Callie's Last Dance (a Donovan Creed Novel)

by John Locke

  He nods.

  “Good boy. You know Donovan Creed?”

  Frankie nods.

  “He was hoping to be here. And no better than you’ve handled this? You’re getting off light. But while I’m more civilized than Creed, I’m just as determined to make you talk. Do you understand?”

  “I’ll talk.”

  “Good, ’cause you’re one squirt away from losing your eyesight.”

  “P-please!”

  “Creed says you’re skimming money.”

  “No. I would never—what are you doing?”

  She opens the vial of Trinidad Moruga Scorpion…

  “No!”

  …And pours it up and down the length of his penis.

  And Frankie cries. Sobs like a child.

  When at last he settles down, Callie says, “You’re not going to make me use the pure cap, are you?”

  “Drugs,” he says.

  “What about them?”

  “I’m selling drugs on the side.”

  “What type of drugs?”

  “Heroin.”

  “Who’s your contact?”

  He shakes his head.

  Callie reaches for the vial of pure capsaicin and says, “I’ll remind you. This is eight times worse than the last one. And I’ve got to say, your penis isn’t looking very happy.”

  She starts to open the vial.

  “Wait!” he says.

  She pauses.

  “Are you going to kill me anyway?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On you giving me the right answers. I know you don’t trust me, so I’m going to tell you a little secret. Sal hired Creed to kill Angie, not you. Sal doesn’t know you’ve been skimming. Creed planned to kill Angie, then torture you until he got a reason to justify your death to Sal. If Creed hadn’t been called away on business, you’d both be dead by now.”

  “But you work for Creed.”

  “Well, here’s the thing. Creed and I work for the government. They’ve offered me the top job. I said no, so they’re giving it to Creed. So I’m thinking, maybe I tell Creed I tortured you and couldn’t get anything because you’re clean. So I spare your life. Meanwhile, you cut me in on your drug deal.”

  “What about Angie?”

  “She’s resting quietly.”

  “But what about her? Are you going to kill her?”

  Callie sighs. “I can’t protect her. She’s been saying things that could bring down the whole organization.”

  “I know. Shit. I told her to stop, but she can’t keep her fuckin’ mouth shut. She hears shit, she tells it. But still. She’s my wife. Maybe I can talk to Sal, get him to give her another chance.”

  “Sorry. That’s not part of the deal.”

  “But I love her, you know? I can’t bear to watch her suffer.”

  “I understand. Look, if it makes you feel any better, she’s been dead for the past twenty minutes.”

  23.

  Donovan Creed.

  Sensory Resources, Virginia.

  “SO AFTER YOU told him Angie was dead, what did he do?” I ask.

  Callie says, “He gave me the name of his drug contact.”

  “Is it someone we know?”

  “Oh, yes indeed.”

  “Were you surprised?”

  “Stunned,” she says.

  “Am I going to be stunned?”

  “You, sir, are going to shit.”

  “Tell me.”

  24.

  “BRACE YOURSELF,” CALLIE says.

  “Enough buildup,” I say. “Who’s Frankie’s drug contact?”

  “Sophie Alexander.”

  “What? No shit?”

  “That’s what I said to Frankie!”

  “Sal’s niece?” I say.

  “The same.”

  “Wow!”

  “I said that too!” Callie says.

  I visited Sophie’s home in Nashville last month while posing as an FBI agent. I was there to observe the agency’s interrogation of Dani for the murder of her husband. At the time, Dani didn’t know me, but Sophie and I spoke in private, which gave me the opportunity to walk through her home. It was modest on the outside, but the furniture and wall hangings suggested an income beyond what she earned from writing songs. At the time I thought she might be hooking, or selling some weed on the side. But the idea Sophie might be higher up the drug ladder than Frankie De Luca?

  Astonishing.

  “Hello? Did you fall asleep?” Callie asks.

  “Why, you got a flight to catch?”

  “I try to stay busy.”

  “It’s after midnight.”

  “We’re not all a hundred years old.”

  “Sad, but true. Did Frankie give you details?”

  “Sophie’s a mule. She meets a guy in a different hotel in a different city each month. Depends on where she’s performing. The guy brings her a suitcase full of H. At some point over the next few days she meets Frankie at a pre-determined spot. They exchange suitcases.”

  “So Frankie gets next month’s heroin, Sophie gets last month’s cash.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve never heard of anyone in the drug trade waiting a whole month for payment.”

  “She must be dealing with someone at the very top.”

  “I don’t suppose Frankie gave you a name?”

  “He didn’t know any names.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Quite.”

  “You asked with extreme prejudice?”

  “You know I did. So, are you going to tell Sal about his precious niece?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Did you kill Frankie?”

  “Did you tell me to?”

  “Yes.” He pauses. Then says, “And you did?”

  Callie chuckles. “Yes, Donovan. I killed Frankie. He was in a lot of pain. It was a mercy killing.”

  “Then yes, we need to tell Sal. Sooner, not later.”

  “We?”

  “What happened to the dog?”

  “Digby’s alive and well. I set out some food and water, and moved the bodies so he won’t be too upset when he comes to. If he’s not found by ten tomorrow, I’ll place an anonymous call to the police.”

  “That’s a lot of trouble to go to. Are you going soft on me?”

  “I couldn’t bear to kill such an ugly dog.”

  “No cameras? No surveillance equipment?”

  “None.”

  “You find that odd?”

  “Not really. Sal’s pretty adamant that his lieutenants keep a low profile.”

  “I agree. But speaking of Sal, we need to tell him.”

  “That’s the second time you said ‘we.’ What am I missing?”

  “Now that I’ve got this new job, I’m hoping you’ll decide to work with me.”

  “I already work with you.”

  “I mean together. You and me.”

  “Sorry, I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I want you to help me run Sensory. We’ll work out of the office together.”

  “It’s a shit job.”

  “Currently, yes. But it doesn’t have to be.”

  “You’ve got plans?”

  “Lots.”

  “Does the committee know about your plans?”

  I laugh out loud. “What do you think?”

  “I think it’s hilarious. You’ve been on the job a few hours and you’re already fucking the system. I’m all for it. But you’re forgetting something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My penthouse in Vegas.”

  “So? I’m opening a spa and surgery center in Vegas.”

  “What I’m saying, I’m not moving to Virginia.”

  “Me either. I’m moving Sensory to Vegas.”

  “You can do that?”

  “We’ll have two locations. One for geeks, one for freaks.”

  “Freaks?”

 
; “I was channeling my inner rap star.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Geeks? Freaks? It’s a rhyme. See, what I was going for is—”

  “Donovan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep your day job.”

  “Okay.”

  25.

  Las Vegas.

  Gwen Peters.

  “LET’S SEE IF I’ve got this straight,” Gwen Peters says. “You’re offering me five hundred dollars to meet you for a cup of coffee?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Carmine Porello gave you my cell phone number?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Tell him I’m not interested.”

  “Five hundred dollars for ten minutes of your time,” the young lady says.

  “If Carmine’s paying, make it a grand. But the answer’s still going to be no.”

  “I’ll agree to the thousand,” she says. “When can we meet?”

  Gwen pauses. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Willow Breeland. And it’s not Carmine’s money, it’s mine.”

  “What’s going on here, Ms. Breeland? Are you trying to set me up?”

  “No. And you can call me Willow. I’m only eighteen.”

  “It has to be a public place.”

  “No problem.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “I’m the new girl.”

  “At Club Six?”

  “The same. Carmine talks about you all the time. I want to meet you and find out why.”

  Gwen laughs. “You’re ambitious.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I’ll make this easy. You know the Starbucks on Emerson and Valley View?”

  “No, but I’ll find it.”

  “Find it quick. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  “How will I know you?”

  Gwen laughs. “You’ll know me!” She pauses, then says. “And I’ll know you, too.”

  Gwen was right. When she enters the coffee shop twenty minutes later, a pretty young woman stands.

  Gwen walks to her table and says, “Willow?”

  “Hi, Gwen.”

  She sits down, motions Gwen to do the same.

  “You have something for me?” Gwen says.

  Willow removes an envelope from her handbag, pushes it across the table.

  “Please,” she says. “Have a seat.”

  Gwen sits, picks up the envelope, lifts the flap, smiles.

  “You’re certainly one of a kind!” she says.

  “Thank you.”

  Gwen looks at her watch. “Your ten minutes starts…right now. What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with Roy.”

  “What about him?”

  “Is he capable of bringing down Carmine?”

  “With the right backing.”

  “Then why hasn’t he?”

  Gwen starts to answer, then pauses. She looks around the room, carefully studying the customers. Finally she says, “Are you wearing a wire?”

  “No, of course not!”

  Gwen studies her a minute, then says, “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Rest room.”

  “Why?”

  “If you’re planning to ask me mob shit, you’ll have to prove you’re not wearing a wire.”

  “Wait. You don’t mean—”

  Gwen laughs. “That’s exactly what I mean!”

  26.

  “WELL, THIS IS embarrassing,” Willow says, as she lowers her panties to mid-thigh and turns in a circle.

  “Oh please,” Gwen says. “You’re a stripper. Now bend over and spread your cheeks.”

  “Really, Gwen? Because I think not.”

  Gwen laughs. “I just wanted to see how far you’d go.”

  They’re standing in the middle of the restroom at Starbucks. Willow, buck naked, save for the panties at her thighs.

  “Can I get dressed now? Because I won’t know what to say if some random customer walks in here with a little girl.”

  “Relax. It’s nine-thirty at night.” Gwen turns on both faucets and lets them run. She motions Willow to come closer. Then whispers, “If you want to ask me about the mob, do it now.”

  “Why hasn’t Roy tried to take over the business from Carmine?”

  “Have you ever heard of a guy named Donovan Creed?”

  “No.”

  “He’s a hit man for the mob. From what I hear, Roy was about to make a move on Carmine. The night before, Creed showed up in the club and saw Roy disrespecting Carmine. He gave him a lecture about it, and crushed Roy’s hand to show he’s serious. That one action saved Carmine’s life.”

  “Who was helping Roy take Carmine’s down?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you care?”

  “I want to bet on the right horse.”

  “And here I thought you wanted to talk me into coming back to the Top Six!”

  “I do. But not as a stripper.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I want you to take over Roy’s job.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a legend in the business, and Carmine loves you. I think he’d pay you a hundred grand to run the girls. Who could possibly handle the girls better than a former stripper?”

  “True. But Carmine doesn’t have the guts, or the power to fire Roy.”

  “I’ll take care of Roy.”

  “How?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m going to kill him.”

  “You?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Personally?”

  “I’d prefer to pay someone else to do it, but I’ll do it if I have to.”

  “How?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I’ll find a way to make it happen.”

  Gwen shakes her head in disbelief. Willow’s obviously crazy. But there’s something about her that fosters confidence.

  After a moment of silence, Gwen says “I might know someone.”

  “Your girlfriend?”

  Gwen says, “Carmine told you about Callie?”

  “You’d be amazed how much information I can extract from a single blow job.”

  “Eew! Sorry, but…Carmine?”

  Willow laughs. “I know, I know.”

  “Jesus, Willow. He’s what, seventy-five?”

  “Try seventy-eight.”

  “Eew.”

  “It’s not that bad. You’ve just got to get your head in the game. No pun intended.”

  “I couldn’t make myself do it. I’d gag and retch. You know those disgusting things they make you eat on Survivor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It would be like that.”

  Willow laughs. “Well, I’m certainly no expert on dicks. But in my limited experience they all taste pretty much the same. Blindfolded, I wouldn’t be able to distinguish between Brad Pitt and the Three Stooges.”

  “No offense, but you sound pretty experienced to me.”

  “I’ve blown a total of four guys if you include Carmine and my step-father.”

  “Omigod! Your step-father?”

  “Not all blow jobs are by design.”

  “Wow. I’m sorry.”

  Willow shrugs. “Water under the bridge.”

  “You’re pretty stoic about it.”

  “They call it a blow job for a reason. It’s a job. A chore. Something no one wants to do on a regular basis. But if you’re selective, it can be one of the highest-paying jobs around. If I’m a painter, welder, school teacher, or waitress, I’m working eight hours a day, on my feet, eyes open. And what’s the reward? A meager salary from which the government takes thirty-five percent. Or I can blow Carmine for ten minutes a day with my eyes closed. In return, he gives me a twelve hundred dollar-a-month apartment, a car, and two hundred fifty bucks a week for living expenses. He’s with his family on Sundays, so I’m on call six days a week. That’s the equivalen
t of getting a thousand bucks a week for an hour of actual work. Of course, I choose to spend a couple hours a day talking to him, but that’s a separate investment.”

  “I never thought of it like that,” Gwen says. “Where do I sign up?”

  “Gwen, seriously. If you and I team up there’s no limit to what we can accomplish.”

  “I admire your ability to dream big.”

  “It all starts with the first step. I’m in with Carmine. Second step, Roy. You think Callie will kill Roy for us?”

  “Not even.”

  “Why not? It’s how she makes her living.”

  “She wouldn’t want me working there. But can I tell you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m not gay. And although it’s a great lifestyle, the handwriting’s on the wall.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a kept woman, we’re drifting apart. I can tell she’s going to dump me soon.”

  “Why?”

  “I begged her to take me with her this weekend to a big party in Cincinnati. She refused.”

  “Bad sign.”

  “I know, right?” Gwen says.

  “A hundred grand would make you an independent woman of means.”

  Gwen laughs. “’Woman of means?’ Who talks like that?”

  She laughs again. Then says, “Anyway, I’d need more than a hundred grand to leave Callie.”

  “What if I gave you a piece of the club?”

  “Excuse me? No offense, Willow, but you’re still at square one. You may have big plans, but at the moment, if we’re keeping it real, you’re a cocksucker. You might be blowing the boss, but he owns the club, not you.”

  For a split second Willow’s jaw clenches in anger. But she works through the insult and says, “A year from now you won’t remember how I started.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’m going to leverage my sexual skills into an ownership position.”

  “You’re crazy. He’d never give you his club.”

  Willow waves her hand dismissively. “No. But under the right circumstances he’ll sell me forty-five percent.”

  “Math was never my best subject,” Gwen says, “but I’m pretty sure it takes fifty-one percent ownership to have control.”

  “In the real world it only takes fifty and the hyphen to control a fifty-fifty deal. I’ll own forty-five percent, you’ll own five, which gives us fifty.”