Lourdes imagined this woman dancing naked, men watching her, and thought of Miss Olympia warning the cleaning women with her Biblical Integrity: no singing or dancing around while cleaning the offices, or they might catch the eye of men working late. She made it sound as if they were lying in wait. “Read the Book of Judges,” Miss Olympia said, “the twenty-first verse.” It was about men waiting for women, the daughters of Shiloh, to come out to dance so they could take them, force the women to be their wives. Lourdes knew of cleaning women who sang while they worked, but not ones who danced. She wondered what it would be like to dance naked in front of men.
“You don’t want to be with him,” Lourdes said, “but you want to live in this house.”
“There it is,” the woman who didn’t look at all like a Mrs. Mahmood said.
Lourdes sipped her daiquiri, put the glass down, and reached for the pack of Virginia Slims on the table.
“May I try one of these?”
“Help yourself.”
She lit the cigarette, sucking hard to get a good draw. She said, “I use to smoke. The way you do it made me want to smoke again. Even the way you hold the cigarette.”
Lourdes believed the woman was very close to telling what she was thinking about. Still, it was not something easy to talk about with another person, even for a woman who danced naked. Lourdes decided this evening to help her.
She said, “How would you feel if a load of wet concrete fell on your husband?”
Then wondered, sitting in the silence, not looking at the woman, if she had spoken too soon.
The redheaded woman said, “The way it happened to Mr. Zimmer? How did you feel?”
“I accepted it,” Lourdes said, “with a feeling of relief, knowing I wouldn’t be beaten no more.”
“Were you ever happy with him?”
“Not for one day.”
“You picked him, you must’ve had some idea.”
“He picked me. At the party in Cali? There were seven Colombian girls for each American. I didn’t think I would be chosen. We married …In two years I had my green card and was tired of him hitting me.”
The redheaded Mrs. Mahmood said, “You took a lot of shit, didn’t you?” and paused this time before saying, “How much does a load of concrete cost these days?”
Lourdes, without pausing, said, “Thirty thousand.”
Mrs. Mahmood said, “Jesus Christ,” but was composed, sitting back in her yellow cushions. She said, “You were ready. Viviana told you the situation and you decided to go for it.”
“I think it was you hired me,” Lourdes said, “because of Mr. Zimmer — you so interested in what happen to him. Also I could tell, from the first day we sat here, you don’t care for your husband.”
“You can understand why, can’t you? I’m scared to death of catching on fire. He lights a cigar, I watch him like a fucking hawk.”
Giving herself a reason, an excuse.
“We don’t need to talk about him,” Lourdes said. “You pay the money, all of it before, and we don’t speak of this again. You don’t pay, we still never speak of it.”
“The Colombian guys have to have it all up front?”
“The what guys?”
“The concrete guys.”
“You don’t know what kind of guys they are. What if it looks like an accident and you say oh, they didn’t do nothing, he fell off his boat.”
“Woz doesn’t have a boat.”
“Or his car was hit by a truck. You understand? You not going to know anything before.”
“I suppose they want cash.”
“Of course.”
“I can’t go to the bank and draw that much.”
“Then we forget it.”
Lourdes waited while the woman thought about it smoking her Virginia Slim, both of them smoking, until Mrs. Mahmood said, “If I give you close to twenty thousand in cash, today, right now, you still want to forget it?”
Now Lourdes had to stop and think for a moment.
“You have that much in the house?”
“My getaway money,” Mrs. Mahmood said, “in case I ever have to leave in a hurry. What I socked away in tips getting guys to spot their pants and that’s the deal, twenty grand. You want it or not? You don’t, you might as well leave, I don’t need you anymore.”
So far in the few weeks she was here, Lourdes had met Dr. Mahmood face-to-face with reason to speak to him only twice. The first time, when he came in the kitchen and asked her to prepare his breakfast, the smoked snook, a fish he ate cold with tea and whole wheat toast. He asked her to have some of the snook if she wished, saying it wasn’t as good as kippers but would do. Lourdes tried a piece; it was full of bones but she told him yes, it was good. They spoke of different kinds of fish from the ocean they liked and he seemed to be a pleasant, reasonable man.
The second time Lourdes was with him face-to-face he startled her, coming out of the swimming pool naked as she was watering the plants on the patio. He called to her to bring him his towel from the chair. When she came with it he said, “You were waiting for me?”
“No, sir, I didn’t see you.”
As he dried his face and his head, the hair so short it appeared shaved, she stared at his skin, at his round belly and his strange black penis, Lourdes looking up then as he lowered the towel.
He said, “You are a widow?” She nodded yes and he said, “When you married, you were a virgin?”
She hesitated, but then answered because she was telling a doctor, No, sir.
“It wasn’t important to your husband?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Would you see an advantage in again being a virgin?”
She had to think — it wasn’t something ever in her mind before — but didn’t want to make the doctor wait, so she said, “No, not at my age.”
The doctor said, “I can restore it if you wish.”
“Make me a virgin?”
“Surgically, a few sutures down there in the tender dark. It’s becoming popular in the Orient with girls entering marriage. Also for prostitutes. They can charge much more, often thousands of dollars for that one night.” He said, “I’m thinking of offering the procedure. Should you change your mind, wish me to examine you, I could do it in your room.”
Dr. Mahmood’s manner, and the way he looked at her that time, made Lourdes feel like taking her clothes off.
He didn’t come home the night Lourdes and Mrs. Mahmood got down to business. Or the next night. The morning of the following day, two men from the Palm Beach County sheriff’s office came to the house. They showed Lourdes their identification and asked to see Mrs. Mahmood.
She was upstairs in her bedroom trying on a black dress, looking at herself in the full-length mirror and then at Lourdes’s reflection appearing behind her.
“The police are here,” Lourdes said.
Mrs. Mahmood nodded and said, “What do you think?” turning to pose in the dress, the skirt quite short.
Lourdes read the story in the newspaper that said Dr. Wasim Mahmood, prominent etc., etc., had suffered gunshot wounds during an apparent carjacking on Flagler near Currie Park and was pronounced dead on arrival at Good Samaritan. His Mercedes was found abandoned on the street in Delray Beach.
Mrs. Mahmood left the house in her black dress. Later, she phoned to tell Lourdes she had identified the body, spent time with the police, who had no clues, nothing at all to go on, then stopped by a funeral home and arranged to have Woz cremated without delay. She said, “What do you think?”
“About what?” Lourdes said.
