Most Dangerous Place

by James Grippando

  “Gotta be someone still here,” said Theo.

  He gave it more thought, and then he suddenly seemed to have something. “Sammy.”

  “How do I meet this Sammy?”

  “He’s upstairs, in his private space.”

  “Can you take us?”

  Richie laughed. “No way. I can let him know he’s got visitors. If he’s interested, he’ll send for you. Just hang out by the bar for a while. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Theo gave him a friendly slap on the arm, his way of saying thank you. The red velvet ropes parted, the bouncer stepped aside, and Jack and Theo entered, much to the envy of the block-long line of beautiful people waiting to get inside.

  Club Inversion was once known as Club Vertigo, until a major undercover bust for trafficking in synthetic drugs sent the original owners to prison and their company into bankruptcy. The DEA connected Vertigo to a network of drop points across Miami-Dade County that received three hundred different varieties shipped from chemical factories clustered in the Hebei region outside Beijing—including tons of methylone, the main ingredient in a drug that Madonna made even more popular by walking onstage at South Beach’s annual “Ultra” concert and shouting, “Has anyone seen Molly?” The club had a new name and a new owner, but the look and feel of the place was the same, the gaping interior of a four-story warehouse having been gutted and completely reconfigured with a tall and narrow atrium. The main bar and dancing were on the ground floor, and several large mirrors suspended at varying heights and at different angles made it difficult at times to discern whether you were looking up or down. With even a slight buzz on, the pounding music, swirling lights, and throngs of sweaty bodies were enough to give anyone a case of vertigo. The sensation worked both ways, with hordes of people watchers looking down on the dance crowd from tiered balconies.

  “Over there,” said Jack. He led Theo to a couple of stools at the far end of the bar, away from the action, where they could at least hear themselves talk.

  “That chick is checking me out,” said Theo.

  He meant the woman at the other end of the bar, a dark-haired beauty wearing a clingy white dress and a gold necklace that played beautifully off her brown skin. She was peering over the sugar-coated rim of her cocktail glass—straight at Theo.

  “Stay focused,” Jack told him.

  Jack knew Theo’s type, and if this one kept cutting eyes at him, it wouldn’t be long before Theo was caught up in her, the music, the energy, the intoxicating mix of perfumes wafting up from the crowd—the whole package. As if there weren’t enough distractions, “Albino Girl” was now onstage at the other end of the club, a Vegas-style act in which a dancer managed to keep time to the music while a thirteen-foot, lemon-yellow albino python coiled itself around her sculptured body.

  The woman at the bar tossed her hair, but when she glanced back in Theo’s general direction, her gaze came to rest on Jack.

  Theo smiled. “Whaddya know? She’s into white dudes.”

  “Sorry. My prenup with Andie allows me to have extramarital sex only with Eva Longoria, and then only if she initiates it.”

  “Hmm. Who’d Andie get in that deal?”

  “Brad Pitt. But only if he can jump back into that movie where he aged in reverse—Benjamin Button—and make himself look the way he did in Thelma and Louise.”

  Theo arched an eyebrow, shooting Jack an exaggerated look of disapproval. “This is not something you’re making up on the fly. You and your woman actually had this stupid fucking conversation, didn’t you? Don’t lie to me.”

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  “Ought to plead guilty by reason of marital insanity.”

  Jack’s gaze drifted back toward the woman in the white dress, who was talking on her cell. The call ended quickly. She tucked her phone away, climbed down from the barstool, and walked over, stopping a few feet away. She tossed her long, dark hair again, this time with attitude, and spoke in Spanish. “Sammy will see you.”

  Dominican, Jack guessed. His ear for Spanish was better than his tongue, so he answered in English.

  “You must be one of his messengers.”

  “You must be Einstein,” she said. Joo muss . . . “Come.”

  She led them up a curved stairwell to the second floor, which was essentially a mezzanine overlooking the dance floor. There was another velvet rope at the top of the stairs, but Sammy’s messenger gained them hassle-free entry. A host of privileged partiers were standing at the balcony rail, peering down at the dancers. Designer clothes and flashy jewelry were everywhere, people outfitted to show off their money, a buff body, collagen lips, Botoxed brows, and, in many cases, an utter lack of taste. One trend was especially obvious. Some women seemed to think it stylish to rip the designer label from their jeans, and the seat of their pants right along with it, so that their bare skin somehow managed to brush up against any guy they passed. Jack figured that by the time he left this place, he’d know how to say “nice ass” in at least five different languages.

  The real action, however, was in the private rooms. Jack counted at least a dozen, each set well back from the rail, one after the other, like cabanas at a beach club. Most had open access to the mezzanine area, with invited guests having a good time in plain view. Their Dominican escort took them to one that was making use of the privacy curtain. She peeled back the white linen drapery and entered first, presumably to tell Sammy that his guests had arrived.

  “Let me do the talking up here,” Theo said under his breath.

  Jack agreed.

  A moment later the Dominican summoned Jack and Theo and introduced them to Sammy. Beside him but stone silent was his bodyguard, a Jamaican who was bigger than Theo.

  Jack had visited so-called clubs within a club before, and his reaction to Sammy’s space was no different: What’s the big deal? It had the usual sectional couches that visitors sat in at their own risk, preferably wearing a body condom. There was a pair of flat-screen TVs on the wall, one for sports, the other for porn. Sammy was wearing a shiny silk suit, and the matching diamond ring and earrings would have made a Kardashian jealous. At his signal the Dominican and two other women in tight skirts left the room. Jack and Theo sat with their backs to the privacy curtain, opposite Sammy and his bodyguard. On a table beside Sammy was a large glass-encased colony of ants.

  “You like the bugs?” asked Sammy.

  “Interesting,” said Jack.

  “That case is left over from the days when this was Club L’fant—short for leafcutter ant. They’re from South America. The signature drink here used to be the Leafcutter vodka martini. Has kind of a walnutty taste. And they’re an aphrodisiac.”

  “So you go way back?” asked Theo. “All the way to Club L’fant. That’s even before Vertigo.”

  “Yep,” said Sammy. “I’m like the historian here. Make sure we don’t repeat our mistakes, if you know what I mean.”

  Jack did, but he honored his agreement with Theo to let him do all the talking.

  “Richie says you have some business to discuss. Tell me about it.”

  “It’s a niche business,” said Theo. “I been looking for a go-to guy. Doing lots of homework. I keep hearing one name. A guy named John who used to work here. Long time ago. Thought you might know him.”

  “John, huh?”

  “Yeah. John.”

  “You got a last name?”

  “No. Do you?”

  Sammy glanced at his bodyguard, who got up from the couch and walked around the cocktail table. Theo knew better than to remain in the disadvantaged seated position. He rose, and the two biggest guys in the room were suddenly eyeball-to-eyeball. Sammy kept talking, and they kept staring each other down, a couple of bulls ready to bang heads.

  “Funny thing,” said Sammy. “MDPD detectives came here not too long ago. They were looking for John, too. No last name.”

  Theo answered, but his eyes remained locked with the bodyguard’s. “We’re not cops. We got a business propositi
on for John.”

  “Business, huh? Tell me about this business.”

  Jack swallowed hard. He hoped to God that Theo had something.

  “Lister-agra,” said Theo.

  Jack’s heart sank. Sammy made a face. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “It’s a pill,” said Theo. “A double-whammy knockoff that combines the chemical formulas for Listerine and Viagra. I got the inside track on the only ED medication in the world that comes in the form of a breath mint. Perfect for guys with bad breath and a limp dick. Like musclehead here.”

  The bodyguard growled. “You motha—”

  Theo backed him right down.

  “Easy,” said Sammy.

  The bodyguard stepped away, giving Theo space. Sammy had an inquisitive look on his face. “I really hope you’re not shittin’ me about this. Cuz I like the concept.”

  “I got a test shipment coming in next month from a factory in Bangkok. We’re talking millions on the club market. I was looking for John to bring the Miami Beach action through here.”

  Sammy seemed even more intrigued. “If you’re for real, I’ll take John’s cut.”

  “No. I want to talk to John.”

  “Not gonna happen, dude.”

  “Why not?”

  “John smashed his motorcycle into a big-ass truck. Left a nice pile of brain salad on the highway.”

  Theo glanced quickly at Jack, as if wondering if that was a good thing or bad for Isa. Jack showed no reaction.

  “When did that happen?” asked Theo.

  “Two years ago.”

  “Are we talking about the same John?” asked Theo.

  “Google it,” said Sammy. “Motorcycle. Dead at the scene. John Simpson.”

  Jackpot, thought Jack.

  Sammy sighed, as if ready to wrap it up. “It seems I’ve given you something for nothing. Which means that if I find one pill—just one Lister-agra on South Beach—and I’m not part of it, I’ll find you chumps. And let me say this: John Simpson didn’t fuck around. Neither do I. You understand what I’m saying?”

  “We do,” said Jack, rising. “Let us talk with our Asian contacts.”

  “We’ll get back to you,” said Theo.

  “Fine,” said Sammy. “I got a couple of fine ‘Asian contacts’ upstairs, if you and your accountant are interested.”

  Accountant? The second time in one night. What the fuck?

  “Maybe next time,” said Jack. There were no handshakes, just parting glares between Theo and the insulted “musclehead.” Jack parted the linen curtain and stepped out. Theo followed and they headed to the stairway.

  “Lister-agra?” Jack said under his breath. “Really? We’re lucky to be walking out of this place alive.”

  Theo smiled. “Night ain’t over yet, chief.”

  Chapter 35

  Isa rode the Metrorail to Coral Gables and walked Melany another block to Pee-Wee Art Camp. Melany loved to paint, and three days a week she got to share her passion with nineteen other preschoolers and two very brave art instructors.

  Rather than turn right around and ride the train back to Brickell Avenue, Isa stopped at the coffee shop across the highway from University Station. It was a pleasant morning, and she found a shaded table outside to enjoy some alone time. She was halfway through her latte, and reading an article in the Journal about the stock market crisis in China—Keith’s turf—when a young woman approached.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt. You’re Isabelle Bornelli, aren’t you?”

  Isa looked up from her tablet. The woman was dressed like a typical college student, right down to the Uggs on her feet. “Yes, I am,” said Isa.

  “Emma Barrett,” she said as she extended her hand, and Isa shook it. “I’m a senior at the U. I’ve been following your case ever since the charges were brought and—well, I just want to say that I’m on your side.”

  “Thank you,” Isa said with a polite smile.

  Emma seemed to have more on her mind, but she started away. Then she stopped. “Uhm, do you mind if I sit down for just a minute?”

  Isa wasn’t looking for company, but she didn’t see the harm. “Please.”

  Emma eagerly took a seat and laid her backpack at her feet. “I didn’t come over to your table intending to tell you this, and I hope it doesn’t make you uncomfortable. But I’m also the victim of campus date rape.”

  Isa had no immediate response. She hadn’t seen that coming, and then it occurred to her: Emma was the first person ever to address her as a fellow victim of date rape. “I’m very sorry,” said Isa.

  “I was a freshman. Just like you were.”

  “It’s a horrible crime at any age, but especially for a teenager.”

  “I almost flunked out. I thought about transferring to another school, but I decided no, I’m not going to let my attacker win. I stayed right here.”

  Isa blinked. “I went to Europe.”

  “I know,” said Emma, and then she suddenly seemed mortified. “I wasn’t judging you. Everybody deals with it in their own way. I was very vocal, but not everyone is. It’s a personal decision. I’m president of SASA now. Students Against Sexual Assault.”

  “I guess I just didn’t have that in me. But good for you.”

  “Have you heard of SASA?”

  “No. I don’t think it was here when I was a student.”

  “It wasn’t. I started it.”

  “Really?”

  “I had to do something. What I went through was horrendous. The administration put together this college inquiry panel that supposedly investigated my allegations. Of course they completely absolved my attacker. These bozos weren’t even qualified. One of the old men on the panel asked me, ‘So, Ms. Barrett, how is anal rape even possible?’ What does he think—that a woman gets wet at the thought of vaginal rape, so that’s possible, but anal rape isn’t possible? How was I supposed to respond to an idiotic question like that?”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Anyway, at least we have SASA now. We’re not completely idiotproof, but it’s a start.”

  “You’re quite an amazing woman.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a little smile. “So are you.”

  Isa looked away. “Not really.”

  The noisy Metrorail screeched to a stop at the elevated station across the street, then went quiet.

  “Hey, can I ask you a favor?” asked Emma.

  “What?”

  “I’m trying to start up a SASA chapter at Miami-Dade College. There’s a ‘campus rape awareness’ event scheduled for a week from tomorrow at MDC South. Would you be willing to attend?”

  Isa fumbled for a response, flustered. “I—I don’t think so.”

  “I know it’s a lot to ask. But it would be so meaningful if you—”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t have to speak if you don’t want to. I could just point you out and mention that you came to show your support and—”

  “No, I just can’t.”

  “Please don’t say no.”

  “No,” she said, more firmly than she’d intended. “You’ll have to excuse me, but I really have to go.” Isa pushed away from the table and gathered her things.

  “Okay,” said Emma.

  Isa accidentally knocked over the rest of her coffee as she rose. She dabbed the tabletop clean, and she was so beside herself that she stuffed the soggy napkins into her purse before slinging the strap over her shoulder. “I’m sorry I can’t help your organization,” she said.

  “Sorry I asked,” Emma said quietly.

  It felt like a punch in the chest. Isa absorbed the blow, then turned and headed for the Metro station.

  Chapter 36

  The mid-morning sun shone brightly through the conference-room window on the ninth floor of the Graham Building. The state attorney had called a ten o’clock meeting at her office. Jack and Manny were seated on the sunny side of the rectangular table. Sylvia Hunt and a junior prosecutor sat across from
them with their backs to the window. It was a bush-league litigation ploy that Jack had witnessed in countless other meetings and depositions: arrange the seating so that the enemy was staring straight into the blinding sun.

  Jack shielded his eyes and reached for his sunglasses. “Sylvia, please. Either adjust the mini-blinds or Manny and I will have to sit here looking like a couple of secret agents.”

  “Oh, is that bothering you?” she asked with phony concern. Her assistant promptly remedied the situation. Jack thanked him, and then Sylvia started the meeting with her promised announcement.

  “The Justice Department has completed its investigation into the allegations against the correctional officer at the detention center. The official report will be released tomorrow, but as a courtesy I’m giving you a preview. Here’s the formal conclusion: there is no evidence that a correctional officer was planning a sexual assault of Ms. Bornelli, or that he solicited the assistance of Ms. Bornelli’s cellmate in order to carry out such a plan.”

  “Then the investigation is a sham,” said Jack. “You can’t say there is no evidence. There’s the statement of her cellmate, Foneesha Johnson.”

  “Ms. Johnson has recanted her prior statement.”

  Manny scoffed. “What a surprise.”

  “I can understand your cynicism,” said Sylvia. “But Ms. Johnson didn’t simply recant. She set the record straight. A Justice Department attorney questioned her under oath, and her testimony is that she was paid ten thousand dollars to make a false accusation.”

  The junior prosecutor reached across the table and handed Jack a copy of the transcript. He thumbed through it, but there wasn’t time to read it in detail.

  “The suspense is killing me,” Jack said dryly. “Did Ms. Johnson allege that it was my client who paid her ten thousand dollars?”

  “No. In fact, that’s the principal reason I called this meeting. I wanted you to know that Ms. Johnson does not link your client to this scheme in any way. She testified that she and Ms. Bornelli never discussed the accusation or the bribe.”