Crash Diet

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fourteen

“Who’s the dude outta Miami Vice?”

Irene and Ditz were on the upper level of the casino. They had walked the gardens together, taken a look at the pool with its twin mermaid fountain and perused the menu in the dining room. Ditz had walked Irene across the gaming floor where the intoxicating sensation of money changing hands had overwhelmed Irene’s faculties.

They were on the way out when the office door opened behind the wickets where women in low cut blouses exchanged casino chips for American greenbacks. He stepped out and the women deferred to him, eyes lowered. He was tall, six-one or two, and dressed in a Giorgio Armani suit with an open shirt. He glanced up; saw Irene and took a long moment to assess.

“Who’s the dude outta Miami Vice?” Irene asked. “The one in the suit?”

“That’s the head screw at this funny-farm,” Ditz had followed Irene’s stare. “Name’s Scirocco. Mr. Scirocco. He manages the place, though scuttlebutt places the odds at ten to one that he’s in for a quarter share.”

“You mean he owns the place?”

“Twenty-five percent.”

“And the other seventy-five percent?”

“Who knows. But it ain’t the friggin’ girl scouts, sweetie. Scirocco is connected, big time. The mob built this place. Who else could? Think of this as one big washing machine for dirty money. And there has to be several families involved; a syndicate. No question.”

“But isn’t that a concern for you?”

“Not in the least. When it comes to choosing between money and my morals, money wins every time. You’ll see. Wait ‘til the slime ball makes you an offer. Then you’ll understand.”

“An offer?”

“Job offer. You’ll feel like a tampon.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Ditz laughed. “The job offer– there’ll be a string attached.”

“Oh...”

“Now, you want to try the dining room? Or I got a pork loin in the fridge. Up to you, sweetie, but trust me, I know my way around a stove and I can only eat so much restaurant food. What’dya say?”

Irene refocused. “I’m for the pork loin, but only if I can help out.”

“You can help out by buying a bottle of wine from the cantina.”

Ditz gave her a self-satisfied smile and headed for the door. As they turned to leave, Irene glanced back. Scirocco was taking a second look, unabashedly studying her stride. She nodded but didn’t wait for a response.

Ditz pulled the pork tenderloin from the fridge and placed it on her cutting board. Irene watched Ditz ran a knife along the length of the loin, cutting halfway through before gently pounding with a mallet.

“What can I do to help?” Irene wanted to know.

“There’s a bowl of mushrooms in the fridge. Grab a knife from the rack and slice them for me.”

Irene admired the fresh plump caps. “These look scrumptious. You buy them on the market?”

“Hell no. I pick ‘em from around the trucks of the trees after a rain.”

Irene gaped. “Christ. These could be poison.”

“Oh yeah. Kill you in a heartbeat. Slice ‘em thin, will yah?”

Irene shrugged and started slicing while Ditz placed a cast iron skillet on the stove. She added butter, a dash of oil and a handful of chopped bacon and rendered out the fat. “You ready with the mushrooms?” she called. “Dump ‘em in.”

Ditz stir-fried the mushrooms for a few minutes, added garlic, bread crumbs and parsley.

“Smells fabulous,” Irene commented as Ditz spooned the mixture onto the tenderloin. Ditz rolled the meat up, brushed on oil and lay strips of bacon on each loin before binding them in butcher’s twine.

“Be about half-an-hour,” Ditz said, sliding the tray into her propane oven. “Can you manage?”

“Perfect,” Irene said back. “I’ll open the wine.”

“I can’t believe we ate that whole friggin’ loin.” Irene followed Ditz’s lead after dinner and pulled her feet up onto the love seat cushions. “How much meat was that?”

“A pound-and-a-half.”

“And it’s all gone?”

“And the mashed potatoes and mushroom gravy. How’s your coffee?”

“Delicious, thanks.”

“Good.” Ditz nodded. “It’s Jamaican, with a shot of Haitian black-strap rum to mellow out the flavors.”

“If we starve ourselves for the next two days, do you think our waistlines will recover?”

Ditz tugged at her belt. “It’s a bigger problem around here than you might think. Luckily the place has a great gym. And as an employee, it’s free to use anytime you want. The management encourages the girls to work out.”

“They want the girls to be in nice shape.”

“Well yes,” Ditz said, “but the sight of a dozen girls doing stretching exercises is more along the lines of what management views as good for business.”

“Mmm. And the girls are very attractive.”

“Oh yeah.” Ditz agreed. “Scirocco is very fussy when it comes to his female staff. You don’t interview for a job on Cracker-Jax Key; you audition. When they’re hiring, it’s just one big casting call. And if anyone complains, she’ll land on her cute little ass back in Miami before she can shout Women’s Rights.”

“And your girls put themselves through that.”

“It’s the money, Irene. You would be hard pressed to find anyone who pays better than Scirocco. And you’ll be surprised who works here. One of your own flight-crew, Linda? –she’s a second year engineering student at MIT, just taking a year off to make some fast cash. Another one of your girls, Erin is from Ireland. She came to the States on an exchange program and when her six months were up, instead of going home, she signed onto the Bikini-Bus. I’ve got medical and legal students dealing cards on the gaming floor. And one of my girls is a Harvard business grad.”

“And they come, just for the money?”

“Well sure. It’s a bit hard on the social life, understandably. They can’t date the customers. But it’s only for a year or two. Then it’s back State-side where they pick up their careers, get married and close off this chapter of their lives; forget about what they had to do to become successful. There’s a few older birds like me. This is my life now.”

“And you’re happy with it.”

“Sure, as long as Scirocco keeps signing my pay checks. Well actually there is no pay check.”

“No pay checks?”

“Uh-uh. The Casino has its own bank; more like an employees’ credit union. It’s call Key Credit and once you work here, they open an account for you. You’ll receive a bank card that you can use at the cantina and you can withdraw American dollars over the counter. Most of the girls plan an occasional shopping trip for clothes, undies, shoes, cosmetics; stuff you can’t get here. They’ll hitch a ride on the Bikini-Bus and spend a day or two shopping in Miami.”

“And Key Credit pays interest rates?”

“Way better than any bank I know of. But here’s the big news: No income tax.”

“No taxes?”

Ditz took in Irene’s wide-eyed look of surprise and laughed. “Nada. You’re not in the good old US of A anymore, and you don’t have to split your salary with the IRS. They have no jurisdiction here. And there’s no income tax in Haiti. So you get to keep all your money.”

Just the thought of not having to fill out the accursed income tax form each year was enough to put a smile on Irene’s face. “That seems too good to be true. And if I had some outstanding debts back home?”

“Tell ‘em to come find you,” Ditz smiled. “Good luck to them.”

Irene was thinking of the house, her plane and the car she was going to have to sell to help pay off her legal bills. “This job is looking better and better.”

“Like I said: The best job you’ll ever have. Do what they ask and keep your nose clean. You won’t regret it.”

Later, in her narrow bed, Irene was adding up her asserts: Over a million dollars. What would happen if she put that money into a suitcase, she wondered, instead of writing a check to the bloodsuckers that were hounding her?

As she contemplated her options, she heard a disturbance above her head. She reached for the table lamp fearing a bird had found its way inside. It was a moth. A white moth, the size of a plate, was fluttering about the thatched ceiling. Irene watched for a moment, marveling at the delicate creature in its desperate search for freedom. How beautiful.

Irene got out of bed and opened the louvered windows, then turned off the light. In the morning, the moth was gone.

It was early and Irene lounged in bed listening to the love-songs springing from the birds in the honeysuckle. In the near distance, she could hear the surf moving along the sand and she watched the dappled golden light of a newly risen sun reflecting on her stuccoed walls. The air was cool and fresh in her throat. She breathed deeply and thought about her moth.

The smell of freshly perked Jamaican coffee invaded her senses.

“You awake in there? Up for a swim?”

Ditz was standing naked at the breakfast bar and passed Irene a steaming mug. “A dip in the ocean is usually how I start my day. Beats the chlorine in the pool.”

“That sounds divine.” Irene diverted her eyes and sipped the coffee. “Hey. There’s rum in here.”

“Of course, silly. It’s my special brew.”

Irene relaxed. “Good. I’m not flying today so what the hell.”

“You want breakfast?”

“This is breakfast.” Irene took another sip. “You start every day with coffee and a swim?”

“Yeah. Terrible habit. You comin’?”

“I’m still in my jam-jams.” Irene was wearing an oversize tee-shirt that reached to mid-thigh.

“C’mon. Bring your coffee.”

And to Irene’s consternation, Ditz stepped out the door and beckoned her from the path. “Don’t you even need a towel?”

Irene grabbed her coffee mug and scrambled after Ditz, catching sight of the woman’s naked bottom just as she disappeared around a bougainvillea. Irene hurriedly looked about but they were quite alone this early in the morning. She reached a curve in the path just in time to see a naked Ditz dive headlong into the sudsy surf. She surfaced on the backside of a wave and flung water from her eyes. “The water’s fabulous. Get in.”