Blood Slave ( The Nightlife #0)

Blood Slave ( The Nightlife #0) Page 28

I needed time. The clock said nine-thirty a.m.. I was still tied to the bed. Arana walked in the door, “Vamos, puta. We got a date with yo’ bank account.”

He untied me, but I couldn’t move, my arms and legs too stiff. I lay there looking him in the eyes, praying to a God I don’t believe in, that somehow, some way I could escape. Escape wasn’t much of reality just yet, I could barely move.

“Get up, take a bath, get some makeup on. I want you ready to go in an hour. Cover up your bruises. There’s some clothes there.” He pointed to jeans and sweater on the chair and walked out the room.

I’d gone thirty hours without a bite. Thirty miserable hours of hell. Lia hadn’t even given me one for the road. I so wanted to kill her, kill someone, kill something.

My hate got me moving. I dragged my sorry ass out of bed and showered away the blood and stench of Arana’s body that lingered on my skin. Stupid bastard left his DNA all over me. If he killed me they’d have his semen and his DNA. Not a very intelligent killer. In this age of CSI forensics and cop shows everyone knew this crap. Only an insane idiot would leave their DNA all over a dead body. Arana wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.

The mirror revealed, my bruised looking eyes and tender bruises on each side of my chest. My broken nose and ribs didn’t seem to be all that bad off. As a matter of fact I looked pretty damn good for the beating I took. I looked like I’d had a rough night partying – a good hangover. I was almost certain he’d broken my nose and probably a rib or two. Could I have been mistaken? Sure hurt like something was broken at certain points last night.

I felt okay, healthy, strong, a little stiff from being tied up. Nowhere near as bad off as I’d thought. Arana didn’t know this. All he’d seen was the dried blood and bruises. Given the opportunity, this may become an advantage.

My mother once told me hope springs eternal, hence my name. That turn of phrase never meant so much to me as it did right at this moment. I had hope, and where there’s hope there’s a way.

I dressed and dabbed on some makeup to cover the bruises, wishing every minute for something to fight off this intense need. I just needed one little bite and everything would be better.

We arrived at Bank of America at around noon. I needed a bite so badly my whole body shook with cold sweats, my jaw muscles clenched up, teeth grinding. I felt so angry. I wanted to scream at the world, and Arana, at Lia, at Enrique, at the cab driver who couldn’t stop staring at me.

I started to lose it. I growled when he tried to push me out of the taxi in front of the bank. “Hey, asshole! I need a bump, or something!”

I felt like I was on the edge of the precipice. If I didn’t get something strong in my system right now I’d start screaming. Once I started I didn’t know if I could stop. I’m sure he saw the wildness there under the surface, the madness in my eyes. He pulled out a baggie and handed it to me without protest.

I took my sweet time hitting each nostril three times over. Never have guessed my nose was broken a few hours ago the way I devoured that cocaine. I probably snorted more than a gram by the time he snapped, “Hurry up!”

I felt a little calmer. My jitters subsided. The need was appeased – marginally. I could at least function without screaming in someone’s face.

The Abdul-Camel Jockey cab driver stared at me hard in the rearview mirror as I took a fourth bump up each nostril. The asshole thought I was a coke whore.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” I barked at him. He flinched at my verbal assault and looked away. But his nasty thoughts were still pointed in my direction.

“Tell that asshole to stop staring at me,” I growled at Arana.

The Jihad cab driver snapped back, “I hope you know the meter’s still running. Are you finished yet?”

Arana looked back and forth from me to the driver and shook his head. He threw fifty bucks at the driver. “Vamos, let’s do this.”

He pushed me out into the street. The idiot didn’t even care about the bank’s curbside cameras. If I came up dead, the camera footage would attest to the fact he’d been the last person to see me alive. Pinche tonto. Estupido. How he ever got this far without getting killed or doing life in the penitentiary was proof that miracles still happen today. I would need one of those miracles shortly.

It took an entire hour to get $31,863 out of my account in cash. The bank teller had to get the assistant manager, who had to get the manager, who then proceeded to try to convince me to withdraw funds in some form other than cash. They asked repeatedly why I needed all that money in cash. Wouldn’t it be better to have that in a cashier’s check? No – it wouldn’t. Wouldn’t you prefer to have traveler’s checks? They’re so much more secure than cash. No – I don’t want traveler’s checks. Why not send the funds out directly as a wire transfer – much better than carrying around all that cash on the streets of New York. No thank you, I prefer cash.

At one point the teller leaned over the counter and whispered, “You know … If you walk out with all this cash you could get rolled on the street.”

I snapped back, “Are you planning to follow me out the door?”

“Oh no! I’m just saying…”

“Then I have nothing to worry about, do I?”

“Well, it’s not wise to carry that much money at one time, especially not on your person.”

“Get me my money! All I want is my money! It’s my fucking money and I want it now!” I was starting to sound like a commercial for JG Wentworth.

My voice had gotten loud. People stared at me. I felt like snatching that little, bitch teller up from the other side of the counter and wringing her neck. My hands flexed, itching to grab ahold of her. The manager wisely guided me over to the waiting area and proceeded to placate me with assurances my withdrawal would be ready in a few minutes. Arana watched out the corner of his eye, sitting a few yards away pretending to read a newspaper. Ignorant bastard could barely read the traffic signs. The NY Times might as well have been in hieroglyphics for all the good it did him. He had that pistol under his shirt, ready to start cutting a swath through this bank if I did anything stupid.

I sooo wanted to tell one of these bank employees to call for help, but who would they call? Cops. Snitching out a Traqueto to the cops is pretty much a guaranteed death sentence. That kind of betrayal is not tolerated. The cartel sends out a whole posse to hunt snitches down. Much more exciting than watching Monday night football.

Besides, I don’t trust cops. I have never trusted cops. I trust them about as much as I trust bank employees. Everyone in authority thinks they can help you, but all they really want is an excuse to exercise their power in your life. Bank employees think and behave a lot like cops these days, that whole know-your-client thing.

I had banked with B of A since arriving in New York. They are one of the only places where foreigners without a social security number can get a bank account. I remember back when there was a big controversy in the media about all these foreigners with bank accounts getting credit cards when average US citizens can’t qualify for credit. The issue was that noncitizens were catching credit without any credit rating. I guess no credit is better than bad credit, or something like that. I had one of those cards – a hundred fifty dollar credit limit. Big deal. Most Americans are several thousand in debt on credit cards. It’s no wonder banks don’t want to lend out more. I thought it was cool, a status symbol. Obviously I’m biased for the foreigners. But I did feel sorry for all the Americans who owe more money than they make.

Foreign-born Latinos know credit is a total scam. Very few of us have any debt. I personally have none, apart from Faustino’s entrapment. I never use the damn card, it’s not even activated. It sits in my purse looking good. As of this day I may never use it. I seriously considered changing banks, if I survived this mess.

I eventually realized it wasn’t the teller’s fault. The bank policy was to deter clients from using too much cash. The bank doesn’t stock all that much cash anymore. My transaction cleaned them out. Tellers were trained to talk customers out of withdrawing large sums in the form of cash. Part of an initiative towards fully electronic and online banking. I knew this after reading the manager’s mind for the hour I spent being jacked around. I didn’t care, I just needed the money.

Walking out of the bank with all that cash in a little canvas sack, panic struck. I knew I was dead if I gave up this money. I ran. I might’ve made it if I hadn’t tripped over somebody’s damn dog. Sprawled across the sidewalk trying to scramble to my feet, Arana was on top of me instantly. He politely helped me up. His pistol, hidden in his folded over jacket was stuck in my back the entire time. I wanted to scream.

“Listen to me, puta, I’ll kill you right now and take every dime you got. I don’t give a shit. You go quietly, we have a little more fun, and then I give you back to Faustino. You keep your mouth shut, don’t say nothing to nobody, I let you live.” He was lying about letting me live and handing me over to Faustino. But he wasn’t lying about killing me right here and now if I didn’t cooperate.

Standing outside the bank, waiting for a taxi, in full view of the curbside cameras, I handed him the canvas sack of cash. If he killed me, I hoped he fried for it. The circumstantial evidence against him was piling up fast.

With my cash paid, it seemed like the right time to beg for my life. “Please let me go. I’ll never say a word to Faustino or anyone. It’s our little secret. I’ll leave New York right now. You’ll never see me again. No one has to know anything!”

He was pissed that I ran. He didn’t like listening to me whine. He snatched up my jaw in his hand, squeezing hard as he spoke with gritted teeth. “We have a score to settle puta. You owe me. You got me all fucked up when you took off. I’m gonna take it out on your ass and then I’ma give you back to Faustino. We see if there’s anything left of you after he finish.”

He directed me to a taxi, making it impossible not to get in first as he followed me. That gun never left my body. I had to do something. I hadn’t swayed him at all.