Elevator, The (8 page)

After an instant of silence, a thin stream of Muzak again flows into the car.

Isabel lowers her gaze to conceal the admiration that must be shining from her eyes. Rodrigo always said she was far too obvious about her feelings, but she has never been good at disguising her emotions. Today, however, she must hide all that is in her heart and mind.

If only she could be more like the brown-haired
gringa
at the front of the elevator. The way she spoke to the operator—so confident! Isabel would give a week’s wages to be able to speak so.

She pulls a tissue from her left sweater pocket and swipes at her nose. Perhaps she can’t help it. She has always been more like her soft-spoken mother than her boisterous father. Pedro Alvarado, who appeared taller than anyone else in the room even when seated, ruled as the undisputed king of their home and held the respect of his neighbors.
Mamá
honored him; Rodrigo obeyed him; his friends asked for his advice. When they went to the market, Isabel followed him, walking in the wake of admiring looks directed at Pedro Alvarado.

Though her father presided over their home with dignity, he had to set aside his authority when he went to work at the cotton mill. He did everything the boss asked him to do without argument. Even when he was told to repair the big drum used for smoothing the newly woven griege goods, he did not point out that he had never worked with that machine.

After the drum caught his hand and mangled his arm, Pedro Alvarado died without complaint. Fortunately for his family, the machine took only his arm, so Isabel’s father was able to say goodbye before he died. As the foreman ran for a priest and weeping women crossed themselves, Pedro placed his head in his wife’s lap and murmured his last words:
“Lo siento.”

Why was he sorry? Isabel could not imagine why her father needed to apologize. He had never done anything but work hard to raise his family. When other men in Monterrey began to bargain with the drug dealers, Pedro Alvarado refused. When a neighbor wanted to sew bags of liquid heroin into the bellies of six puppies and send them to the United States, Pedro quietly called the authorities.

Despite great temptation, he kept his focus on the cotton mill. “It is a poor man’s job,” he once told Isabel, “but it is honorable work.”

Yet the only time Isabel saw her father’s employers treat him with the respect due an honorable man was during
Navidad,
when tradition and the law demanded that company owners present each employee with the annual
aguinaldo,
or Christmas bonus. That stipend, equal to three months’ regular salary, bought clothes for Rodrigo and Isabel and paid for repairs on the house. The
aguinaldo
allowed her parents to preserve their dignity each time they accepted paychecks that barely covered the family’s living expenses.

Isabel had been fourteen when her father died, and in subsequent years she, her mother and brother continued to work in the Monterrey cotton factory. They remained silent when the bosses took advantage of the older people, shortchanging them for hours worked, or forbidding them breaks when the sun grew too hot for anyone to stand. Isabel learned to quietly step away from the machines and help pick up women who had fainted in the heat.

Just once, Isabel mused while she watched one of the foremen strike an old woman who’d brought a stool so she could sit at the spinning machine, she would like to march up to one of the bosses and tell him what she thought of his cruelty. Yes, the work was legal, but the supervisors could be just as uncaring and wicked as the men who ran drugs.

But she needed her job, so she said nothing. She,
Mamá
and Rodrigo depended upon their weekly paychecks and the annual
aguinaldo.
And so Isabel learned to hold her tongue.

But this other woman, this tall
gringa,
has never learned to keep silent. Either she has never been frightened or she has overcome her fear. How does a woman develop such daring?

The answer comes to Isabel on a wave of memory. If one desires a thing badly, longing can concoct enough courage to override fear.

She knew such boldness…once.

“Go on.” Maria’s elbow scraped Isabel’s rib. “You’ve been talking about him for weeks, so go ask him to dance.”

“I might.”

“What’s keeping you?”

“I’m waiting. For the right moment.”

To prove her point, Isabel turned away from the bar and propped both elbows on the counter, then looked out across the gathering of young people. No one seeing her in this indifferent pose would possibly know that the mere sight of Ernesto Carillo Fuentes sent blood coursing through all the canals of her body in a whooshing wave.

One of the best-looking young men in Monterrey, Ernesto stood across the plaza in snakeskin boots, a silk shirt and tight American jeans. A silver medallion featuring the face of Jesus Malverde,
México
’s own Robin Hood, dangled from his neck while a diamond stud winked from his ear.

He was gorgeous…as were the girls he usually approached at this dance. But Ernesto was not dancing now. Laughter floated up from his throat as he dropped a fistful of pesos onto a waitress’s serving tray and lifted a beer with his compadres. He looked relaxed and generous, like a man who might be persuaded to accept an invitation from a girl heavier and less beautiful than most.

“Go on,” Maria insisted in Isabel’s ear. “What have you got to lose?”

Isabel bit her lip. If she went over and Ernesto laughed at her, so what? She’d be no worse off than before. At least she would be able to say she had once spoken to Ernesto Carillo Fuentes.

Knowing that, she could die happy no matter what her family believed.

“Ernesto Fuentes is a drug dealer,” her brother had shouted after learning of Isabel’s secret love. “Where do you think he gets his money? From Colombians who pay Mexican men to run their drugs over the American border.”

“He is not a drug dealer!” Isabel slammed her fork to the table. “He is a devout man—why, just this morning I saw him coming out of the Chapel de Jesus Malverde. They say Ernesto prays there every day.”

“Jesus Malverde?” Her mother’s hand flew to her throat. “He was not a good man. He was a
maldito,
a murderer and a thief.”

Isabel flashed her mother a look of disdain. “He only took from rich people so he could give to the poor.”

“No, Isabel. That chapel is an embarrassment to our city. It ought to shame anyone who truly loves God.”

“What do you think Ernesto Fuentes does in that chapel?” Rodrigo glared at her from across the table. “He gives thanks for a successful run, that’s what. When his drug mules get through, he goes to the chapel to celebrate with his men…and give thanks to Jesus Malverde.”

“You’re wrong! He’s a decent man—you can see goodness in his face.”

“Listen to your brother,” her mother answered. “He knows about these things. He knows about trouble, and he stays away. And you should not trust a handsome face, Isabel. The devil lives behind a tempting smile.”

Not always, Isabel wanted to shout.
Papá
had a good face!

Rodrigo reached for the ladle. “Do not worry about Isabel,
Mamá,
” he said, spooning gazpacho into his bowl. “Ernesto Fuentes would not look at a girl like her.”

Isabel had wanted to clap her hands over her ears. Neither her mother nor her brother knew what they were talking about. If Ernesto were evil, he would not be so handsome or free with a smile. Evil did things to a man, marked him with scars and sneers, but in Ernesto’s dark eyes and broad grin she saw only humor, wit and gallantry.

Tonight, for the first time in her life, she would summon a courage worthy of his. She would do what no one thought her capable of doing.

Girding herself with resolve, she popped a piece of chewing gum into her mouth, then pulled away from the bar. Her brother always said she took on a different personality when she chewed gum, and tonight she would need to be confident and coy, as different as she could possibly be.

She threaded her way through the dancing couples, then approached Ernesto and his friends. Cloaked in composure as fragile as spider silk, she hooked her thumbs through the belt loops of her low-cut jeans, tilted her head and asked the king of her heart if he wanted to dance.

His gaze skimmed over her, taking in the high-heeled sandals, the tight jeans, the sheer blouse and the medallion hanging above the shadows of her cleavage. Without warning, his eyes rose and locked on hers, focusing with predatory intensity. For an instant she feared her brother might be right.

Then Ernesto hit her with a smile that almost made her swallow her gum.

“
Sí, chica.
Let’s dance.”

10:00 a.m.

E
ddie Vaughn tosses another handful of popcorn into his mouth, then pitches a few kernels in Sadie’s direction. The retriever snaps in midair, catching one of the puffy bites, then swivels to sniff for the snacks that got away.

A new crossword-puzzle book waits on the arm of the sofa, only inches from the bowl of popcorn in his lap. He had planned to let a crossword distract him from the tedious business of hurricane-watching, but he can’t seem to tear himself from the Weather Channel. The newscasters keep alternating between scenes of devastation in the Yucatán and a hurricane map, over which Felix hovers like an unblinking white eye. A dotted line indicates the storm’s predicted path, bisecting the state of Florida at Pinellas County and slanting toward Daytona before extending into the Atlantic.

During a commercial break, in which a smoky-voiced woman extols the virtues of a Jaguar, Eddie glances at his front window, where a sheet of plywood blocks the available light. No wonder the house feels like a bunker. Like burrowing animals, most of his neighbors have turned their homes into caves and disappeared. He won’t see them again until Felix has moved on to harass the interior of the state.

If not for Sadie and the television, he’d feel like the last man on earth. The sensation is not unfamiliar; the last two years of his marriage were among the loneliest of his life.

The dog comes over and drops her chin on his upper arm. He scratches her ears. “We’re doing okay, aren’t we, Sades?”

Of course, he’d thought he and Heather were doing okay, too. His wife had become deeply involved in community theater, and no one was more surprised than Eddie when she came home and announced that she’d fallen in love with her director and wanted a life on the stage. Eddie tried to tell her that Thomas Bye, her director, was and would always be Tom Bystrowski, a meat-market manager at the Piggly Wiggly, but the girl was too starstruck to listen.

She left him; she divorced him; she married the meat-market man. As Eddie was packing the U-Haul for his move to Florida, he heard Heather was pregnant and Tom had been pushed out of community theater because a real director, one from the state of New York, had moved to Birmingham.

“Florida’s good,” he says, tossing another handful of popcorn to Sadie, “because there aren’t any Piggly Wigglys around here.”

When the hurricane coverage resumes, the camera has cut to a scene at Madeira Beach, not more than a ten-minute drive from Eddie’s house. A reporter in a yellow rain slicker is staring into the camera and holding on to a hat with his free hand. “The wind has picked up here in the last hour,” the reporter says, his image blurred by spatters on the camera lens. “We’re seeing gusts of sixty miles an hour with sustained winds of about thirty. But look behind me—Jim, can you get a shot of that? Some people simply refuse to take this storm seriously.”

The camera operator obediently turns his lens toward the sea, where three wet-suited thrill-seekers are paddling in the usually placid surf. The Gulf is not calm today, and these young men are determined to get a good ride…perhaps at the cost of their lives.

Eddie shakes his head. The fools. He spent a summer lifeguarding at Panama City Beach, where twice foolhardy swimmers went out too far and nearly drowned him when he tried to bring them ashore. He never minded risking his life for people who cramped up or got caught in a rip current, but he’s not sure he’d be willing to risk his neck for one of these hurricane cowboys.

Eddie scoops up a generous handful of popcorn as the camera cuts to the yellow-slickered reporter. “Felix is expected to make landfall at about seven o’clock tonight, so mandatory evacuation orders for beachfront residents have emptied the homes and motels along this shore. As for these surfers…well, I doubt they’ll be out here much longer. The wind’s getting wicked, and it’s only going to get worse.”

Sadie’s whimper catches Eddie’s attention—she is sitting in her prettiest pose, one paw uplifted, her eyes dark and beseeching. “You beggar.” He grins and tosses another handful of popcorn in her direction. “Be sure to get it all, will you? Not sure we’re going to have power for the vacuum.”

From behind their desk, the grim-faced anchors at the Weather Channel announce that experts consider Florida’s Tampa Bay to be the nation’s second most dangerous location for a major hurricane. The most perilous spot, of course, is New Orleans, but no one needs to be reminded of that city’s vulnerability.

“A hurricane’s storm surge,” the male anchor explains, “can wreck buildings far from the beach and wash supporting sand from beneath structures and sea walls. It can engulf bridges, coastal roads and causeways, hampering rescue workers and those who evacuate at the last minute. That’s why we’re now telling Florida residents in the Tampa Bay region to stay put if they do not live in a flood zone.” The camera zooms in on the reporter’s eyes. “If you live along the beach and you haven’t left the area, find a shelter inland and hunker down until the hurricane has passed. You’d better find that shelter now.”

“The problem,” the female anchor adds as the camera cuts to her, “is that the Gulf Coast is shallow—much more shallow, for instance, than the waters off Miami. The shallow waters allow for a higher surge and downtown Tampa is located at the point of maximum surge potential. Experts say that if a hurricane the size of 1992’s Andrew were to hit Tampa, waves of twenty-five to thirty feet would smash into the city.”

Eddie’s house is not in a flood zone, but thousands of others are. How are those home owners coping with this news?

His gaze drifts toward the sliding glass door behind the kitchen table. Though the plywood blocks his view, the glass reflects a wavering image of the television screen. No sound seeps in from outside, leaving the air heavy with a peculiar muffled quality.

Instinctively, Eddie reaches for the dog, finds a silky ear and curls his palm around its warmth. Even with Sadie, the television and a crossword for company, he’s not looking forward to the loneliness of the next twenty-four hours.

With the television droning in the background, he picks up the crossword-puzzle magazine and flips to a clean page. The puzzle is titled “Independence Day,” and one across is a seven-letter word for
free
—

He flinches at the unexpected trilling of the telephone.

Michelle startles when in the middle of a dreadfully bland rendition of “Moon River,” the Muzak stops and Ginger McCloud’s voice blares over the speaker. “Hello? You ladies still on the line?”

She turns toward the elevator panel. “We’re still here.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Ginger says, “but I found a dispatcher in Pinellas County who put me through to one of her technicians. He answered the phone, but he says he’s off the clock.”

Michelle lifts her chin. “Can I speak to him?”

Her question is followed by a quiet so thick the only sound is the Hispanic woman’s congested breathing. “Honey,” the operator finally replies, “short of holding one phone up to the other, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do to manage that. We’re a small answering service—we don’t have a lot of high-tech equipment.”

Michelle pushes herself up from the floor. “We’re going to have to figure something out, then. I need to talk to that man.”

For the past ten years she’s made a career out of persuading people, and she’s good at what she does. She’s a professional, for goodness’ sake. If she can convince corporate CEOs and CFOs to hand over thousands of dollars in the hope of gaining better positions, she ought to be able to persuade a mechanic to do his job.

But first she has to make sure this operator gives her the opportunity.

“Ginger? What’s this technician’s name?”

“Eddie Vaughn.”

Michelle stares at the speaker and tries to focus. When she wants to charge a fee at the top of her sliding scale, she must assure her new client that he will secure a result commensurate with what he has invested. “More money expended,” she promises, “results in more money returned.”

So how in the world is she supposed to convince a blue-collar guy in Pinellas County that he can’t afford to neglect three women across the bay? Money is not an issue, though the topic may soon enter the conversation. After all, every man has his price.

Dale Carnegie would recommend beginning the negotiation with the “can you do us a favor?” approach. What she’s about to request, however, is a monumentally massive favor.

“Ask Mr. Vaughn—” She hesitates, irritated by the limitations of the situation. If she could see this guy, look him in the eye, things would be easier. “Ask him if he and his loved ones are safe right now.”

She closes her eyes and strains to listen as Ginger repeats the question—presumably into another phone. A moment later the operator responds, “He says he’s fine and thanks for asking.”

Michelle resists the impulse to groan. Why does the one available technician have to be a smart-aleck?

“That’s good to know,” she says, “but we’re not fine. Since it’s Mr. Vaughn’s job to service these elevators, doesn’t he think he ought to come over here and fulfill his responsibilities? If he hurries, he can get here, get us out and still make it home before the hurricane hits.”

She bites her lip as Ginger parrots her words. After a pause, the operator’s honeyed voice drips from the speaker again. “He says Tampa’s not his territory, so you’re not his responsibility. He also wants to know why you decided to go downtown when you knew the area had been evacuated. He says those streets have been closed off since daybreak.”

Michelle rakes her hand through her hair. She wants to let this guy have it with both barrels, but this isn’t the time to tell him what she thinks of such a cavalier attitude. He’d hang up, and then where would she be? Worse off than before, because Ms. Trench Coat looks as if she’s itching to strangle someone, and Michelle is the closest target.

She addresses the panel again. “Listen, Ginger, this back-and-forth conversation isn’t working. Can you please put the phones together? I need to speak to this man directly.”

“I could try three-way calling, but I’d have to hang up—”

“No!” Michelle forces herself to take a calming breath. “Please. There has to be another way.”

“Well—wait a minute. Maybe if I turn this other receiver upside down…”

Michelle catches the redhead’s attention and frowns, but the woman maintains her locked expression. The housekeeper, however, has dried her tears and is leaning forward, her eyes bright with hope.

Michelle hears a clunking sound, a hum, then some sort of electronic yelp. Finally a baritone voice buzzes through the speaker: “Hello? Is this some kind of a joke?”

The voice is young and rumbling, not at all what she expected. In the static-filled background she can hear the comforting jingle of a State Farm commercial.
Just like a good neighbor…

She can picture Eddie Vaughn with no trouble—thirty-something, soft belly beneath a flannel robe, fresh out of bed with his coffee mug in one hand and TV remote in the other. He’s reclining in his easy chair, waiting for his wife to bring him breakfast….

No wonder he doesn’t want to leave the house.

“It’s no joke. We’re trapped in the Lark Tower.” She raises her voice to be sure he can hear. “My name is Michelle Tilson, and I’m stuck in this elevator with two other ladies. You’re Eddie Vaughn, right?”

She pauses, hoping he heard everything she said. She wants him to realize she’s being civil, and she wants him to know her name. It’s hard to turn someone down once you associate a need with a name…or a voice.

The television in the background goes silent. “That’s right.”

“Well, Mr. Vaughn, we really need your help. The elevator’s stuck and I’m pretty sure the power’s off. There’s a backup generator to run the emergency systems, but I’m not sure how long the generators will last.”

“Why are you ladies downtown? You had to know about the hurricane. It’s been all over the news.”

She blanches at the gentle sarcasm in his voice. “I can’t speak for the others, but I came down early this morning and only meant to run upstairs for a minute. I’m pretty sure one of the ladies works the nightshift, and the other—” Her gaze moves to the intractable redhead, then she looks away. “I haven’t had time to take a personal history from everyone, but we need your help. Please.”

“Those roads are blocked off.”

“It’s not hard to drive around a barricade.”

He snorts into the phone. “Are you sure there’s no building engineer or security chief in the building?”

“I didn’t see anyone. One guard was at his post this morning, but I don’t think he knows we’re stuck. If he did, he’d probably call
you.
So you see?” She smiles, hoping he’ll hear warmth in her voice. “You’re our only hope, Mr. Vaughn. Eddie.”

White noise hisses over the line, followed by the swishing sounds of movement. “Where did you say you are?”

“The Lark Tower.”

“If I make it over there, will I be able to get into the building?”

Michelle glances at her watch and remembers that Gus intended to close the lobby at ten. “The street entrance may be locked, but the parking garage is always open. Park on any level and you can’t miss the elevators. We’re in one of the express cars.”

“All right. But before I agree to come, you all have to promise me something. Two things, actually.”