Mahmood, and that she opened the door herself: this tall redheaded woman in a little green two-piece swimsuit, sunglasses on her nose, opened the door and said, “Lourdes, as in Our Lady of?”
“No, ma’am, Lourdes, the Spanish way to say it,” and had to ask, “You have no help here to open the door?”
The redheaded Mrs. Mahmood said, “They’re in the laundry room watching soaps.” She said, “Come on in,” and brought Lourdes into this home of marble floors, of statues and paintings that held no meaning, and out to the swimming pool, where they sat at a patio table beneath a yellow and white umbrella.
There were cigarettes, a silver lighter, and a tall glass with only ice left in it on the table. Mrs. Mahmood lit a cigarette, a long Virginia Slim, and pushed the pack toward Lourdes, who was saying, “All I have is this, Mrs. Mahmood,” Lourdes bringing a biographical data sheet, a printout, from her straw bag. She laid it before the redheaded woman showing her breasts as she leaned forward to look at the sheet.
“‘Your future wife is in the mail’?”
“From the Latina introduction list for marriage,” Lourdes said. “The men who are interested see it on their computers. Is three years old, but what it tells of me is still true. Except of course my age. Now it would say thirty- five.”
Mrs. Mahmood, with her wealth, her beauty products, looked no more than thirty. Her red hair was short and reminded Lourdes of the actress who used to be on TV at home, Jill St. John, with the same pale skin. She said, “That’s right, you and Viviana were both mail-order brides,” still looking at the sheet. “Your English is good —that’s true. You don’t smoke or drink.”
“I drink now sometime, socially.”
“You don’t have e-mail.”
“No, so we wrote letters to correspond, before he came to Cali, where I lived. They have parties for the men who come and we get — you know, we dress up for it.”
“Look each other over.”
“Yes, is how I met Mr. Zimmer in person.”
“Is that what you called him?”
“I didn’t call him anything.”
“Mrs. Zimmer,” the redheaded woman said. “How would you like to be Mrs. Mahmood?”
“I wouldn’t think that was your name.”
She was looking at the printout again. “You’re virtuous, sensitive, hardworking, optimistic. Looking for a man who’s a kind, loving person with a good job. Was that Mr. Zimmer?”
“He was OK except when he drank too much. I had to be careful what I said or it would ‘cause him to hit me. He was strong, too, for a guy his age. He was fifty-eight.”
“When you married?”
“When he died.”
“I believe Viviana said he was killed?” The woman sounding like she was trying to recall whatever it was Viviana had told her. “An accident on the job?”
Lourdes believed the woman already knew about it, but said, “He was disappeared for a few days until they find his mix truck out by Hialeah, a pile of concrete by it but no reason for the truck to be here since there’s no job he was pouring. So the police have the concrete broken open and find Mr. Zimmer.”
“Murdered,” the redheaded woman said.
“They believe so, yes, his hands tied behind him.”
“The police talk to you?”
“Of course. He was my husband.”
“I mean did they think you had anything to do with it.”
She knew. Lourdes was sure of it.
“There was a suspicion that friends of mine here from Colombia could be the ones did it. Someone who was their enemy told this to the police.”
“It have anything to do with drugs?”
The woman seeing all Colombians as drug dealers.
“My husband drove a cement truck.”
“But why would anyone want to kill him?”
“Who knows?” Lourdes said. “This person who finked, he told the police I got the Colombian guys to do it because my husband was always beating me. One time he hit me so hard,” Lourdes said, touching the strap of her blue sundress that was faded almost white from washing, “it separated my shoulder, the bones in here, so I couldn’t work.”
“Did you tell the Colombian guys he was beating you?”
“Everyone knew. Sometime Mr. Zimmer was brutal to me in public, when he was drinking.”
“So maybe the Colombian guys did do it.” The woman sounding like she wanted to believe it.
“I don’t know,” Lourdes said, and waited to see if this was the end of it. Her gaze moved out to the sunlight, to the water in the swimming pool lying still, and beyond to red bougainvillea growing against white walls. Gardeners were weeding and trimming, three of them Lourdes thought at first were Latino. No, the color of their skin was different. She said, “Those men …”
“Pakistanis,” Mrs. Mahmood said.
“They don’t seem to work too hard,” Lourdes said. “I always have a garden at home, grow things to eat. Here, when I was married, I worked for Miss Olympia. She call her service Cleaning with Biblical Integrity. I wasn’t sure what it means, but she would say things to us from the Holy Bible. We cleaned offices in buildings in Miami. What I do here Viviana said would be different, personal to you. See to your things, keep your clothes nice?”
Straighten her dresser drawers. Clean her jewelry. Mrs. Mahmood said she kicked her shoes off in the closet, so Lourdes would see they were paired and hung in the shoe racks. Check to see what needed to be dry-cleaned. Lourdes waited as the woman stopped to think of other tasks. See to her makeup drawers in the bathroom. Lourdes would live here, have Sundays off, a half day during the week. Technically she would be an employee of Dr. Mahmood’s.
Oh? Lourdes wasn’t sure what that meant. Before she could ask, Mrs. Mahmood wanted to know if she was a naturalized citizen. Lourdes told her she was a permanent resident, but now had to get the papers to become a citizen.
“I say who I work for I put Dr. Wasim Mahmood?”
The redheaded wife said, “It’s easier that way. You know, to handle what’s taken out. But I’ll see that you clear at least three-fifty a week.”
Lourdes said that was very generous. “But will I be doing things also for Dr. Mahmood?”
The redheaded woman smoking her cigarette said, “What did Viviana tell you about him?”
“She say only that he didn’t speak to her much.”
“Viviana’s a size twelve. Woz likes them young and as lean as snakes. How much do you weigh?”
“Less than one hundred twenty-five pounds.”
“But not much — you may be safe. You cook?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I mean for yourself. We go out or order in from restaurants. I won’t go near that fucking stove and Woz knows it.”
Lourdes said, “Wos?”
“Wasim. He thinks it’s because I don’t know how to cook, which I don’t, really, but that’s not the reason. The two regular maids are Filipina and speak English. In fact, they have less of an accent than you. They won’t give you any trouble, they look at the ground when they talk to anyone. And they leave at four, thank God. Woz always swims nude — don’t ask me why, it might be a Muslim thing — so if they see him in the pool they hide in the laundry room. Or if I put on some southern hip-hop and they happen to walk in while I’m bouncing to Dirty South doing my aerobics, they run for the laundry room.” She said without a pause, “What did Viviana say about me?”
“Oh, how nice you are, what a pleasure to work here.”
“Come on — I know she told you I was a stripper.”
“She say you were a dancer before, yes.”
