“I’ve never heard that one,” Trisha said. “I only know about the poodle in the microwave.”
“Well, boss, here the myths and legends are a little more... um, radical. Here the story goes that rich American women fly down, pick out their babies, have the mothers executed, and ship the kids back to the States to raise as their own.”
“Jesus Christ,” Trisha breathed. “That’s... horrible.”
“It’s also a load of crap,” Maggie said. “Whenever the government feels threatened, or the economy takes a hit, they spread these rumors around. The good old U.S. of A. still makes one hell of a convenient scapegoat. And it’s not like our government hasn’t screwed with folks down here before. The trouble is, the rumors linger even after they’ve served their political purposes — and especially in the poorest areas.”
“That’s why it’s not safe,” Pam said, and then she read her boss’s face. “Shit, I freaked you out, didn’t I? I’m sorry to have mentioned it. I...”
Trisha managed a smile. “No, that’s okay — and I appreciate the heads-up. I’m just tired is all. Maybe we better call it a night.”
But it wasn’t all right. Pam’s story had somehow brought all of Trisha’s vertigo and sadness rushing back, and the alcohol had only made things worse. Trisha stared at the table, and at the tiny saddle she’d been given, nearly lost amidst the empty glasses, overflowing ashtrays, and sodden napkins. At some point it had acquired a tiny rider — a stiff-limbed man made from skinny plastic straws. He was tilted and reeling, barely hanging on above a puddle of Scotch, and Trisha felt very much the same. She looked up and saw Ellis Quantrill standing ten feet away. He raised his cognac to her, a mischievous smile on his face. Had he been listening? No, she thought, it was just booze and paranoia.
Back at the hotel, she took a long hot bath. Her thoughts kept drifting to Pete Dutton, and after a while her fingers drifted to her pussy. She masturbated over and over again, imagining any number of ways Pete Dutton might have her, or she him. Her orgasms were as intense as if the sex was real, and it scared her a little. She found she liked being scared, that it heightened her climax and took away some of her sadness. She found his card in her purse and placed it on her bedside, but didn’t call the number.
She still hadn’t called thirty-six hours later, when a plane returned her to Tegucigalpa. Trisha had the driver take her straight to the hotel. The sky was turquoise blue and cloudless, but the streets of the capital city spread out before her in a muddy blur. She was exhausted and headachy. The traffic noise mixed with colors around her, the colors merged with indistinct shapes, and pretty soon the whole world was sliding away. She couldn’t focus on anything, and she found herself filled with... what... homesickness? She missed her old job; she missed her dad; she even missed Tommy Skilling, the first boy she’d let slip a hand into her panties, in a car on a roadside just north of Laramie. She hadn’t thought of him in years. She opened the door to her hotel suite and her world came back into focus.
There on the desk sat a spectacular arrangement of orchids, and a single white rose. The card read: No pressure. Pete
She finally made the call.
Later, at the PriceStar maquila on the outskirts of Tegucigalpa, Trisha felt fully awake for the first time since Miami. Both her own people and the PriceStar execs noticed the change, though they weren’t necessarily happy about it. The woman who’d struggled to keep the drool off her chin during the sessions in San Pedro Sula was spitting out questions like a Gatling gun. And if the answers didn’t come as rapidly in return, she did not hide her displeasure. Even Trisha recognized she was being hard on everyone, but she was enjoying the high of her own adrenaline, and fuck ’em if they couldn’t take the heat.
The morning smelled of spilled champagne, orchids, and sex. Pete’s flavor still lingered in her mouth, with grace notes of herself. And she was gloriously sore. Pete had been everything she had imagined, and more. He seemed to see right through her, to read her, and somehow he’d known exactly how far to push things and just when to draw back. The real surprise, however, had been her. For the first time in years she’d held nothing back — not her hungers or her fantasies or her screams. Dinner was great. Maybe. She realized she couldn’t remember a thing about the meal.
Pete was gone. There was no surprise in that. He had warned her he had early business, but that he would take her to dinner again tonight, if that’s what she wanted. If she wanted! At the moment, it was all she wanted. When she left the suite, Trisha placed a twenty-dollar bill in an envelope for the chambermaid. Given the state of the bedroom, it might not have been enough.
Walking past the reception desk, the clerk got her attention
“Miss Tanglewood, por favor. We have a message for you,” he said, handing her a note.
The note was in English, but very cryptic: If you want to see how PriceStar makes such profits, come see the real factories.
There was an address, which Trisha showed to the clerk. He did not try to hide his worry.
“This is not a place for a...” he searched for the word.
“A woman,” she offered.
“For anyone, but especially for an American. It is a slum. Very dangerous. Very dangerous.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
Trisha took a deep breath and gathered her thoughts. It was late in the game for this kind of bullshit — fucking late. There’d been questions up front about how PriceStar, a chronic underachiever by all other measures, had managed to outperform its competitors when it came to the profitability of its in-house label, and for a while there’d been whispers of unsavory labor practices. But those kinds of rumors — of child labor, beatings, virtual slavery — always circulated in trade zones like this, and PriceStar had checked out. At least, that’s what Ellis and his team had assured her, and they’d been on the ground here for weeks. No one had even hinted...