Hiding Among the Dead

by Chris Bauer

Time to get this grope-fest over with, she told herself.

  “We have someone joining us tonight, Kaipo.”

  Mr. Lanakai led Kaipo to the bar inside the Borgata’s Bobby Flay Steak House. Leaning over a drink, something that was clear and carbonated with a lime twist, seltzer maybe, Mr. Lanakai’s other guest soon acknowledged their approach by disengaging himself from his bar stool. The process took a moment, in deference to the man’s superior height.

  “Kaipo Mawpaw, this is Tonka Omanopa.”

  She had to raise her head an unusual distance for the introduction, but it was worth it.

  “Hello, Ms. Mawpaw,” he said, his smile wide. “Glad to meet you.”

  Good teeth. Moussed black curls atop high and tight sideburns, with a dimpled Hawaiian face she could only describe as beautiful. Beneath it were square shoulders, an open collar, a tailored suit jacket that grabbed at oversize biceps and a large chest, and a tapered waist. An imposing physique.

  And those teeth. Not just good teeth, great teeth.

  “You too, Mr. Omanopa,” was as much as she could manage.

  “‘Tonka.’ Please.”

  “Yes. Of course you are,” she said.

  Mr. Lanakai chuckled, shook his head. “I know, Kaipo, I know, he’s gorgeous. He’s also very loyal. To me. Let’s get to our seats.”

  She stirred her drink, seated in the front row just below the ropes at one of the corners, Mr. Lanakai next to her, Tonka on his other side. Young Mr. Omanopa studied a boxing ring that was now getting busy with the main event.

  “Ever hear of bare-knuckle boxing, Kaipo?” Mr. Lanakai said. “Not mixed martial arts or UFC.” He gestured with his eyes at the ring looming so close above them. “And not pro boxing like this. Bare knuckles is boxing without the big puffy gloves. No taped-up, gloved hands. No timed rounds. The fight ends only after one of the fighters gets counted out or can’t or won’t continue. Mano a mano. I bankroll Tonka here. He’s undefeated in thirty-four bare-knuckle fights. He is a spectacle to behold.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” she said. “It’s like cockfighting and dogfighting. Animal abuse. I despise them both. No offense, Mr. Omanopa.”

  “None taken,” the young fighter said. “Again, ‘Tonka.’”

  “Lately he’s heard ‘champ’ more than anything else,” Mr. Lanakai said. “So how do you like these seats, Kaipo?”

  Yes, they were good, Kaipo said, first row, next to the ring, almost within arm’s length. Mr. Lanakai bragged on what else he had planned for the evening: bankroll her gambling plus take her to a late show at the casino. After that, “We’ll see where the evening takes us.”

  As long as it ended with her back in her hotel room by herself, which could prove difficult after all this fuss. She decided on a topic she knew he’d be less than thrilled to discuss, with her not wanting to score points, rather looking more to distance herself. “Wally—may I call you Wally?”

  “Yes, Kaipo, yes, of course. Good. Finally, you are relaxed. ‘Mr. Lanakai’ is so formal.”

  Calling him by his first name didn’t mean to her what it meant to him. Regardless, she’d fan his flames of false hope while trading on his interest.

  “Yes. Something has been bothering me lately, Wally.”

  The bell rang for round one. Wally leaned over while she spoke, ostensibly to better the crowd noise that had increased now that the fight had started, the two boxers circling each other in the ring. Wally’s arm dropped onto the back of her seat then onto her shoulder, the move about as subtle as date night at the movies in middle school.

  “This new business model,” she said, nonplussed, raising her voice, “the one Olivier says leverages cheap, disposable raw materials, it seems sooo—”

  The punishment began above them, a mismatch in the heavyweight division, a young, white, East Coast stud on his way up the ranks, wailing on a black tomato can from Chicago with a losing record, there to be slaughtered, to pad the stud’s resume. The older fighter backed into the ropes to weather the early onslaught, the stud’s repeated left and right hooks keeping his opponent in the corner just above them. Two minutes into the first round and already the older fighter had trouble defending himself. Sweat, and splatters of spit and blood, sprayed the ringside patrons repeatedly, Kaipo’s incomplete comment hanging out there, totally eclipsed by the savagery above them. Her wrap protected some of her outfit but there was nothing to protect her face, yet she barely flinched at the pounding in progress above her. The bell ending the round stopped the beating; the blood-soaked older boxer wobbled to his corner. She turned to Wally knowing how intimidating she looked but making no attempt to minimize it, the bloody distortions an exclamation point. She completed her comment.

  “Yes, your new interest seems so opportunistic, and barbaric.” Blood spatter dotted her face, her neck, was in her hair. In retrospect, Tyvek rather than Talbot’s would have been a better fashion choice tonight. “The new business you’ve sent my way—it’s bothersome. It involves desperate, innocent people.”

  Wally’s jaw remained open, dazed by Kaipo’s deadpan expression underneath the spattered blood, including no acknowledgment of the gore. He retracted his arm from behind her to dab at himself with a hanky. Behind them a Lanakai lackey also produced a hanky and began patting Wally’s suit jacket.

  “Get the fuck off me,” he said, brushing away his assistant’s hand. Wally’s focus was stern now, directed at Kaipo. He squared his jaw.

  “Listen closely, Kaipo. These people are roaches, feeding off the fat of America’s mainland—Mexican and South American roaches coming north illegally, looking for handouts. We’re simply tidying up the place a bit now that our country has grown a pair and has the stomach for it, and we’re making some money while we do it.” He gestured to the flunky behind him. “Find her a towel. You need to clean yourself up, Kaipo; you look like Carrie at the prom. And let’s get one thing straight. Tonight you don’t talk about what I do for my living, and I won’t talk about what you do for yours.”

  Kaipo let the reprimand simmer. Round two started, a replay of round one but in a different corner, Tonka more vocal when the action moved in front of him, working himself up. At the end of the round a ring doctor examined the bloodied fighter. The doctor’s headshake ended the bout, the East Coast stud a victor by technical knockout.

  They all stood to leave the small arena. “My apology, Kaipo, for the lecture, and for appearing so repulsed at your appearance. I’d forgotten about your tolerance for this sort of thing. Which brings me to my next question. How would you like to be my guest at a bare-knuckles fight I’m promoting?”

  Not a chance, she thought. “Look, Wally”—she hadn’t even the remotest interest in seeing one, not even if she were accompanied by someone she liked—“that sounds exciting, but—”

  “It’s next Saturday night, back in Philly. The amazing Tonka here fights a man who’s knocked out more than sixty fighters but has never been knocked down once. Two undefeated knockout artists throwing hands, out by the Navy Yard. The cops will be looking the other way. It’ll be quite a rush.”

  Tonka’s sparkling teeth flashed, betraying his pleasure at hearing Wally talk him up.

  “Please say you’ll come, miss. I’ll be fighting the best fighter out there,” Tonka said, all bust-your-buttons like, “not counting me, of course. He’s an old guy from Philly. What’s his name again, Mr. Lanakai?”

  “Tristan Trout. Prefers ‘Philo.’ And he’s not that old, Tonka. Show some respect by at least remembering his name.”

  “Sure, Mr. Lanakai, sure. Come see my next knockout victim, Mr. Tristan Philo Trout, miss.”

  She now had an additional question. “Is he the same Tristan Trout who owns Blessid Trauma, the crime scene cleaning business?”

  “Why yes he is, Kaipo,” Wally said.

  Her no became a yes.

  31

  Less than a week away from the fight, floors two through six of the grain elevator were now fully scrubbed and vacuumed
, the first floor presentable enough to show Wally Lanakai. Philo and his guests left their respective vehicles, flashlights on, and congregated amid the rubble, all lights aimed at the ragged, cave-like entrance to the building while they talked.

  “About this property,” Wally said, eyeing the unpaved serpentine trail behind them, “was the trail we took the only way here?”

  “No. There are multiple trails in and out. Easy all-points dispersal, in case, you know, cops. It’ll be fine.”

  The four crunched their way over tamped stone and dirt and around debris to enter the building. Philo’s guests followed him in single file, Wally between the two beefy oddjobs, the same ones who came with him to intimidate Philo at his home. Once inside, Philo led them to the squared space that would become the boxing ring, its perimeter defined not by ropes but rather by fluorescent yellow sticky tape affixed to the floor.

  Oddjob Number 1 spoke. “What’s under that plywood?” He gestured twice in succession with a raised chin at the two far corners, where wood scraps covered openings that dropped into the space under the floor.

  “An underground pit. The slime we sprayed off the building’s walls and floors settled in it. Not pretty down there. Looks like decaying oatmeal.”

  “Good,” Oddjob Number 2 said, snickering, a larger version of Number 1. “Something for you to eat when Tonka gets through with you.”

  Philo slapped his knee then burst into a mock laugh that he severed with a glare. “That’s good, fat boy. How about I drop a ladder down there for you so you can get a closer look? I hear it tastes like poi. You’d probably like it. I know the other rats do.”

  Both oddjobs started forward, their fists clenched.

  “Kulikuli!” a stern Wally said, demanding their silence. The two men stood down. Wally straightened his tie. “We’ve had a friendly arrangement so far, Trout. I get the fight I want, you get what you want. Lose the insults. A confrontation here does no one any good.”

  “Then muzzle your goons, or we might not make it that far.”

  “They’ll behave,” Wally said. “Starting now. What else needs to be done?”

  “We’re still cleaning out the space below us. My guys will be here tomorrow, scrubbing then vacuuming up whatever the hell is down there.”

  “What’s above this floor?”

  “Five empty levels, ready for the implosion. Still a few weeks away.”

  Philo led Wally around the perimeter. Wally wandered to the far end of the floor, Philo following, the hanging black tarp just outside their reach. Here, the rusted iron safety bars between the columns connected them horizontally along this side of the building, the tarp pushing in like heavy drapes in the wind.

  “What’s outside here?” Wally asked.

  Philo retrieved a pocketknife and cut out a flap head-high. He used a discarded metal rod to lift the flap so they could see outside, into the night. “The Camden skyline.”

  Across the river, Camden’s city lights flickered, shimmering off the calm of the water separating the two cities. “Directly below this side of the building”—he and Wally leaned over and looked down, the sound of lapping water against pilings thirty feet below providing the only hint, the dark revealing little—“is the Delaware.”

  They returned to their cars. Wally explained the fight’s financials.

  “So we have no misunderstanding”—Wally nodded in Oddjob Number 1’s direction— “my associate here will hold the purse. I’m doing this for your own protection, Trout, considering what happened at our last fight. This part of the arrangement is non-negotiable.”

  “Go for it, Wally. It’s your money. For now.” This way, if the money disappeared, Philo wouldn’t be held responsible. No need having more crazies with guns and grudges and long memories after his ass.

  “Good. Wonderful. So let me share some news with you. I’ve increased the purse to seventy-five grand. I’m feeling benevolent toward my fighter. Tonka ships out next week, to one of your old haunts, Afghanistan. I want him and his family to know how much I appreciate his patriotism.”

  Philo ignored the bias toward the fight’s presumed outcome, instead addressed what he just learned. “So he’s in the military.”

  “A newly minted Ranger. Special forces. After the fight maybe you guys can swap stories. The increased purse also reflects late betting my organization is holding on the fight. You apparently made some enemies overseas. The Middle East, Afghanistan and Pakistan.”

  Wally paused to let that sink in for Philo. “I took the bets,” Wally added, “but trust me when I say I wish you no harm from any nefarious forces, before or after the fight. During the fight, heh, a different story, of course. I might add that you’re a seven-to-one underdog. In case you want to lay any money on yourself.”

  “The seventy-five-grand purse will be enough,” Philo said. “Tell me about the rest of our agreement. The transplants?”

  “Ah yes, the two lungs.” Wally looked north, at twinkling city lights on the horizon. “The logistics are worked out. The surgery will be at a new emergency care walk-in facility in Old City that my doctors will shut down for a night; they own the place. We’ll have an ambulance pick her up, they’ll get an I-V started and make her relaxed and comfortable. She’ll think she’s on the surgery floor of a major hospital.”

  Philo wasn’t convinced. “She needs to be sure this is the real deal, Wally. That the organs are coming from a legitimate donor, not the black market. When they pick her up and transport her into the operating room, no matter how out of it they think she is, there can be no mention of the surgery being anything other than one hundred percent above-board and on the books. The doctors, the nurses, the facility—you cannot fuck this up, or she’ll try to stop it.”

  Wally puffed up, got chest-to-chest with Philo. “Hear me good, Trout. I owe you nothing—not one fucking thing—other than guaranteeing the purse and the two lungs, and a best effort in relocating them to your friend’s diseased chest, but I went one better.

  “My guys worked out her post-op care; it’ll be at an accredited hospital. One of my doctors is the chief administrator; he’ll get her admitted. Who can resist a patient in need of medical care, hmm? The professionals I have at my disposal—with gambling debts, med school loans, drug addictions, hefty divorce settlements—they all owe me. They’re paid handsomely under the table, no taxes, and no chance of malpractice suits. They’re top notch, including the Latino ones with south-of-the-border credentials, who are our face to the Hispanic base.”

  Philo heard Hispanic; on went a light bulb. “Andelmo. You’ve got Andelmo. That bastard’s facing an indictment.”

  “Dr. Andelmo is an excellent transplant surgeon whose reputation has, unfortunately for all of us, taken a hit lately. He’s highly respected in the Latino community. But lucky for me he does have a significant gambling problem. I will betray no other confidences.”

  “No. Not Andelmo. Get someone else to do the surgery. She’d never forgive me.”

  “I’ll take your request under advisement, Trout, and get you the name of a different doctor to pass along to her if needed, but it’s not your call, now is it? Let’s move on. I have your friend’s husband’s name and his phone number. He needs to stay on call the night of the fight, and he should expect a message from a Mr. Smith. We’ll begin prepping her organ donor shortly thereafter.”

  “These are lungs,” Philo said, puzzled. “We’re talking about someone who’d need to be dead or on his deathbed at that point. How fucking far is your reach?”

  “If I say the organs will be ready, they will be ready, soon as your friend’s anesthetized head hits the pillow. And just before your unconscious head hits the floor.”

  “You can’t know when two lungs—” Philo stopped himself. “Christ, you ruthless fucks. You’re preselecting innocent donors and croaking them.”

  “You insult me, Trout. If I didn’t need you to stand in front of my fighter on Saturday night and take a beating, I’d have my guys take you a
part right here. Let me be clear about this business. I deliver on my promises. Recruiters, transporters, hospital and clinic staff…These transplants happen every day, with middlemen, buyers, even banks that store the organs. I pay my donors what I say I’m going to pay them, then I send them home alive. We might, occasionally, have a problem finding appropriate donors to fill orders. When that happens we get aggressive, but only with someone who deserves it. The deaths you learned about during those transplant surgeries weren’t planned, they were simply unfortunate.

  “You should focus your concern on your friend, the recipient. I’m happy to say our doctors haven’t lost a transplant recipient on the table yet. See you Saturday, Trout.”

  32

  Kaipo and Mr. Lanakai—Wally—didn’t have sex that night, in Atlantic City or elsewhere. Dinner, the boxing match, gambling…Wally made a late-night pitch, but she’d helped him remain a gentleman by intimating that their next date, the bare-knuckles fight, might get him what he wanted. In the past week he’d sent her flowers twice.

  An admission to herself: Wally Lanakai, older, powerful mob godfather, successful businessman, wasn’t doing it for her, but his fighter Tonka Omanopa might.

  She’d gone through the motions during her first appointment today, a massage, her client the divorced wife of an insurance exec. She finished up, was now at her second appointment in, as coincidence would have it, the same Center City high-rise—the first appointment’s ex-husband’s separate digs. Some personal training with him in his home gym, then a deep muscle massage.

  Bare asses, oftentimes bare tops, and occasional peeks at bare genitals: she’d gotten offers from both sexes for certain intimacies, had declined them all, because she knew bedding a client ultimately meant losing a client. And in the high-end client circles she inhabited, word traveled fast, and large chunks of business could disappear as quickly as two thumbs could key a text or post a picture.