Of the twenty tables filling the floor, only five or six had anyone sitting at them, the patrons all males except for one young female clinging to her hipster date at a back table. Near the stage, Gurnov saw a table of four who looked like they were college kids, probably fraternity brothers. Another stripper, a platinum blonde Latina down to only a T-back thong, was working their table, vigorously rubbing her ample hip against one of the drunken guys as she tried to sell lap dances . . . and more.
None of the customers paid the tall, wiry man any attention as he moved across the room in the direction of a half dozen electronic poker machines.
He came to a dusty gray curtain on the wall at the end of the bar.
“Yo, bro, you call about a girl?” a rough-looking woman Gurnov hadn’t noticed behind the bar called out loudly. “You can’t go back there!”
She was in her thirties, short and dark-haired, wearing tight white shorts and a black low-cut T-top. Tattoos covered both arms and her entire chest. She was pouring vodka into a shot glass that was on the bar. Beside it a cell phone was lit up with an incoming call.
“The hell I can’t,” Gurnov snapped, pulling back the curtain.
She stared at him, tossed back the shot, and, pouring another, said, “Yeah? Fuck it, then. You deal with whatever happens.”
Gurnov uncovered a swinging door with NO ADMITTANCE stenciled on it in large letters. He swung it open inward and entered a short hallway. It was lined with cases of cheap alcohol and mixers stacked along one side and led to another door at the other end.
He found that the second door, stenciled with ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE!, was shut. But when he tried the knob, it was unlocked.
Moron! Gurnov thought. I’ve told him over and over the office stays locked!
He shoved that door open—and was greeted by the sight of very large, very brown, and very hairy male buttocks.
He quickly looked around the small dirty office. With minor differences—the very large brown hairy buttocks notwithstanding—he noticed nothing had really changed since a week, if not a month, ago.
It held an old steel safe and a battered wooden desk, the latter’s top strewn with various papers and forms, a couple of matchbox-sized clear plastic packets containing white powder, a black laptop computer, a small box holding used cell phones, and a small digital camera. There were two chairs, one with the seat covered in old newspapers. A dim light came from a lone bare lightbulb hanging overhead from a short length of electrical cord.
The large brown hairy buttocks were thrusting rhythmically with the mechanical moans of a skinny bleached-blonde teenaged girl. She had a young, pretty face, somewhat childlike, and was bent over the wooden desk, her black and white checked skirt hiked up, and a pair of high heels beside her bare feet. Her white shirt was unbuttoned, her tiny breasts pressing on the desktop. She licked at a white powder residue on her index finger.
“What the fuck, Ricky?” Gurnov announced from the open door.
Ricardo Ramírez—a chunky five-foot-eight twenty-seven-year-old Puerto Rican with a pockmarked face—quickly glanced over his shoulder as he continued the thrusts. His dark, hard eyes were glazed.
When he recognized who it was standing in the doorway, he stopped. He slapped the girl’s left buttock.
“Want some of this, man? It’s new.”
Are you kidding me? Gurnov thought.
The teenaged girl jerked her head around. Her hollow eyes were also glazed.
“You done yet, Ricky?” she said, her voice sleepy.
Ramírez shrugged as he looked at the girl, and went back to thrusting.
Gurnov shook his head, more than a little disgusted and annoyed.
He felt the weight of his Sig in his jacket pocket.
I should pistol-whip the bastard—one good whack.
But then I’d have to get the blood off.
He crossed the dirty office to the chair that was stacked with tabloid newspapers. He saw they were old copies of Philly Weekly. He rolled up one, then marched over and smacked Ramírez across the back of his head.
“Knock it off! I have dogs better behaved than you.”
Then Gurnov looked at the girl, who was looking over her shoulder to see what the loud noise had been.
“You,” he ordered, “get the hell out of here!”
The girl then looked at Ramírez, who was backing away, shuffling his feet while reaching down to pull his jeans up from his ankles.
“Do what he says, Summer,” Ramírez said, zipping his pants. “Go on up front. Talk to Ashley. See if any work’s come in for you. Tell her the room in the basement’s open.”
Dazed, Summer stood, dropped her black and white checkered schoolgirl skirt back in place, and tied the front of her shirt in a knot. She grabbed one of the plastic packets of cocaine while working her feet into the high heels, then wobbled on them toward the door.
“And back off the blow, bitch,” Ramírez said, taking the packet from her hand as she went through the door. “You need to start making money tonight to pay your bill!”
Ramírez closed the door.
“Lock that damn thing,” Gurnov snapped. “I tell you that over and over.” Then he added, “Another ‘Summer’? How old is that one?”
“Eighteen,” Ramírez immediately said, grinning at his automatic lie. “She’s good. She’ll earn her keep. She’s already in the hole almost a grand, countin’ her bed and rubbers and shit. Everything. And, yeah, Summer, April, whatever—you know dudes love bitches named that.”
He reached for a black laptop computer on the desk. Its scratched plastic case was covered in liquor advertisement stickers. He opened it and pointed to the screen as it flickered to life.
“Here. Check out her ad I put online today,” Ramírez said, trying to focus on the screen. “She’s a ‘private massage therapist’ with ‘best hands in the business.’ I got really creative.”
Photographs showed the body of the young girl. She wore the same schoolgirl outfit and high heels. The white top was tied up tight, revealing her midriff and accentuating her breasts. The black and white checkered skirt also was tight on her curves, and short enough to reveal the bottom edge of her buttocks. There were close-up shots of her youthful hands and thighs and chest. Everything but a photograph of her face.
“I wrote here ‘I like what I do and so will you. In call, out call.’ And that she loves to travel and to please. That’s true, too.” He grinned. “Anyway, she said she’s from Bucks County, and out on her own. Tried to get in that flophouse up in Frankford. Lighthouse Life? They were full up and I got the call from Tony. Cost me a hundred bucks for that. Now, a little of Cuzzin Héctor’s hydro, at worst some coke, and she’s good to go.”
Gurnov bristled at hearing Héctor’s name and the hydroponic weed. He already regretted fronting Ricky any money. And he really was pissed when Ricky loaned Héctor—who really wasn’t Ricky’s cousin; he was a Ramírez from Cuba—the twenty-five grand to set up the house in Kensington. Growing pot indoors, using artificial lighting, guaranteed a steady nearby supply of the highly potent marijuana to move. Gurnov recognized that it also was one more thing that could blow up in his face. Héctor was already on the run after someone ratted out the grow house he’d worked near Miami.
“The girl looks sixteen,” Gurnov said.
Ricky shrugged. “I got ID saying she’s eighteen.”
The bastard never learns, Gurnov thought.
This is what caused the problem in the first place.
They’re too damn young—and too stupid to not talk.
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “What’re you on? You look like shit, Ricky.”
“A little blow. And some E to stay awake. Last night was rough.”
Gurnov thought Ramírez looked like he’d need at least Ecstasy to have been up the whole time.
; “Look, I’m serious. You need to be careful. Tell me what happened last night.”
Ramírez’s expression changed.
“I’m . . . I’m really sorry, man. I thought I had that fuckin’ thing under control. Really!”
What?
“What do you mean by that?” Gurnov said, his tone ice cold. “You take care of it or not?”
Ramírez avoided making eye contact.
“I shot that puta Krystal, man,” he said, nervously kicking his shoe tip against a desk leg. “In the back of the head, behind the ear, just like you said to.”
“What about the other . . . ?”
Looking at his shoe, Ramírez slowly shook his head.
He then said: “Damon thought Krystal was it, man. So he threw the Molotovs. We had to get out.”
“Damn it, Ricky!” Gurnov blurted. “Tell me you got the books back. I don’t care about the other shit.”
Ricky silently shook his head.
Gurnov inhaled deeply, then exhaled, trying to keep his composure.
“You know there’s gonna be hell to pay for this,” he said. “Mr. Antonov does not like surprises. Especially one like this.”
And that’s why I never told him about any of it.
I knew better than to let Ricky drag me into his running drugs and girls.
The damn money was just too easy to pass up. . . .
Ramírez looked up. There was terror in his eyes.
“I know! I know! I’m sorry, man. I’ll find her. Promise. I’ll get the books and the money back.”
“You’ll find her?” Gurnov exploded. “Where’re you looking? Up some little whore’s ass? What the hell are you thinking?”
Ramírez’s hazy eyes were tearing. He rubbed them.
Gurnov shook his head.
Fuck! This cannot get back to Nick.
It’s probably time to shut this place down. . . .
“No, Ricky. I’ll take care of it. You . . . you get the girls out of town as planned.”
[THREE]
Washington Dulles International Airport, Virginia
Sunday, November 16, 10:17 P.M.
“Just one more second and we should be done,” the gray-haired, plump female American Airlines desk agent said helpfully, smiling as she tapped keys on the computer terminal. “You really should consider joining our frequent-flyer program. It keeps all your information handy to speed up this process. Plus you get miles toward trips, so as you zip right through the process, eventually you’ll travel for free!”
The woman looked up and smiled broadly at the nicely dressed young woman with the pleasant face, intense green eyes, and, under a GEORGETOWN HOYAS ball cap, chestnut brown hair that fell softly to her shoulders. There was a backpack hanging by one strap over her right shoulder.
Will you please just hurry up and get me on the plane!
“Perhaps later,” the young woman said.
The agent nodded, then turned her attention back to the computer terminal.
I wonder what she’d say if she knew I’m a platinum-level member and have enough miles banked in my account for probably ten first-class tickets.
“You also should seriously look at getting yourself a passport,” the desk agent added helpfully. “It’s not required for Saint Thomas—your valid driver’s license is all the ID you need—but it does speed the process, too.”
Got one.
But sirens would probably go off if you scanned it.
“You’re just going to love the Virgin Isles,” the agent went on. “Hurricane season is as good as over, and you’re there right before the high season starts, mid-December, when it gets really expensive.”
I know. I was just there for two weeks.
“Do you like living in Philadelphia? So much history.”
And crime. Can’t forget that.
Just like our nation’s capital.
The young woman looked as if she were trying to be patient. But the talkative agent, who seemed to be attempting to single-handedly deliver friendly customer service for the entire airline, unfortunately was coming across as increasingly annoying.
Okay, I’ll play along.
“I prefer living here on the Hill much better,” the young woman said. “I don’t know what I’ll do when my internship ends, but Georgetown Law sounds like it might work.”
“Politics. Now, that must be exciting. You know this airport was named for John Foster Dulles, who was secretary of the State Department.”
Now she’s giving a history lesson? Ugh.
Can I just get my ticket, please?
I guess she means well.
Well, except for when I told her I needed the card to sign declaring that I’m checking a firearm.
She about wet her pants. “You have a pistol? And you travel with it?”
Then it really made her mad when I corrected her by quoting the regulations, telling her it was okay to have both the unloaded gun and its ammo in the same bag, as long as they were in a locked case.
“I looked it up on the Internet.”
She practically hissed, “Well, we’ll let our friends at TSA clear that.”
She wasn’t quite so chatty after hanging up with them, having learned that I was right.
The American Airlines desk agent held out a paper ticket.
“Okay, you’re all set,” she said, her tone now professional. “Your first leg, I have you ticketed to Miami on flight six-eight-eight with a connecting flight, five-oh-four, the first flight out to Saint Thomas. I have your bag checked all the way through to your final, SST.” She pulled back to show the back of the ticket. “I’ve stuck your bag tag here, on the back of your ticket. And your inbound”—she paused and glanced at the young woman—“that’s your return flight, I have you booked for next Thursday.”
“Thank you very much,” the young woman said, smiling warmly as she took the ticket. “You’ve been most helpful. I do appreciate it.”
The desk agent smiled back.
“And here’s your ID and debit card,” the agent then said, her tone again cheerful. “Have a nice vacation.”
Well, that seems to have mended the bridge.
“Thank you again very much,” the young woman said.
“Oh, and by the way: Happy birthday, Miss Stewart!”
The young woman looked up. “Excuse me?”
“That’s okay. I see you’re being shy. But celebrate life! Congrats on turning twenty-one last week. It should be a happy, exciting time!”
Yes, it should, she thought, carefully placing the ID and prepaid Visa debit card in her leather clutch near the zippered pocket that held the IDs and debit cards of two other young women.
I’d share that with Alexis Stewart, if she hadn’t stumbled back to Mary’s House and overdosed last month, having never gotten over those years of being raped in foster care.
And with Krystal and all the others . . .
“Well, thank you,” the young woman said, forcing a smile. “It is. This trip actually is a birthday gift. I’m just a bit harried right now.”
“Don’t you worry. You’ll figure out this travel stuff soon enough. You’re young. Have a nice flight.”
[FOUR]
Southwest Chop House
Two Yellowrose Place, Dallas
Sunday, November 16, 9:30 P.M. Texas Standard Time
“We can structure the funds, base them anywhere from Delaware to the Cayman Islands,” Miguel “Mike” Santos, chief executive officer of OneWorld Private Equity Partners, said, looking between Rapp Badde and Bobby Garcia. “Our preference, of course, having the majority of our investment products there, is the Caymans.”
They were in the posh high-ceilinged lounge of the five-star restaurant. It was about half full, but there was high energy coming from the lively crowd.
Their waitress, young and attractive, had just delivered their second round of drinks.
Earlier, Badde had been first to order, requesting a Jameson Irish whisky and club soda, and then Garcia and Santos had said yes when the waitress asked if they were having their usual. Badde didn’t know what that was, but both of their cocktails were clear liquid with bubbles and a lime wedge. He guessed vodka, or maybe gin, with either tonic or soda water.
“Politically,” Badde now said, a bit arrogantly, “it would be a good idea to use Delaware. What with Wilmington being right down the road from Philly.”
Santos and Garcia exchanged a glance.
“Well,” Santos then said, turning to look at Badde, “you’re right. There is good reason why so many—sixty percent, in fact—of Fortune 500 companies incorporate in Delaware. Their laws are better geared to corporations than most other states. But as friendly as Delaware can be, Cayman keeps everything quiet.”
Garcia, who was stirring his drink, looked up and added, “That’s why it’s called the Switzerland of the Caribbean. Its confidential Relationships Preservation Law, Section Five, has criminal penalties—imprisonment and cash fines—for anyone who even attempts to offer to divulge confidential information. They don’t so much as report who the officers of a company are, never mind where the money comes from or where it’s going.”
Santos nodded. “You can’t accomplish that anywhere in the States. So we’re not being political. We’re talking business.”
Badde met his eyes, then nodded.
Got it.
The Last Witness Page 13
