by Lisa Ladew
“Get up, now!” She leaned down and grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling him upwards. Unless he was a closet scopolamine junkie, there was no way he could fight her, but she was alert for it anyway. It never hurt to be more careful than necessary.
He pushed up off the floor and made his way back to the edge of the bed. She let go of his hair and told him again to empty his pockets.
“Pockess, sprockess, wockets,” he said. He shuffled forward a little and stood, sticking both hands in the pockets of his jeans. They came back out full. He dumped it all out in front of Sara and stood there. Sara pulled a pair of gloves out of her pocket and put them on. Then she started going through his pile.
His money clip, a butterfly knife, a closed locket with no chain. Sara put these aside, moving the knife itself onto the floor beside her. She restrained the urge to look inside the locket to see if there was a picture in there. It never did any good to see a guy like this as a human being with emotions and a life outside of the evil things he did.
A metal tin with ibuprofen stamped across the top of it. She opened it. 4 white pills and 2 yellow pills. She held it up in front of Manny’s face. “What’s this?”
“Codone. Roofos.” He mumbled, swaying on his feet.
“Sit down on the floor,” she ordered. He sat/fell and stared a the drapes.
Codone? Roofos? She grimaced. Probably Oxycodone and roofies. The Oxycodone could be useful here, but the roofies made her sick to her stomach. She hated to think of what he’d done with pills like those. She bet some of his girls were talked into being prostitutes with roofers, that quintessential date rape drug. And once they’d done it a few times, many of them felt too damaged to quit.
She put aside the pills and kept picking over Manny’s belongings. His cell phone. Under that, a tiny baggie of brown powder. Jackpot! She held it up. “What’s this?”
He looked and licked his lips. “Smack. It’s mine.”
Sara opened the baggie and smelled it, then wet her finger and tasted a tiny amount. It was Heroin alright. Perfect. And it was more than enough for what she had in mind, no matter how much it was cut. She placed it by itself on the bedspread.
Two quarters and some pennies. A piece of paper with some names and numbers on it. A rumpled paper that looked to be torn out of a book. A pair of knuckle dusters with wicked looking points. That was it. She read the names and numbers on the paper but didn’t recognize any, then smoothed open the other paper. It appeared to be a page from a book called Woman as Queen. She read a paragraph.
Women are prepared to throw off their shackles of domestication and take their rightful place in the world. They aren’t looking for a King to fulfill them. They are looking for their own role as ruler and writer of their own life. In fact, most women don’t even know that another Queen would fulfill them better than a King. This is where they need support right now.
Sara shook her head as if to clear it. Was this a joke? Some sort of a crazy laugh for Manny and his pimp buddies? She crumpled the paper and threw it with the rest of his stuff.
She looked at Manny. He was staring off into the corner of the room, a little piece of drool dangling from the corner of his mouth. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. “How do you take this?” She held up the little baggie of heroin.
He looked at it, and his mouth dropped open as if he’d never seen it before in his life. He reached for it in slow motion, more drool falling out of his mouth. She pulled it back. “How do you take the heroin? Injection?” She mimed pushing a needle into the big vein at her elbow. She doubted that was how he took it though. There weren’t any needles or tourniquets in his pockets. Unless he kept them in his car. But his arms didn’t have any marks or scars on them either. He could be shooting up on his legs, where it wasn’t so obvious, but she doubted it. She would bet money he was a snorting man.
He watched her mime injection and his mouth broke into a smile. If Sara didn’t think he was a disgusting worm who had lost all potential to be a useful member of society years ago, she could have thought that smile handsome.
He mimed rolling something with his fingers, then held his imaginary straw to his nose and sniffed hard. That made him laugh stupidly.
Bingo, Sara thought. Time to take your last hit Manny. She considered asking him where he was going to get an 11 year old girl from, but decided to pass. Scopolamine made people completely unreliable. What he said might be a total story, and she didn’t have time to chase stories. Besides, she couldn’t save everyone. If she were going to clean up Las Vegas of all its pimps and sex trafficking, there really was no reason for her to ever have left Mexico, to ever have abandoned the agency, now was there?
She peeled a dollar bill out of his money clip and rolled it up, then grabbed a credit card too. “Stand up,” she told him. He stood. “Put this back in your pocket.” She handed him the items, one thing at a time. She debated on giving him the knife and then decided against it. She’d push it into his back pocket when he was dead. Her mother had taught her to never count on anyone to be completely helpless, no matter how much they seem to be. She hadn’t frisked him, so he could have other weapons on him, but she could see clearly there weren’t any on his torso. If he had something it was an ankle holster. And she could have a knife in his ear long before he could actually get to it.
“Sit at the table.” She motioned to the small writing desk.
Sara handed him the baggy and the rolled up bill and credit card. “Time to get high, Manny. Deal yourself 4 lines.”
Manny bent to work, slobber spilling onto the desk blotter. He shakily poured out almost all of the heroin and began to push it around with the credit card. When he had 4 lines he snorted one of them easily, then put the bill down and tried to relax into the hit in what was probably his normal fashion. Except his face looked sick, not relaxed.
She pushed his arm. “Another,” she growled at him.
Manny reached out for another and bent his head to the table, but he didn’t take it. Sara bent into his ear. “Suck that shit up your nose, now.”
Manny snorted. The powder disappeared. He coughed and sputtered, moving in slow motion. His fingers dropped the fake straw on the blotter and pushed it off onto the floor.
“One more, you can do it.” She whispered, picking up the straw and trying a sweet approach this time. He could and he did. Sara smiled. That had to be enough to kill him. That was a lot of heroin.
His eyes drooped. His head nodded. It started to fall and she let it. It hit the blotter hard and she heard his nose crunch. He didn’t make a sound. She could barely see the end of the 4th line under his forehead.
Sara sat down on the chair in the far corner and waited. She would wait until his breathing and heart had stopped for at least 10 minutes. And then she would leave. She knew that the cops wouldn’t spend a lot of time worrying about what had happened to a small-time pimp in a hotel room. It would be written off as an accidental overdose, and good riddance to bad rubbish, even with scopolamine in his system. The U.S. wasn’t like Columbia. People here didn’t use scopolamine to commit crimes. And some people did like to get high on it. It might raise an eyebrow or two since it was rare, but it wouldn’t warrant any extra investigation, she was sure of it.
As she watched his back, she ticked off all the things she planned to do today. This whole situation with Jessica and Manny had put her behind. She’d be even farther behind once she finished getting Jessica and Zoey somewhere where they could have a real life. That little baby deserved to at least have a chance. Every baby deserved a chance.
And the Brook Barnes identity? Was it ruined already? She didn’t think so, but it didn’t hurt to be extra careful. Her mother had taught her that too. Maybe she should wrap things up here in Vegas and head somewhere else. Be someone else. New York, maybe. She could really get lost on the East Coast.
Sara got up and checked Manny’s pulse in his neck. Slow. Almost gone. Good. She sat down again and waited for it to be over.
When Jerry hit the stairwell, he chanced a glance behind him. Chester’s door was still closed and the hallway was clear. He slowed to a walk and examined his options. Wait for the guy to show up, of course. But he wanted his gun. He glanced at his watch. Still early. He would drive home and get it, then come back and wait for the man with the prison tattoos who looked like a cop.
Jerry got to his car, scooped up his phone, and climbed in. He started the car and backed out, checking his alerts before he pulled out of the parking lot. Two more calls from Craig and a call from Emma. Damn, something big must be going on.
He hit the button to dial Craig’s number and headed for the freeway entrance. Craig’s phone clicked like he was on the other line and his voice mail answered. “Hey man, it’s Jerry. Call me back.”
He hit the end button and tried Emma’s number. His phone beeped, telling him a call was waiting. It was a cab company. He hung up the call to Emma before it ever even rang and answered. The Sunset Cab company hadn’t picked up a woman on Eller’s Hill on Sunday night. Jerry thanked them and hung up, thinking. That left just one cab company. Bayside Taxis. And they had called him this morning. He would call them back and then be able to cross call all cab companies off his list.
The freeway exit loomed, so he put his phone down on his lap. He’d call when he was stopped.
Jerry covered the few miles to his house in minutes and stopped on the street on the side of his house so he was closer to the back door. He unlocked the back door and ran inside to his safe, grabbing his gun and holster quickly, and sprinting back out to his car. He fastened the gun in its holster under his shirt, in the small of his back while he ran. It felt good there. Heavy. Business-like. He climbed back in his car and sat for a second. This felt right. He didn’t know if Chester Wysong had any idea what he was talking about or not, but something about what he said had felt true to Jerry. And if someone was running around acting like a hit man, then Jerry felt safer this way. More equally matched.
His phone rang. He grabbed it, expecting Craig, but the screen told him Bayside Taxis was calling again. Perfect.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Smith?” A clipped, female voice.
“Yes.”
“Hi, I’m Sandy from Bayside Taxis and I had some information for you about the fare you were asking about on Sunday night?” She sounded breathless, anxious. Like she really had news. Jerry sat up straight, half afraid to hear what she had to say.
“OK, great. Shoot.”
“Bayside Taxis picked up a woman on Eller’s Hill that night. I talked to the guy that picked her up myself today when he got off shift, cuz I don’t want any more ladies to get hurt, so I wanted to help, ya know?”
The inside of Jerry’s car seemed airless. Too still. His lungs worked frantically, trying to breathe nothing. A car slid past him on the main street. It seemed to float, soundlessly.
“Thank you, what did he say?” He heard himself talking and wasn’t sure how his larynx was functioning with no air.
“He said she fit the description except she was wearing black pants and a shirt, not a dress. He said he was s’posed to pick up a woman in front of 1504 Eller’s Hill Lane. When he got there she was standing in front of the gate. She got in and gave him an address and didn’t say another word. He dropped her off at the address. She paid him and gave him a $5 tip. And that’s it.”
Jerry’s chest screamed for air. He sucked in a breath. It didn’t seem to help. So she did leave voluntarily. No one came and got her. And she changed her clothes? Why? How? Why?
Jerry spoke again, surprised at how he managed to get the words out even though he was drowning with no water. “Can you give me the address please?”
“Yeah, it was the corner of 67th Street and 2nd avenue.”
Downtown. “And did your driver say what she did when she got there?”
“She just got out and walked down the sidewalk.”
“Do you know which way?”
“No, sorry.”
“It’s OK, thanks. She wasn’t … crying or anything, was she?”
“Crying? No, I don’t think so. At least he didn’t say anything. If you call back tonight after 10 you can talk to him yourself. Just ask the night dispatcher to patch you through to Izzy.”
“Izzy, OK, thank you very much, uh Sandy. You’ve really helped me out a lot.”
Her voice beamed. “Oh great mister, you gonna mention me in your article?”
“Yeah, sure, just watch for it.” Jerry’s voice trailed off and he clicked the end button on his phone.
It was time to get real with himself. He’d just known that something had happened to her at the wedding reception. That she had walked outside for some air and she’d been … abducted or something. But now that was obviously not the case. So now what? What did this mean? That she just took off? Or was she abducted once she got dropped off downtown. But why change her clothes and go downtown in the first place? And where did she get her clothes? And what happened to her dress? That was less than a mile from her office. Maybe she walked to her office and got her car and … and what? Left town? He should go up to the Eller’s Mansion and see if they’d found her dress in the trash or something.
But why. Why even search for her anymore? She obviously didn’t want anything to do with him. It was done. It was over. The thing that happened at her apartment was just a … a what? A coincidence.
Jerry’s thoughts swam back and forth, his cheeks and ears heating up with the effort of keeping what now seemed like the obvious truth from himself. She had not just left. She had abandoned him. And not because she had to. Because she wanted to.
Jerry’s phone buzzed in his hand. He looked down at it, more on reflex than because he had any reason or desire to. His brain felt numb. His heart felt like Sara had squeezed it and squashed it and thrown it in the trash.
Craig’s face flashed on his screen. Craig. He should answer this.
“Hello.”
“Jerry man! Thank God I finally got you!” Craig didn’t wait for an answer. Just kept talking. “I got a call from a buddy down at the Westwood Harbor PD last night, Jer. Gagne just put out an APB for you.”
Jerry’s head and heart temporarily shook off their recent injury and tried to get back in the game. “What? An APB? Like he’s going to arrest me?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
“S.R. 1900. Perverting the course of justice. I think he thinks you’re messing with evidence or something. Basically it’s an obstruction of justice statute and it could mean anything. Probably you’re just stepping on his toes a little too much.”
“What the actual fuck Craig? What’s wrong with these cops?”
“I don’t know man. From what I’ve heard Gagne’s a pretty straight-laced guy. You must have just rubbed him the wrong way. Or given him the wrong impression. And now he’s got a hard-on for you.”
“Great.” Jerry rubbed the back of his head and watched the traffic drive past his house on the street ahead of him. “So what do I do now?”
“Can you get out of there for a little bit? I don’t know Gagne but I think Hawk has talked to him before. Hawk could try to talk him into leaving you alone, but not till he comes back from his honeymoon.”
“Get out of here? Like leave town?”
“Yeah, I would. Just for a few days.”
“What about Sara?”
Craig sucked in a breath. “Yeah, that’s the hard part. Have you discovered anything?”
Just that she hates me. Just that she’s a liar. Just that I’m the worst judge of character in the world. Or maybe I’m a good judge of character and I’m working out some disgusting mommy-fantasy in real life.
“Not really. Things are getting a little weird, but I’m no closer to finding out where she is or what happened to her.”
“Well Gagne’s supposed to be a good investigator. I don’t think he’s just letting this thing sit. Even if he’s -”
Craig’s words ceased to make any sense to Jerry as he tracked a black Suburban drive past the street he was on, and slow down like it was going to turn into his driveway. It passed out of his view, and the house was between him and the vehicle, but then it reappeared on the other side of the house. It didn’t park in his driveway, but rather sideways, at the end of it. If Jerry’s car would have been in the garage, he would have been blocked in.
“Uh Craig,” he said, cutting Craig off.
“Yeah?”
“Gagne just parked in front of my house.”
“Oh crap. You can see him?”
“Yeah, what should I do?”
“I don’t know man. If you can get out the back door before he says anything to you, you aren’t technically breaking the law.”
“I’m in my car, on the side street. I don’t think he’s seen me.”
“Maybe you should just take a little vacation Jer.”
“Yeah, maybe I should. I’ll call you later Craig. Thanks.”
Jerry put the phone down slowly on the seat next to him, hoping Gagne wasn’t watching him through his windshield right now. He cranked the engine and winced at the noise it made. He threw the car in reverse and backed slowly down the street, trying not to attract attention. Hopefully the detective’s eyes were plastered on the house, not behind it.
No one had gotten out of the Suburban by the time Jerry reached the far corner. He reversed through the intersection and turned onto Hickory street, driving carefully. He breathed a sigh of relief, but watched his rear view mirror. Things were getting out of hand.
He turned his mind to the reality of the situation. He didn’t want to be arrested again. Craig’s suggestion was a good one. Just get out of town for a little bit. Let someone smooth things over before he came back. He had been planning to go to Vegas in a few weeks anyway. He could call, get the date for his hotel room changed, and be there by tonight. But he didn’t have any bags or clothes or anything. Well, he had his wallet didn’t he? He could buy new clothes.
