Chapter 13
My dreams were horrid, as darkness surrounded me. Something was out there. As I ran away, I shot at shadows and followed it with obscenities, but I could never escape. That thing kept coming. I kept running, shooting, and screaming.
Then my eyes flashed open and the dreams melted slowly away. Sweat drenched my body, and I knew. I just knew more people were going to die.
I felt the morning sun warm my exposed hands and arms, blinding my eyes. I sat up confused. Yesterday's events were hazy, confused, like looking through a dirty window, to recover the memories lost in my mind. Then the window opened, and the memories rushed backed. I had driven to Budva, Montenegro, to search for Yelena. I had also shot and murdered Jasmin and Damir.
I scanned the hotel room. I didn’t bother to tuck myself under the bed sheets. I lay across the bed, wearing my yesterday clothes.
Although I parked the stolen car at an expensive hotel, I walked around late last night until I found a small hotel near the shore. This hotel was located on the peripheral of the city. Blinded by the darkness of the night, the hotel appeared to be clean, but a little too small. Now the morning sun showed the hotel room's true colors. It was old. Numerous guests had worn down the shag brown carpet by walking from the bed to the door. Around the light switches, the paint had become stained from the many fingers that rubbed against the wall, as they flicked the switch on and off.
I slid out of bed and approached the window. I saw the waves crashing on the rocky shoreline below. Then I glanced back at the bed; at least the bedspread and sheets were clean. Apparently, twenty euros per night didn’t buy much in Budva, Montenegro.
I placed the old Smith & Wesson on the nightstand and stacked the ecstasy on the dresser like a pile of bricks near the TV.
I searched the room for a hiding place. Then I noticed the heavy dresser. I pulled it from the wall and saw a small cavity at the bottom, where I slipped the drugs and gun into this tight space. Subsequently, I scooted the dresser tightly against the wall.
I didn’t intend to walk around Budva with a gun and drugs on me, but I kept the 20,000 euros in my coat pocket.
I quickly showered and put on the same clothes that I wore yesterday. I did not even bring a toothbrush. I used the warm water to rinse out my mouth and utilized my outstretched fingers of my right hand as a comb to straighten my hair.
I wasn’t too concerned about my appearance. I just wanted to blend into the crowds, undetected. I didn’t come to Montenegro to party or pick up girls. My only mission was to find Yelena. Someone held her captive here, somewhere in this big, coastal city on the Adriatic Sea.
I left the hotel and walked around the downtown until I reached Old Budva, a five-hundred-year old castle which the residents converted into a shopping mall. It had twenty-foot high walls with turrets spaced every 50 feet. After passing through the gate, I walked along the cobblestone streets and read the names of the various coffee shops, clothes stores, restaurants, and nightclubs. My shoes click-clacked on the cobblestones, while the scrapes from my footsteps echoed along the stone walls.
I walked aimlessly around the streets, hoping to bump into my girlfriend, but it never happened. I never saw Yelena anywhere in Old Budva. While I walked, my stomach growled furiously.
Around noon, I sat at a coffee shop and ordered a sandwich and a Montenegrin macchiato. I felt a rush as the heavy cream carried the jolt of caffeine, while it coated the walls of my stomach.
As I ate and drank mechanically, I noticed two beautiful blonde women shopping in the store next to the coffee shop. They were boisterous and loud. One blonde picked out a slim dark-blue dress and some sexy black lingerie.
After finishing my meal, I stood up to go. The two loud blondes approached me. Then the petite blonde with an innocent-looking face bumped into me, dropping her bag.
I mechanically picked up her bag and handed it to her and apologized, “I’m sorry.” Then I walked away before the woman replied in a heavy Russian accent, “Thank you.”
I walked around Budva for hours and hours and saw no trace of Yelena. Then I glanced at my watch, almost six o'clock, and I made no progress. I let out a long sigh and continued walking near the large expensive hotel downtown.
Walking by the 10-story, five-star hotel, I noticed a couple of bellhops standing sentry at the front doors. They wore their formal red jackets and crimson caps. I remembered what Karl said how to find the brothels. Just ask the bellhops or the taxi drivers. They know their city well. They cater to the whims and demands of their customers.
I shivered and trembled and reddened a little because I never asked a stranger about brothels. So I kept walking. Then I spotted an approaching taxi. I flagged him down and subsequently, I jumped into the back seat, slamming the door shut.
“Where to, buddy?” the taxi driver inquired enthusiastically as he studied me in his rearview mirror.
“I’m looking for a little companionship,” I replied softly while my complexion reddened more like embers of coals ready to flare up again.
The taxi driver scanned me up and down by tilting his head, while looking through the rear-view mirror, with his mind calculating a fare for his service. Then he said, “Ah, you came to the right place. I know the place for you. What’re you look for? Blondes, ravens, Russians, Romanians, you name it. They’re somewhere in this city. Each have own price.”
“A Serbian woman,” I replied in hope.
“You’re in Montenegro, so plenty of Serbian women are here. Montenegro was part of Serbia before it broke away after the Bosnian War.”
“I was hoping for a brothel, one that caters to high-paying clientele.”
Taxi driver turned his head to take another stern look at me and shook his head apologetically, “You need connections for that type of brothel. Those brothels only serve the rich clientele. You’ll never get in unless you know someone. Someone must vouch for you.”
“Then what do you suggest?” I asked, looking down.
“I could take you to Silicon Valley. It’s located on the eastern part of the city against the mountains. It’s a small area, a city within a city, where you can satisfy all your desires.”
“Silicon Valley? Why do they call it that?”
The taxi driver started chuckling and then apologized, “I’m sorry, sir. We’re so used to that term that we sometimes forget about outsiders. We call it Silicon Valley because all the women get breast implants. In Silicon Valley, all you see are luscious hills and hills made from silicon.”
“Okay, that sounds good, I guess. I should start somewhere,” I reddened a little more. I leaned further back into the seat, so the driver wouldn’t notice me.
The driver studied me and asked, “You look like you’re new to this.”
I turned and began looking out the window.
“That's okay. That’s the way to go. You go with the flow and have a little fun. The girls can spot a newbie, and they’ll know what to do.”
Taxi driver drove straight along a small road. The he turned right for a block, then a left for two blocks.
I became a little nervous thinking the taxi driver was driving to an isolated area to work me over for a greater cab fare. I looking around the seats for a blunt object – anything I can use for weapon, but the cab was clean. Then I clutched my hand on the door handle, ready to spring if the driver did anything suspicious.
After ten minutes, the driver stopped and pulled to the side of a road near a rundown neighborhood. Then he turned and uttered, “We’re here, sir, Silicon Valley.”
I watched in awe from the back car window. I saw many scantily-dressed women walking up and down the street. Occasionally, men would drive by in a car, yelling catcalls and gesturing lewdly towards the ladies.
I handed the taxi driver a 10-euro note.
He cleared his throat, “Excuse me, sir.” His hand remained in place with the euro note still lying on the center of his outstretched hand.
“I guess that wasn’t enough.�
�� Then I added two more 10-euro notes, forming a small pile on the taxi driver's hand.
He clenched the money and replied, “Thank you, sir. If you need my services again, I’ll park over there by the bakery shop.” Then he pointed to a shop a block away while he stuffed the money into his front shirt pocket with his other hand.
“Thank you,” I said and exited the cab.
I never saw anything like this. It was a miniature Amsterdam. As I strolled along the street, young women, barely wearing any clothes, sat on stairwells to apartments, smoking cigarettes. They turned their heads and stared at me as I walked by. Many women stood in doorways, and the doors were slightly ajar with red fluorescent lights spilling onto the streets. As I passed by, a woman would raise her leg, showing me how smooth and creamy and inviting her legs were.
I kept walking, avoiding the desperate stares. I guess foreign johns pay better than the locals.
As I walked by a large apartment building with large bay windows, a woman opened the curtains to her apartment window and flashed me her goods. She wore translucent lingerie that revealed her chiseled, firm body. I looked way.
I kept walking and approached an older woman standing in a doorway with the door partially opened. Several red candles flickered as the salty sea breeze blew through her small apartment.
As I walked by, the prostitute asked, “You want a girlfriend for tonight,” in a thick heavy Russian accent.
I turned to study the middle-aged woman, who appeared to be in her late 30s. Although still attractive, she looked worn down from the rough street life. She was an old Chevy truck that could take a beating.
I looked down at my feet and replied, “Perhaps I am,”
The prostitute pushed her door open all the way and exclaimed, “Please come in. I’m at your service.”
I entered the room and sat down on the edge of her bed. I noticed the red thick heavy curtains, the red bed sheets, the red chair cushions. Several red candles were scattered around the room, flickering. I noticed the prominent color in the room was red, the color of hot passion, love, and uninhibited gratuitous sex.
She shut the door and pushed the curtains completely closed. She turned to me and demanded, “One-hundred euros, for one hour. You must pay up front.” Then she held out her eager hand, waiting for that money.
I lifted myself from the bed and pulled a leather wallet out of my back pocket, opened it, removed 100 euros and handed it to her. Then I snapped the wallet closed and pushed it into my jeans pocket.
The prostitute quickly examined the money and then deposited it into a locked metal box on top of her dresser. Then she began taking her clothes off.
I scooted to the bed’s edge, looking down, not paying any attention to her. She stopped as her underwear dangled around her knees and looked at me, “Don't you want to have sex?”
“No,” I snapped and added, “I just want to talk. I’m not here to have sex with you.”
She had an exacerbated look on her face. She studied me, thinking I was a raving lunatic with an axe hidden in my winter coat.
“I just want information. Please sit down.”
She put her clothes back on, sat down on a chair, and stated suspiciously, “It's your money. If you don’t want sex, then I guess that’s your problem. Then let's talk for an hour. You paid for it.”
I noticed a bowl of pears on the bed stand. I wondered if she were bored with a particular john, would she reach over, grab a pear, and eat it during sex.
She snapped, “What do you want to talk about?”
“Just hear me out. I know this is an unusual request, so I’ll start from the beginning. My girlfriend was kidnapped from Tuzla, Bosnia. I believe my boss kidnapped her and sold her to some person named Sasha in Montenegro. I came down to get my girlfriend back. So, I’m asking you for any information. Do you know where I could find her?” I said with my voice pleading for any knowledge.
“I’m sorry. I know nothing about this. Women here in Silicon Valley are independents. We just pay the police a little hush money, so they leave us alone. We’re not connected to any crime families here. Crime families own the upscale brothels here in Budva. They make much more money from the rich businessmen and government officials. Here in Silicon Valley, we service the workers who can scrounge up a little money and need a little loving from time to time.”
I pleaded, “I believe Sasha is Russian and your accent sounds Russian.”
The prostitute’s face turned ghostly white. She looked away.
“You know Sasha, don’t you?”
She reached into the top drawer in the dresser, pulled out a bottle of water and began sipping it.
“C’mon. You know him.”
“Perhaps.”
“Who is he?”
Then the prostitute replied, “I don’t know his name, but a new Russian gangster came to Budva. He’s bad news. Rumor is he’s into drugs, prostitution, gambling. You name it. If he can make money, he’ll be making it. I heard several people disappeared without a trace. I don’t want to be next.”
“How do I find him?”
“Trust me; you don’t want to find him. He’s somebody you do not want to be friends with. You don’t want to know him or know anything about him.”
“But I have to. I want my girlfriend back. Please, tell me where I can find him. I believe Sasha has her. My evil boss sold her to him.”
“I’m not really sure. I do know someone who’s not happy with Sasha. He might know. Perhaps he can help you.”
“Who is he?”
“I can’t give you any details, but he might be interested. I can refer you to him. He used to be a big shot here in Budva until the Russian took over the town. He’s a Montenegrin, and I used to work for him a couple of years ago.”
“Okay, I would like to meet him. How do I find him?”
“You don’t want to meet these people. Trust me, they’re dangerous.”
“But I need to. I want my girl back.”
The prostitute reached into the dresser drawer, pulled out her lighter, and lit a cigarette.
After she exhaled, she said, “Go to the Renaissance Night Club tomorrow night and ask the bouncer you need to speak to Senad. Perhaps, Senad will see you. Perhaps he won’t. I'll contact Senad tonight and let him know you’re coming. He’ll check on you before he meets you. What’s your name?”
“Why do you need to know my name?”
“Then I can’t help you.”
I let out a sigh and replied, “My name is Keith Swanson. I’m a professor from America.”
“I need to see some form of identification? You cannot trust anyone these days. Unfortunately, everybody lies in my profession,” the prostitute demanded as she stuck out her empty hand.
“What? Do you work for immigration?”
“Then I can’t help you.”
“That seems a bit too much.”
“How do you Americans say it: I’m putting my neck on the line?”
I pulled my passport from my coat and handed it to her.
She scribbled my name and birth date down on a small piece of paper. Then she scanned the other pages to see where I’ve been. She handed me passport and replied, “Thank you very much, Keith. I’ll make sure I pass this info to Senad. He might help you, or he might not.”
She glanced at the clock on her dresser and added, “We still have some time; do you want to have sex?” Then she pulled her bra down and pressed her breast together like a pet owner dangling a special treat for her dog.
“No, I can't. I’m in love with another woman. I'm sorry.”
The prostitute reached out to caress my shoulder, enticing me to stay.
“C’mon Keith. She’ll never know. She’ll never find out.”
I quickly ran out the prostitute's apartment and scampered away from Silicon Valley. I had seen enough for one night.
Searching for Stolen Love Page 26
