Valentin stared at Gage’s hand for a moment before shaking it. Ocho followed suit.
Gage walked into the night.
* * *
The idea that had struck Gage before his meeting bloomed like a flower. Focusing on the idea and its elements, Gage didn’t allow himself to mull Navarro’s offer. Not yet. He’d taken the last bus back to Lloret de Mar and gone to his hotel room. After making the bed and brushing his teeth, he stashed one of the Russian’s pistols in his suitcase. He grabbed several zip-ties from his suitcase and left the room. Since that time, still working on the fabric of his plan, he’d walked the frenzied streets.
It was now after two in the morning and Lloret de Mar was still going strong. He’d witnessed a fight spill out of a disco onto the cobblestone pedestrian street—two skinny men in trendy clothes took a royal beating from a duo of overly muscled, heavily-tattooed men Gage pegged as Irish. Just when it appeared the two skinny men were beaten, one of them reached into his pants. The appearance of the glinting switchblade ended the entire affair without anything more serious than a bloody nose as the two skinny men yelled after the running Irishmen, insulting them for cowardice.
Cowardice or intelligence? Gage wondered.
It felt good to be back in Europe, back to the unique clash of cultures. Back to the sights and smells. The doner kebabs and the proliferation of smokers. The ancient buildings and the zany fashions.
Gage was home.
He kept going, walking the streets in a grid pattern, never making eye contact with the multitude of barkers doing their best to entice him into their club. He was promised women, men, hashish, and even vodka-laced Italian ice. Like a lion pacing his cage for exercise, Gage put his head down and kept on walking.
Pausing at a church, Gage stared up at the bell tower, lit by twin spotlights. The church was Catholic, situated between the throbbing humanity of the clubs and discos. He found a marker, denoting the building as nearly eight hundred years old. It boggled his mind to think of the changes that had occurred around that old cathedral.
He placed all the money from his pocket in the steel box under the statue of a saint, allowing his hand to linger there for a moment. Then, moving at a faster pace than he had earlier, he walked about a kilometer back to a place he’d visited earlier.
It was the Russian club, Eastern Bloc.
And it was now 2:30 A.M.
From across the main street, as he queued with a group of people smoking outside another nightclub, Gage eyed the door of the Russian establishment. People flooded out, mostly in groups. The last few were either staggering drunk or hanging on a member of the opposite sex’s arm. No one went inside. At 2:40, the lights in the front stairwell went out, followed by the red neon sign. Gage hurried a block to the west before navigating to the alleyway behind the club, then he made his way back east.
Behind Eastern Bloc were several cars. There was a large Mercedes, an Audi S4 with numerous aftermarket modifications, and an old Volkswagen van with French plates. Above the rear door of the club was a solitary light with a rain shield over the bulb. Gage found a sandwich wrapper and, standing on a paint can, used the wrapper to unscrew the bulb. The alleyway was now dark. He waited behind the van.
At 3:17 A.M. the rear door opened. A heavily-muscled man exited, glancing up at the darkened light before jingling his keys. The Mercedes chirped, marked by its parking lights casting flashes of amber light over the alleyway. Humming a tune, the car’s owner flicked a cigarette that almost hit Gage. He entered the Mercedes, disappearing at idle before the car’s tires screeched as it roared away.
Ten minutes later another man exited. Though the alley was dark, Gage’s eyes had adjusted and he noticed the burgundy suit of his Russian friend, Dmitry. The Russian staggered to his car, leaning on it for support before vomiting explosively. Gage was only ten feet away from the splattering. By the time Dmitry had essentially fallen inside the Audi, the stench wafted to Gage—vodka, onions and stomach acid.
Doing his best to ignore the stink, Gage watched as Dmitry drove away. As the Audi went by the van Gage was able to see the driver, illuminated by the reddish cockpit lights. Still looking quite nauseous and in no shape to drive, the Russian was rubbing his Adam’s apple.
That’ll hurt for at least three days, Dmitry. Hopefully you’re bright enough to ice it.
A few minutes after the Audi was out of sight, the rear door opened again. A short man held the door as a number of females exited. It only took them a moment to notice the rancid smell, evidenced by them waving their hands in front of their faces as one of them made a joke about it. Gage eyed the group through the window of the van. Standing in the middle, as they waited on the man to unlock the Volkswagen, was Justina. Her arms were crossed in front of her as if she were cold. She did not join the laughter of the other girls.
The van was parked so that the sliding door of the passenger side was nearest the rear door of Eastern Bloc. The old Volkswagen must not have had keyless entry because the girls just stood there while the man entered a sequence of numbers on the building’s keypad, grumbling about something—probably the lack of light from above.
There was another joke. Again the girls laughed. Justina’s arms remained crossed, her head down. It was the posture of someone who wished she weren’t there.
And Gage aimed to do something about that.
While the man cursed the keypad, Gage moved. Star pistol leading the way, he came around the van, using a high shooting position. Despite the darkness, the girls saw him coming, marked by one of them uttering a piercing scream just as Gage reached the diminutive man. The man had just started to turn when Gage pressed the pistol into his neck, causing him to stiffen.
“Do not move,” Gage growled in Spanish. He used his left hand to remove one of the thick zip-ties. He wrenched the man’s left hand down, moving it up behind his back, the effect creating significant tension on the man’s shoulder joint and causing him to grunt. Gage stuffed the Star into his belt and moved his right hand to the man’s right hand.
And that’s when the man resisted.
The man, a Russian judging by the curses he growled, made an attempt to spin to his left. If someone had advised him on an escape, his choice would have definitely been the best option because turning left, in theory, would relieve the pressure of the hold Gage had applied.
But Gage’s grip on the man’s left wrist was hydraulic. Sensing the movement, Gage swung his right elbow in a vicious arc, catching the man above his ear and splitting the fresh scab on Gage’s elbow wide open.
It was almost the exact same move Gage had used in Waco, Texas only a few days before.
The elbow silenced the torrent of Russian curses. Gage caught the man as he fell, setting him down to the filthy alley floor and securely zip-tying his hands behind his back. Then the American lifted the keys from the ground and walked to the stunned women, all but one of whom skittered backward.
Gage held out his hand to Justina.
Speaking Polish, one of the women yelled what must have been admonishments at Gage. She was visibly confused about what was going on. They all were. All, that is, but Justina.
She stared at Gage’s face, then at his hand. When she placed her hand in his, Gage used his other hand to toss the keys to the nearest of the women, telling them in Spanish to do as they pleased.
Leading Justina by the hand, and moving with a purpose, Gage Hartline led her up the alleyway, across the street and into the old city. As they walked, Gage was electrified by the confrontation, by the setting, and by the feeling of the warm, feminine hand in his. When, after a few blocks, they reached his hotel, he turned to her, having not said a word since liberating her.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I am now.”
Chapter Five
The balcony of Gage’s hotel room faced to the northwest. Nearby foothills loomed behind the beachside resort, their ridges marked by blackness. Behind the hills was the panorama of purple night
and, somewhere in the distance and unseen, the rugged peaks of the Pyrenees. Between the occasional wafts from Justina’s cigarette, Gage enjoyed the sea smell as the wind blew in from the Mediterranean. There were occasional voices below them, in the streets, as the party town wound down from another night of reveling, regurgitating drunks from its many clubs to stagger blindly back to their hotels. Someone in another room had left their balcony door open, the sounds of their intimate union coming and going and, for whatever reason, making Gage slightly embarrassed.
Since arriving at the hotel, Gage and Justina’s conversation had consisted only of a few sentences. He’d learned that her last name was Kaminski. He’d also gotten her a glass of water. Justina leaned against the railing, smoking her third cigarette, facing inward. She seemed shaken. Gage stood next to her, facing outward, his eyes moving over the Spanish countryside.
“Thank you,” she said for the third time.
“No need to thank me.”
She shut her eyes, tilting her head back. “I’m going to be in so much trouble.”
“You won’t be in any trouble as long as you don’t go back.”
“I’ll have to work somewhere and they’ll find me. It’s not like I know a trade. I can’t be a nurse or a teacher or even a cook.” She flicked her cigarette over the railing. “I’m just poor Polish trash who happened to be born with a decent body. Working in a bar, for tips, is all I know.”
Just as he was about to speak, one of the copulators from down below reached a noisy crescendo. Gage had been facing Justina but turned his head back to the hills as he spoke. “You haven’t been working, in the traditional sense. You’ve been an indentured servant. While you think you have no skills, I’d wager that those Russian club owners have burned that notion into your head for so long that you actually believe it.”
“It’s true,” she said sullenly. “I am nothing.”
“So you just work here for the season?”
She nodded.
“What do you do in the winter?”
“Work with my mama’s employer.”
“Doing what?”
“Cleaning dirty businesses. Emptying trash. Scrubbing shit from toilets.”
Gage turned to her, viewing the smooth shape of her face, the protruding high cheekbones, and the swept back blonde hair. “Justina, how many years have you come here?”
“This is my fourth time.”
“Do they fly you down?”
“Are you joking?” she scoffed. “They stuff eight girls in that van you were hiding behind. It’s made for six passengers, and with luggage even that would be tight.”
“All from Poland?”
She nodded.
He wondered how many other local workers suffered under these conditions. “Do they force you to come?”
“No,” she admitted. “At the end of last year, when they drove us back to Polska, they told us the date and time they would pick us up—seven months later. As long as a girl has not had a baby, which, according to the Russians, would spoil her body, or as long as she isn’t too old or unattractive, she has a chance to be one of the eight that get chosen. It’s this way each year. Each year I say I will not come back, but I do, for the money.” Justina put another cigarette in her mouth, speaking with it clamped there.
“Two girls were turned away this year. It always happens. They make us strip to our underwear on the side of the busy street. It was freezing cold that day and raining. As we stood there shivering, that little troll you beat up tonight rubbed his hand over every girl’s body—if it jiggled, he rejected her.” She lit her cigarette, showing the harshness of her expression. “One girl, who I thought was beautiful, had a tiny bit of stomach sticking out below her belly button. It was nothing. The little troll called her ‘zhir,’ which is Russian for fat, and told her to piss off. She went away crying that she had no money and no place to stay. It was awful but, I have to admit, I was so happy that day they chose me to come again.”
“I understand.”
“But now, as I told you earlier, I’ve decided that I can’t take it anymore.”
“You weren’t feeling that way before you came this year?”
“No, because like that girl that was rejected for her tummy, I have no money…I spend every groszy I make helping my family and buying food. Back in Polska, I live in a tiny house with the rest of my family. Coming here, while it’s no fun, is a half-year break from scrubbing shit and I am able to come home to my family a small amount of money at season’s end.”
Gage had no response to her discourse—her feelings were obviously genuine and justified. While he had no idea of the things she’d endured, he was empathetic.
“I’m sorry for my emotions,” she said. “In the past I could get through a season. But this year…”
“Did something happen to you?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “I’m just…I don’t know…getting older, I guess.”
“You’ll feel better after you sleep.” Gage walked through the room and into the bathroom, brushing his teeth. When he walked back into the bedroom, she was standing there.
“Tired?” he asked.
“You’re going to sleep?”
“I am.” After turning the bedside lamp off, he removed his shirt, his boots, and his socks. He left his t-shirt and pants on. Then he flopped down on the bed, motioning to the still-lit bathroom. “If you don’t find it gross, you’re more than welcome to use my toothbrush and toothpaste.”
Justina eyed him curiously for a moment. He made his face pleasant, lacing his hands behind his head as he closed his eyes, regulating his breathing. Moments later he could hear her as she brushed her teeth. He heard the water stop and could hear the flick of the light switch. She stepped back into the dark bedroom, standing there, appearing unsure of what to do.
“I won’t bite you,” Gage said, for lack of anything else to say. She removed her top and the short skirt, sliding into the bed in the bikini he had seen earlier. He recalled how she’d smelled earlier in the day. He smelled her again, the feminine scent making his head spin. She was closest to the balcony door; he was next to the wall. Gage rolled to his right side, telling her to sleep well.
Again he closed his eyes.
When ten minutes had passed, as he neared the welcome cliff of sleep, he felt her hand. She was pulling him to her. Gage rolled over, allowing her hand to situate him behind her, lying there as one. Justina found his right hand and pulled it to her stomach, flattening it there and resting her hand on top.
The American man and the Polish woman slept soundly. Together.
* * *
Gage was up after four hours of good sleep. Though he didn’t think there was much of a decision to be made, it was time to face the choice that lay in front of him.
He stood from the bed, drawing no movement at all from Justina. As he slid on a pair of old and friendly blue jeans from his pack, he couldn’t help but look at her. The sheet covered her lower half. Her youthful, taut body absorbed the sleep like the good medicine it was. Her full lips were parted slightly, altering the pitch between her inhalations and exhalations. Last night, when she’d pulled him to her, she’d held her hand over his for a solid hour, nestling her body back into his as if his human touch was curative. Finally, sometime around daybreak, he’d awoken to find her splayed halfway on top of him. And after that, in his final slice of sleep, Gage’s subconscious conjured an ethereal dream about Monika, his former lover whose life had been cut tragically short.
The dream wasn’t significant, just the two of them hiking a perilous seaside trail, having an innocuous conversation. As Gage tugged on a long-sleeve t-shirt he paused his reflection, wondering if the perilous trail represented the path he was now on.
And why Monika? He hadn’t dreamed of her in months.
He slid on his ancient Asics running shoes and again rotated his eyes to Justina, sleeping peacefully.
She’s the first woman I’ve had emotional interactio
n with since Monika. He nodded to himself. That’s why.
He skipped the cramped two-person elevator, taking the stairs instead. Downstairs he found three dozen early-rising tourists wolfing down a buffet breakfast of fried-hard eggs, fruit, and a strange-looking type of processed meat that had been seared on a large skillet. Gage stepped to the attendant, showing him his room key and asking if he could take a mug of coffee on a walk as long as he brought the mug back.
“Certainly, señor,” the man beamed. “Our beach is always pretty, but it’s especially beautiful at this time of day.”
Nodding his thanks, steaming mug in hand, Gage exited and turned right, headed for the shore.
There were rows and rows of touristy curio shops between his hotel and the beach, all shuttered at this early hour. Few people roamed the wet streets, a trace of steam rising from an early morning shower that had already passed by. He descended a narrow street, passing a Scottish bar that looked slightly worse for the wear after what must have been a lively evening. On his left, as he neared the main road, was the requisite McDonalds that is now found in seemingly every European city of decent size. Sipping the stark hotel coffee, Gage walked to the seawall, descending the steps and slipping off his shoes for a stroll by the water.
The distant water was glassy but, at its shore, the Mediterranean offered atypically large waves. Breakers of three to four feet built slowly, crashing in a thundering yet lonely arrival. He turned landward and viewed the horizon over the resort, finishing the strong coffee as he deliberately considered the insanity of voluntarily sending himself to prison. Before he could even consider the offer, there were a number of questions that needed answering, and those needed to be ranked by importance. Floating to the top of the list was Navarro himself: could he be trusted?
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