Rio's Bargain

1. Another Conquest

by Lulu Martine

"Thank you, miss," said the beaky, dark-skinned fellow. 

I'd just handed him his large caramel French-roast, and I'd already seen his change go into the tip-jar, so I smiled and said, "Thank you, sir." If he thought I was a girl, it didn't do me any harm. I got that a lot working the counter at SvensKafe, and my co-workers teased me about it.

"Another conquest, Rio," said Julie, the shift manager. "He's still watching you."

I didn't look to check, that only seemed to encourage them. "Crap," I said.

Davey, the other peon on the evening shift, laughed. "You make good tips for us, guy, with your hair and eyes and perky smile."

"Crap," I said again. I have unusual coloring, and I needed a haircut. Very fair skin, golden curls to my collar, and bright blue eyes that some say are almost turquoise. I'm short and skinny, too, at five-three and only 92 pounds. My voice is no help; because of illness in my early teens, I basically missed out on puberty.

"This one looks rich," Julie commented. "That's probably a two thousand dollar suit he's wearing. If you flirt a little, maybe he'll ask you out."

"Gah," I said, but I laughed, and so did the other two. It was kind of funny. My big round glasses were not at all masculine-looking either, but I found them in a thrift shop for next-to-nothing, and they were almost exactly my prescription.

I'm a senior in high school, but having had to take the eighth grade twice because of my health problems, I'll be nineteen in January--and yet, I look and sound like a middle-schooler. So, too cute to live by most measures. I'm kind of used to it.

I think I scooted under the radar of most bullies in high school since I didn't have to take P.E.--again because of my health problems. Getting hot and sweaty causes me to break out in a bloody rash for one. And the bullies may have thought I was a girl, some of my teachers did. 

I did get asked out on dates, but I turned them all down, boys and girls. I had no interest in dating, another consequence of having missed puberty: very low to non-existent libido.

Some people had left a mess in one of the booths, and I grabbed spray and towels to go clean it up. Davey usually bussed tables, but he had gone on break.

I had to pass by the middle-eastern-looking guy on the way, and he spoke to me. "Miss Ree-orr-dahn, is that how you pronounce your name?" He'd read my name tag. 

I wished for a moment I had used the nickname most people who knew me used, Rio. "It's Riordan, Rearden." I picked up trash off the table and carried it to the container by the door then returned to the messy booth.

"That is a beautiful name," the man said, beaming at me.

I smiled back, "Thank you," I said.

"My name is Nader Rustami. I am of Persian ancestry. Where is your name from, Miss Rearden?"

The 'misses' were getting a little thick, and I could hear Julie chuckling behind the counter. "Ireland, originally," I said. I tried to make quick work of the job, but they had spilled stuff on the seats, too. It being one of the wide booths, I had to climb in to reach the far corners.

"Ireland," he said as if pronouncing the name of a magical place. "I've been to Dublin and Belfast on business. Have you ever seen the country? You are of Irish ancestry?"

I nodded, but I had my back to him, so I said, "Irish, Scots and English, and no, I've never been out of the States."

"Ah. Would you like to see the very green land of your ancestors, Miss Riordan?"

I looked back at him as I moved to the other bench. He was smiling, but with his dark countenance, it wasn't very reassuring. "Are you a travel agent, Mr. Rustami?"

He laughed. "No, no. I'm an agent, yes, and I do occasionally arrange travel for my employers, but my chief task is the acquisition of looked-for items."

"Huh?" I said, finishing up cleaning the booth. When I turned around, I got the feeling Mr. Rustami had been looking at my butt. Now that bothered me. I'm sensitive about the shape of my ass; it's almost the only part of me that has any extra flesh on it.

He made a hand motion I couldn't decipher. "You are wasted in such a menial position, Miss Riordan."

"I don't know about that!" I objected. "I'm lucky to have this job." Not too many places want to hire someone who looks as underage as I do. Julie's little sister, Monica, was a friend of mine from school and had got me the job when she quit to spend more Friday evenings with her boyfriend.

Mr. Rustami produced a business card and scribbled on it, but I just went back to my station behind the counter and put away the cleaning supplies. To be honest, I hid in the supply room to avoid him. It was almost time for my break, anyway.

I'd forgotten about Davey, sitting at the break table in the corner. When he spoke up, I made a squeaking noise.

"I'd ask you for a date," he said, "but you insist on being a boy."

"Yeah, well," I said. "I guess I'm just stubborn that way." I glanced at him. "I don't date women, either."

"Huh," he said. "No joy either way?"

I shrugged. "I guess I'm asexual if that's the term these days."

He laughed. "These days? What are you? Forty?" He stood up, "I'll go see if he's gone. Take a load off, and I'll come back and tell you when it's safe to rejoin the fray." He made as if to tousle my hair as he passed, but didn't actually touch me. He chuckled.

There were stale crullers in the breakroom snack box, so I heated half of one in the microwave and nibbled on it. I wasn't afraid or upset about what had happened, not even annoyed. I just wanted to avoid a situation.

*

When my shift ended at 10 pm, Julie handed me the card Mr. Rustami had left. "He wanted to be sure I gave this to you," she said.

"Mmm," I said, putting it away in my back pocket. "Oh, Davey. Can I get a ride from you? Mom's jalopy is in the shop."

"Jalopy, huh? You sure you're a teenager? Yeah, sure, Miss Riordan, I'd be happy to take you home."

"Knock it off," I warned him. "But, thanks."

Julie gave him a glare. "She could file a harassment complaint on you, Davey." I gave her a look, and Davey laughed.
"What?" she asked.

I just rolled my eyes, hung up my apron, and grabbed my coat from the back room. Early November can be cold in North Hollywood, and I'm kind of sensitive to temperatures at either end of the scale. The coat was brown corduroy with a fleece collar, most people would think it too warm for the weather, but it suited me.

The midnight shift guys were coming in, Paul and Geraldo, and Davey traded daps with his homeys. I just held up my hands in surrender. "I don't do that stuff," I said. "A poyson could get hoyt." I knew how, but Paul, in particular, tended to overdo the enthusiasm.

Dave's car was by the fence, but it wasn't a long walk. Before we got there, he beeped the doors open with his keyfob, but then he led the way and opened the passenger door for me. "It's heavy," he explained, "you always struggle with it."

I sighed, climbed in, and let him close it behind me. I couldn't deny it, my arms and legs are like twigs, and I've never been able to put on any muscle.

Dave dashed around to his side and climbed in, and we were soon taking the entrance north on the Hollywood Freeway. Mom, my sisters, and I lived in some dreary apartments near the Golden State, but Dave would have to come back this way because he lived on the edge of Burbank.

"I appreciate this," I said. "An Uber would cost me too much money, and the buses aren't running late enough on this route."

"No problem," he said. "Not even ten minutes out of the way."

It was more than that, but I let it slide.

"Is that how you're getting to work? You must have to change buses. How long does it take you? Half an hour?"

I nodded. "About that, if I hit the connection right. So I always leave early."

"Buses suck."

"Got that right," I agreed.

"Full of creeps, too."

I didn't dispute the observation. If there actually were a bus I could ride home after ten p.m., I probably wouldn't.

"Gangstas, prostitutes, homeless, drunks; drunk homeless gangsta prostitutes." He grinned across at me.

I made a noise to show appreciation for his wordplay.

He took the exit, went through a parking lot, and down an alleyway, to stop at the back gate to the complex.

"Want me to walk you to your door?" he offered.

"No-oo," I said, trying to get the door open.

"It sticks," he said. He shut off the engine, climbed out, and came around. The problem really was that he had parked on an incline with the right side of the car higher than the left, so I had to push the weight of the door uphill. I folded my arms and waited for him to open it. 

At the last minute, I remembered to undo the seat belt. It was still uphill to climb out of his car, but I managed. Dave let the hand he'd offered drop. "Might as well walk to the door with you, now," he said.

"Thanks," I agreed. We skirted the dinky pool, closed at this time of year, even in Southern California. Mom, Colleen, Gabriela, and I lived on the second floor, near the front, but there was a shadow moving under the concrete and steel stairs.

"Rio," said my downstairs neighbor, out enjoying a smoke, which he wasn't supposed to do in the courtyard.

"Jenks," I said. Dave followed me up the stairs.

"Thank you," I said again, putting my key in the lock.

"I had a great time, baby," he said loudly. Then the asshole kissed his arm with a loud smack. "I'll call you, I promise," he said, winking.

"Clown," I muttered, but a giggle escaped, too. He was playing it so broadly.

I got inside, closed the door, and put the deadbolt on. I could hear him going down the stairs and Jenks asking him, "She your girlfriend?"

"Nah," said Dave. "She won't put out."

I rolled my eyes and decided that I no longer owed the idiot anything for the ride. He'd had his entertainment.

*

Mom, wearing a thrift-store robe, came out of her bedroom, which she actually shared with my two sisters. I slept in a corner of the living room, separated off from the rest by two painted screens we had liberated from someone's refuse.

"Who was that at the door?" she asked.

"Just Davey from work, clowning around. He gave me a ride," I explained. I went into the kitchen, and she followed. This was not normal. She had something she needed to tell me.

"Is he a nice boy?" she asked, and I took that to be a continuation of the sort of teasing Dave had been doing. "What I mean to say is," she went on, "does he have $473 he could give us?" She sat down heavily in one of the chrome and plastic chairs we'd found in the apartment when we moved in.

I pulled out a cheap packet of lemonade mix and the water pitcher from the refrigerator door. While I mixed up a drink for us, she told me the story.

"First," she said, "is the starter motor. $473 parts and labor they want, and that's not for a new motor but a rebuild."

"Seems like a lot," I said.

"Uh, huh," she agreed. "We might be able to scratch that up, or borrow it."

"There's more?" I spun a teaspoon through the water and drink mix.

She nodded. "The car needs a transmission rebuild, sooner rather than later. $1758."

"I don't think... I don't think the car is worth that much, Mom." I said.

While I poured lemonade into two glasses for us, Mom got up to put the water pitcher back in the door, then scooped up what must have been a few grains of the mix on the table with her hand, which she then dusted off over the sink.

"It wasn't worth that much when we got it," she said as she sat back down.

We sipped quietly. "Uncle Frank?" I asked. Really, my sisters' uncle, their father's brother.

She shook her head. "I called. Carina spent ten minutes telling me in detail why they couldn't 'bail us out again.'"

"Dad?" I suggested. The man who had abandoned us when I was a toddler wasn't a likely source, but suggesting him made Mom smile and snort.

"If I knew where he was, do you think he'd have any money?"

"No," I agreed. Dad was a charming nincompoop, full of get-rich schemes when he wasn't full of cheap tequila. I loved him because he was my Dad, but he was useless as a resource. "What then?" I asked.

"I can get an advance on my pay for a down, and we buy a working car from a used car lot."

I winced. The financing on some deal like that would be murderous. And she'd basically be short a paycheck, setting it up. Mom ran a crew of cleaners for a guy who was the next thing to a slumlord, except he owned motels and offices instead of homes. The cleaners were all immigrants without papers, and Mom's Spanish made her job possible.

"I get paid Friday," I said. Two weeks' worth of my part-time hours would come to less than $300.

"That'll help," she agreed. "We'll make it, Rio, honey," she said. "We always do."

*

Later, after she went back to bed to get up at 3:30 so she could catch a ride with one of her crew, I assembled my sleeping pad in the corner. A futon, some blankets, and a pillow were luxury compared to places I'd had to sleep in.

I got undressed and removed things from my pockets by pure habit. That's when I found the business card Mr. Rustami had left for me. I dug out my glasses so I could read it. On one side, it identified him by name as being a "Logistics Coordinator" for "Pearl East Import Export" with an address on Figueroa and a downtown phone number. 

On the other side, a handwritten message read,

Miss Riordan,

If you would like a job that pays $1000 per week, call this number and leave a message where you can be reached. 

Nader

No mention of what kind of job. But the word week was crowded in over another word that had been crossed out: night.