Chapter 6: A First Meeting
Ingrid had been curious, so she followed the man to the front of the prayer house and down the steps to a small door. He brought out a key from his pocket, and as soon as he pulled the door open the building was flooded with music.
So, that was the vibration she had felt under her feet.
She followed the man past two beefy guards and into a crowd of people dancing wildly.
The music, loud drums, accompanied by a woman singing, no screeching, in front, rang across the room and into her skull.
The prayer leader navigated his way through the crowd expertly. Most were too drunk to notice them making their way through the middle but a few bent their heads in acknowledgment of the man's status. One of the boys dancing started to rub off on her as she was passing but she shoved him away, harder than she had meant to. He tumbled into another dancer in the crowd and the two of them looked at each other then started to make out.
"Forgive them, they're young," the prayer leader said. He led her behind the makeshift stage of the woman and handed her a bucket and rag.
"They make awful messes down here and it always takes me too long to clean up."
At least, that was what she thought she heard over the awful singing.
"Why don't you go around now and see what you can do? Make it easier to clean later."
She nodded and took the cleaning supplies from him.
It was horrible. People bumped into her, causing her to spill the water in her hands. People wretched all over each other. At one point, she had to coax a girl to try to vomit inside the bucket, rather than on the floor.
"You can do it," she encouraged, but the girl shook her head. "This bucket is making me feel trapped." She stood up and assured Ingrid that she was fine, then five minutes later released the content of her stomach all over one of the tables.
By the time Ingrid approached the two boys beating up another in the back, she was full of it.
"If you don't mind, I'll need to clean the blood by your feet," she told them. lugging her bucket.
One of them was huge, with rippling muscles showing through the cutoff sleeves of his riga. He was the one doing most of the beating. Even as Ingrid was talking, he kicked the bleeding boy. The other was slim and dark-skinned, a deeper shade than her own color. His black hair stood up on his hair in tough curls. He stood back as if watching the events unfold.
"You'll need to come back later," he told her, taking a draw from his reefer and studying their victim as if to make sure the bigger boy was doing a good job.
"Actually, I don't think I can."
Her frustrations had been building up and she was at her boiling point.
The dark boy squinted at her then. "Did someone send you here?"
"No."
He threw his reefer on the ground. "Don't lie to me. Do you know this boy? This thief?" he waved at the bleeding boy, whose eyes were closed.
Ingrid took a step back. Her heart started to race. "No, I-I—the man upstairs, in the prayer house. He gave me this job. I don't know anything."
"Probably a girlfriend," the big one muttered under his breath and stepped towards her.
"No!" Ingrid forced herself to breathe calmly. "I've never seen him, I don't know him. I—just ask the man upstairs."
"Fada Perlig?"
"I don't know his name, I don't know."
"Fada Perlig," the dark boy said and crushed his blunt. "Ahh. So you work for me."
Ingrid was ready to run from the place and was now regretting Fada Perlig's rare act of kindness. She had already been regretting it since the first person threw up.
"I'll go," she said, reaching toward the bucket.
"No, no." The dark boy held out his hand. "I apologize. You just have to be careful around here." He winked at her as if they were both in on a secret.
She didn't take his hand. Hers was still shaking with the rag in it.
"I own this place," the boy explained. "Perlig helps me keep the prayer house as a front. Or at least, I pay him to."
Ingrid nodded without comprehending anything.
"I'll go," she repeated.
His eyebrows furrowed. "Don't you want to get paid?"
She opened her mouth then stopped. She did want to get paid.
She watched him count out the notes: six lande.
"I promise you'll earn more if you stick around," he said, tucking his wallet back into his pocket.
She nodded but she knew she wasn't promising anything.
"I have to say, Perlig must like you," the boy said, brushing his hand through his hair. "He sends most girls that come into the prayer house to work at the brothels." There was something of a smirk on his face as he turned his attention back to the bleeding boy.
"I'm sorry Zephyr," the boy on the floor murmured. "I'm sorry."
Ingrid had thought he was unconscious.
"No you're not," the dark-skinned boy he had called Zephyr said, his eyes lighting on fire. "You're just in pain."
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