Back AT You

by John W. Mefford

  Ivy chimed in with, “Alex, this is Madame Lady Di. I was just asking her, uh…him about a girl I’m looking for. Angel Bailey.”

  I gave a quick nod to Ivy, then went back to Lady Di. “So, what can you tell us about Angel? Does she, uh…work here?”

  “No, and I told your friend that too.”

  “So, why did you pull this heel-knife on her?”

  I heard shoes clapping against the wooden stairs above us.

  “Would you mind if I stood up?” Lady Di said. “I don’t want the girls to freak out. I’m not running anywhere.”

  I paused a second, trying to read his face. It was impossible. He wore so much makeup he didn’t look human. “Okay, but I keep the blade for now.”

  He sniffed, lifted his chin. “I guess I’ll have to walk on one heel, but sometimes a lady has to make sacrifices, I suppose.” His voice had suddenly pitched higher. He rose to his feet and adjusted the bow around his neck—which hid his Adam’s apple. Clasping his hands in front of his pink dress, he said, “There.” He was now back in full character.

  A girl walked by, gave us a quick glance, but kept moving. She was wearing a negligee with a sheer robe.

  Just after the girl passed, Ivy spoke up. “So, Angel, the girl I described, doesn’t work here?”

  “No.”

  That was a quick answer. I asked, “Did you see Angel’s picture?”

  Lady Di shook her head, and then I looked to Ivy, who shrugged. “My phone got crushed…right after I was almost hit by an eighteen-wheeler, which happened after I got a flat tire.”

  I just shook my head. “One of those days?”

  She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Don’t get me started.”

  I pulled out my phone, found the text from Nick, and showed Angel’s picture to Lady Di. “She could be using a different name,” I suggested.

  Lady Di studied it for a second. “Like I told your friend, she’s not here. I don’t hire girls who wear braces, no matter what their age is. And I don’t hire underage girls. I don’t want to be shut down. This place is a cash cow.”

  Ivy and I shared a quick glance, and then I swung my sights back to the Madame. She batted her eyelashes—they were the size of a bat’s wings, although the ones over her left eye were only partially attached.

  “Do you know anyone named Cadillac?” I asked.

  The eyelashes stopped flapping; in fact, Lady Di might have stopped breathing. “I’ve seen Cadillacs in our parking lot,” he said with a giggle that tried to be feminine but seemed to be hijacked by his real voice. I read that as stress.

  “And I’ve seen Cadillacs on commercials, the ones with Matthew McConaughey. Don’t play games with me.”

  “He does Lincoln commercials, thank you very much. Believe me, I follow that dreamboat in whatever he does.” Lady Di popped an eyebrow. Who knew that it could move?

  “Okay, whatever. I’m asking about a person named Cadillac.”

  He pursed his lips, as his eyes dropped to the floor. He knew something, but he was delaying.

  I said, “Lady Di, or whatever your name is, you need to tell us where we can find Cadillac. We think he’s kidnapped a girl.”

  No immediate response.

  Ivy stepped a foot closer to Lady Di. “You do know that she’s an FBI agent, yes? And she can shut down your cash cow faster than you can say ‘Pussy Cat Club.’”

  Damn, I wish she hadn’t said that.

  Lady Di got stiff and looked right at me. “Where are your credentials? Is this some type of sting operation? I know my rights.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This is not a sting operation. We’re not here to shut you down…not unless you don’t cooperate.”

  He opened his palms to the ceiling. “I already told you that this Angel person does not work here. I’ve never seen her.”

  “I asked about Cadillac. Who is he, and where is he?” The runaround was getting old. I could feel stiffness in my neck.

  He lifted his chin. “I need to see your FBI credentials. I know how this works. Too many people barge in here—earlier this morning even—acting like they’re so important, throwing out threats left and right. I used to shudder every time that happened. No more. That’s why I take a different approach now,” he said, nodding at the blade in my hand.

  He had anger-management issues, obviously. Then again, I’d never been in his…uh, her shoes. I wished, though, that Ivy had never gone there with the FBI comment.

  “My credentials were stolen,” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “What?” Ivy squeaked.

  “It’s a long story. Everything I have was stolen,” I said to Ivy. Then I shifted my eyes back to Lady Di. “This Cadillac person may be connected to what happened to a family member of mine. So, while I may not have my FBI credentials on me, I’m one very pissed-off mother. You need to tell me everything you know about Cadillac. Now.” I didn’t lift the blade, but I moved it around in my hand. Lady Di looked at it and then held up her hands.

  “Cadillac isn’t someone you want to screw with. If I say anything, and he finds out it came from my mouth, he might put his shotgun in my mouth and blow a hole through the back of my head.” I heard a quake in his voice, which had returned to its natural octave.

  “I hear you. But if we stop him, arrest him, then he won’t threaten or harm you or anyone else.”

  He chuckled, but there was no humor behind it. “You don’t understand. Cadillac has connections. Big connections. You don’t get away with what he’s done, or been rumored to have done, without knowing the right people. This is Vegas, baby. It’s how the world works.”

  That sounded all too much like what Tanner had said. “Well, this is America, baby. We’re not in some foreign country. It’s illegal to kidnap girls, drug them, and use them as prostitutes.”

  He put a hand to his chest. “I would never…”

  “But Cadillac would, right? And I’m guessing he’s connected to the drug business in a big way.”

  He put a hand to his forehead. “Dear God, if this gets back to me…” He clipped off his sentence, pondering his next thought.

  “You want to run a legal business with no hassles?” Ivy asked.

  “Okay, okay. You can sometimes find Cadillac at the bar that he owns.”

  “The name?”

  “The Wild Thing.”

  “The Wild Thing,” I repeated under my breath.

  “It has something to do with his career as a baseball player. Doesn’t matter. Just please keep my name out of it.” Lady Di’s hands flitted around as she said this.

  “You’ve been a great help.” I nudged my head toward the front door. Ivy started in that direction, and I followed.

  “Hey, what about my heel?”

  “I’ll leave it outside.”

  Ivy paused at the door, then turned back to Lady Di. “You said something about other people ‘barging’ in here. What did you mean? Were they asking about girls?”

  “Three men were here earlier this morning, asking if I’d seen someone named Liv…Olivia Bradshaw, or was it Nancy? I’m not even sure I have the name right. I couldn’t understand them very well, and they had a threatening presence.” His voice trailed off for a second.

  Ivy nodded. “And?”

  “Probably nothing, but one of the Russians—”

  “They were Russian?” I asked.

  “I guess technically they could be from one of the former Soviet republics like Estonia or Latvia, but to get to my point, he said she could be with a younger girl.”

  “Why didn’t you fucking tell us?” Ivy barked.

  “Whoa, sister, back the fuck up. I didn’t know—and I still don’t know—who they were talking about.”

  “Did they show you a picture?”

  “Of the younger girl? No. I just assumed it was like a little kid, maybe this other woman’s daughter.”

  “But they showed you a picture of the woman?”

  He nodded. “She was one of
those trashy women who try too hard to shock you. Piercings all over her face, jet-black hair cut like she was a boy, and this crazy tattoo of a snake around her neck.” His expression was pure revulsion.

  I wasn’t sure if these Russians were actually looking for Angel—my gut said no—but I reminded her that she’d find her heel blade in the parking lot.

  “Just keep my name out of it. I want to live to see tomorrow.”

  I only hoped that Angel would as well.

  30

  Ivy

  Once outside, I found out Alex didn’t have a car. She’d taken a cab from the airport after getting her ticket to fly out of Vegas.

  “Fly out? When did you fly in?”

  “Lots to share, but let’s get out of this parking lot,” she said, crawling into the passenger’s seat.

  I pulled onto the highway and started driving east. I felt her eyes on me.

  “You’re not what I pictured,” she said.

  She was referring to our previous interactions—all by phone. Almost two years ago, she was brought in to help me work a case that involved my best friend—well, the man to whom she was engaged, Zeke. Alex was in France at the INTERPOL headquarters as the lone FBI representative to work collaboratively on a plan to take down a drug-cartel leader based out of Ukraine. He was a former KGB agent. Alex had been invaluable in finding out whose team Zeke was really playing for. After watching my friend’s father be killed right before my eyes, and then finding out my friend had been kidnapped, I had to have answers. Turned out, Zeke was somewhat of a double-agent, although nothing formal. He was a private contractor who was trying to do the right thing but was breaking countless laws in the process. He ended up saving my friend from sure death, and then he’d disappeared. Alex, though, had left an indelible impression on me. Even from across the pond, I felt she had this strength about her that seemed impenetrable.

  “Must be the grime from changing the tire.” I tried rubbing my face with my shirt sleeve.

  She shook her head. “Not working.”

  “Thank you for saving my butt in there,” I said.

  “No problem. Your tax dollars at work,” she said, arching an eyebrow.

  “But you don’t have your FBI credentials. I’m confused. I assumed you showed up because of the Stan-Nick connection.”

  “Yes…partially. There are two pieces to how I ended up here. The second part is much shorter.”

  She explained how Stan had sent the Angel photo and the recording of my conversation with Bennie Baldwin to his cousin Nick, who then, once he found out Alex was in Vegas, reached out to her asking if she’d assist.

  “Well, I first asked my daughter if she recognized Angel, and she said yes.”

  “What the fuck? How would your daughter know Angel?” I asked.

  “Well, that’s the first part of the story.” Her chest lifted, and she pushed out a long breath. And then she talked for fifteen minutes straight. By the time she finished, it felt like someone had taken a crowbar to my spine. I looked at her as she thumbed a tear out of her eye.

  “I’m still a little emotional from it all.”

  “Understandable, Alex. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, but I’m also relieved that she’s safe, and her friend too.” I kept my eyes on a road that went straight as far as the eye could see. “Maggots like Bennie Baldwin back in San Antonio and these perverts in the president masks and this Cadillac guy…that’s why I started ECHO. No one really seemed to care about what was happening to young people. I couldn’t just let these kids be abused over and over again. I felt like I had to at least try to make a difference.”

  “It’s a great cause, Ivy. And you’re a helluva strong woman to take it on.”

  I held up my fist. She kind of looked at it for a moment. “Don’t leave me hanging,” I said.

  She chuckled and gave me a fist bump. “You’re making me feel like I’m closer to Erin’s age.”

  “Well, I work with an eighteen-year-old every day, so I guess it rubs off some.”

  “Cristina, right?”

  I nodded. “So, you have no FBI credentials or a gun, and I have no phone.”

  “But you do have a car with a baby tire,” she said.

  “I guess that means no high-speed car chases.”

  She didn’t respond. She was texting, although it was at a tortoise-like speed—the antithesis of Cristina. Her phone buzzed a minute later.

  “Okay, while we wait for a text back from one of my colleagues, let me find out where this bar is. The Wild Thing,” she said, pulling up a map app.

  “So is that the plan? Just hunt down Cadillac at his bar?” I asked.

  She was too focused to respond at first. Finally, she lifted her head. “I’m sorry. I’m getting too old to multitask. You were saying?”

  “How do we find Angel? I mean, all I know is to go to every brothel in the area and ask about Angel or Cadillac. But we can see how well that went back at the Pussy Cat Club.”

  Her phone rang. “This could help us.” She punched up the line and tapped the speaker button.

  “Hey, Nick. I’m in a car with Ivy.”

  “Ivy Nash. How the hell are you doing?” Nick said.

  “You don’t want to know how my day’s going. Alex tells me you’re back to work and feeling better.”

  “Jerry, that sonofabitch, thinks I’m not ready for fieldwork yet.”

  I looked at Alex, who rolled her eyes and shook her head.

  “I’m sure it will happen soon. Be patient, my friend,” I said.

  “Just remember, Stan and I come from the same gene pool. So, I don’t like sitting on the sideline.”

  Alex jumped in. “Nick, what else have you found out about our boy, Cadillac?”

  “Hey, Alex. Delmer Stratton is in the house. Whoop-whoop!”

  My eyes went wide, and I mouthed Who is that? to Alex.

  “Hey, Delmer. Thanks for jumping on.”

  She tapped the mute button and quickly said. “New guy on the team. Kind of annoying, very strange, but smart as hell. His father was FBI, and he died in the line of duty.”

  I nodded as Alex punched up the line again. “So, back to this Cadillac person, do we have any more—”

  “This is my area of expertise, Alex,” Delmer said.

  “Okay, spit it out.”

  “Right here in the office, or should I go into the bathroom?”

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m just joking, Alex.”

  “A girl’s life is on the line here, Delmer,” I said.

  “Oh, right. Ivy. Nice to meet you, Ms. Nash.”

  I gave Alex a cross-eyed look and said, “Hi, Delmer.”

  “Tell us what you know,” Alex said.

  “Cadillac was a relief pitcher. Spent most of his career at the Triple-A affiliate of the New York Mets.”

  A pause.

  “Okay…” Alex said.

  “He had a decent earned run average, just under four, but he was all over the place. Lots of strikeouts—his fastball scared the crap out of most hitters. But lots of walks and hit batters. He had this evil laugh every time he plunked some batter on the elbow or knee. The guys who covered him always thought he had a screw loose.”

  “Great information, Delmer…if I was playing historical fantasy baseball.”

  “Technically,” he said, “that wouldn’t be possible since he was in the minor leagues. Although he had a cup of coffee with the Mets when he was in his late twenties.”

  I gave Alex a wide-eyed stare, and she held up her hand. I think she was saying this was part of the process of working with Delmer.

  “You never said where he played his minor-league ball,” Alex said.

  “I figured you knew that the Mets’ Triple-A affiliate is in Las Vegas, although they’re in the process of changing teams. He played for the Las Vegas Stars. They’ve since changed their name to the 51s. Weird, right?”

  I reached over and hit the mute button. “Weird is right. What isn’t w
eird about this guy?”

  Alex held up her hand again, nodded her understanding, and then reopened the line. “So, he’s got a mean streak, and people think he had a screw loose. Good insight, Delmer.”

  “Why, thank you.” He laughed, like a really “Goofy” laugh, as in the Disney character Goofy. “Let’s back up a moment, though. What’s his real name?”

  “Damn, that should have been the lead. It’s Travis Wild.”

  “The Wild Thing,” I said in unison with Alex. We both smirked at our timing.

  “You got it. Now you know how he came up with the name of his bar,” Delmer said.

  “Listen, kid…” Nick jumped in, but then I heard a groan. Maybe his injuries were still bothering him, even if he didn’t want to admit it. “Can you get to the point on this guy?”

  “Yes sir. So, Travis Wild has been arrested three times, but no convictions.”

  “Must have had a good lawyer,” Alex said. “I didn’t think minor-league ballplayers made much money, but maybe he’s doing okay in the business world.”

  “Each of the three cases was thrown out because of a lack of evidence.”

  “And what were the charges for these cases?”

  “Same thing each time. Sexual assault of a minor.”

  It felt like someone had swung a baseball bat into my chest. I took in a breath and shared a quick glance with Alex.

  “Thanks for the info, Delmer,” Alex said. “Nick, anything back from Agent Tanner?”

  “Nothing. It’s like the guy is on a four-hour lunch break.”

  Alex looked straight out the windshield, her face turning a hot pink. “Well, let us know if you learn anything else. We’ll be in touch.”

  She ended the call and then checked her map application. “Ten miles until we reach The Wild Thing.”

  “So, to find out where Angel is, are you thinking we should sweet-talk old Travis, or threaten him within an inch of his life?”

  Alex looked at me, her cheeks still pink. “A fastball straight at his head.”

  “Damn, I like the way your mind works.”

  31

  Alex

  Our first trip to The Wild Thing told us two things: the parking lot was completely vacant, which made sense. It was too early for a bar to be open. Secondly, from the outside, it appeared to be a dump. There was graffiti on the sidewalk leading up to the front door, which was a checkerboard of wooden planks and foggy glass. The green paint job on the building looked like it had survived a tornado, and there were all sorts of debris in the parking lot.