The Prodigal Girl

by Evan Ronan

  But I have to admit, hearing that I’ve hurt Stanek’s criminal defense business, I feel pretty goddamned good.

  The asshole never gave his client, Nick Carlisle, much of a chance. Instead, the attorney deferred to the idiot who was paying him, Nick’s father, and didn’t put up much of a fight in the courtroom. While Nick got a raw deal and a lot of time in prison, his lawyer gladly accepted what I can only imagine was a pretty big check from the kid’s father.

  “Miles, you just made my day.”

  “I’m a river to my people.”

  “How’s the website?” Last year, Miles propped me on a dating service that would discreetly match up women and ex-cons.

  “Good, bro. Bitches be crazy, as they say.”

  And guys be dicks, I don’t add. “Hey, while I got you on the phone, I wanted to ask you something else but it’s got to stay between us.”

  “Greg, man, you know I’ll take it to my grave.”

  Miles is an ex-con but God help me, I trust him with this. “You know who Shannon Lahill is?”

  He’s a long time answering, and when he does, it’s with an ominous tone. “Bro, what you got yourself into?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I heard some things. People talk. You know.” Miles has never been reluctant to speak before. “Let me make a couple calls and get back to you.”

  “Jesus, Miles, you’re scaring me.”

  “If what I hear is true, you should be, man.”

  On cue, Shannon pops out of James Stanek’s office.

  “Whatever you can find out, it would help,” I say. “But it has to be discreet.”

  “Shit, Greg, I don’t want any part of this. I’mma keep it on the waaaaaay down low.”

  “Thanks, pal.”

  “Hey, man, before you go. I had another idea. I think it could be a game-changer for us.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I say. “Let’s talk about it later, alright? I’m tailing somebody.”

  “If it’s Shannon, be real careful, man.”

  Though I’ve guzzled nothing but steaming hot coffee all morning, I get a chill. “Talk to you.”

  We hang up and I watch Shannon. She’s on the sidewalk, looking down at her phone. She bangs out a text to somebody then looks up. It’s hard not to squirm in my seat, but I don’t want movement to attract her eye. Shannon surveys the street, then crosses the road. She’s coming right toward the coffee shop.

  I get up. Head straight to the counter. Rich can tell something’s up. He gives me the nod.

  “Rich, you mind if I slip out the back? I see an ex coming and I don’t want to get into it with her.”

  “Is she hot?” he says, smirking.

  “Tall and blonde,” I lie.

  “Maybe I’ll show her what a real man’s like. If she’s measuring me against you, that won’t be too hard.”

  I try not to laugh. Rich is going to be disappointed when the imaginary woman doesn’t show. “All yours, pal. Mind if I?”

  He gives me another nod.

  As I slip into the hallway, the bell above the front door jingles. I ignore the urge to look over my shoulder and just keep going. The back door doesn’t open till I give it a good shove, and then I’m in the narrow alley behind the shop.

  Before the door closes behind me, I hear Shannon. Her voice is soprano and cute and perfectly polite as she orders her iced coffee.

  Fourteen

  After getting her coffee, Shannon heads to the mall. Not too many shoppers this early on a Monday so I tail her while she’s inside for a little bit before deciding to be smart and just wait in my car. She’s inside the mall for almost two hours and comes back out before the lunch crowd grows, carrying a few bags that look like they’re holding clothes. I follow her back to the house.

  With at least one neighbor on high alert for me, I park one street over and sit. I can’t see the house from here, but I can see her car. It doesn’t move for an hour.

  I give Tarika a buzz and fill her in. While I’m talking, I can feel the stares of the entire neighborhood on me.

  “I’m going to make myself scarce for a while,” I tell her. “I don’t want my face or car becoming too familiar around here.”

  “Why did she go to a lawyer?” Tarika asks, just as perplexed as I am. “God, Greg, what kind of trouble is she in?”

  “Stanek specializes these days in civil matters.”

  She breathes a sigh of relief. “So it’s nothing criminal?”

  “Probably not,” I hedge. “I’d love to go ask him why Shannon was there, but that won’t help and will only hurt.”

  “She hasn’t been in legal trouble since she got home,” Tarika says. “I would have heard about it.”

  Maybe, maybe not. But I don’t say that.

  “I’m guessing it has something to do with her daughter,” I say.

  “I was thinking the same thing. But what? Custody?”

  “Maybe.”

  “If those people are holding my granddaughter …” Her voice trails off.

  “I’m going to keep poking around,” I say. “Tonight I’d like to look at Marcus.”

  “What if Shannon goes out again?”

  “Call me and we’ll decide together.”

  “Alright.”

  “Tarika?”

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t imagine how difficult this must be for you. I just wanted to say you’re a good mother. We don’t know what she’s into yet,” I say, leaving out my conversation with Miles completely, “but something is definitely going on.”

  “Thank you, Greg.” I can hear the smile in her voice. “I wish we had met under different circumstances.”

  “Me too,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  The silence that follows is hugely awkward. I manage to say goodbye without jamming my foot into my mouth again.

  ***

  Bernie perks up when I get to the pool hall.

  “Hey, Greg, good to see another human being.”

  The pool hall is utterly empty. I think I see tumbleweed roll past me. Monday afternoons are never strong, but this is a damned depressing sight. Last year a realty company made me a couple lowball offers. I could have talked them up if I’d been inclined.

  Shoulda.

  Woulda.

  Coulda.

  “How goes the Great American Novel?” I ask.

  “I’m thinking of turning it into a screenplay instead,” he says.

  “You know how to do that?”

  “Greg.” He gives me a look. “There are a million screenplays online for free. I can figure out how to do it easily.”

  This coming from the guy who took one look at the industrial microwave oven I have for the soft pretzels and mozz sticks and asked if someone else could handle the food preparation.

  “Cool,” I say. “Who are you going to get to direct it?”

  “I’d only let Spielberg or Scorsese.”

  Two great directors, though I can’t picture them directing the same screenplay. “Aim high, right?”

  “I wouldn’t let anybody else do it, except maybe Eastwood. But he’d have to convince me.”

  It’s not true what they say—beggars are choosers all the time.

  “Tell you what, case of beer on me as soon as Hollywood options it.”

  “I’ll take you up on that.”

  That’s a bet I’m happy to lose. Admittedly, I don’t think Bernie has a snowball’s chance in Hades of enticing a production company with his story that has sounded both unreadable—and unfilmable—since day one. But far be it from me to crap on somebody else’s dream. The world’s already overfilled with haters.

  I work on my game. Today I spend time working cut shots to my left, really trying to understand what I’m doing differently. It’s either a set-up problem, i.e. my aim is off when I’m looking to cut a ball this way, or it’s a mechanical problem, i.e. my stroke changes for this particular shot.

  Of course now that I’m paying very specific attention
to this type of cut shot, taking a little extra time with it, I pocket everything I look at. Maybe that’s all I need, just an extra second or two. Taking the time you actually need to do a thing would probably solve many of the world’s problems.

  After thirty minutes, I’m convinced I’ve got it cured. I retreat to my office to give my back a rest from all the bending, stretching, and shooting. Laying down on the floor, I bend my knees at a ninety-degree angle and put my feet up on my chair. I can feel the tension begin to ease up immediately.

  “Getting old, Greg.”

  My phone rings.

  Miles.

  Still in the prone position with knees hiked, I answer, “What’s the good word?”

  “Is this Greg Owen?”

  It’s a woman’s voice I don’t recognize. “That’s me. Who’s this?”

  “Ladasha.”

  “Ladasha, it’s nice to make your acquaintance.” I shift a fraction on the floor, feel the pull migrate from one side of my lower back to the other. “Is Miles around?”

  “He said to tell you he’s flat out like a lizard drinking.”

  It takes me a moment. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “He said to tell you someone’s coming by to talk.”

  “Oh?”

  “Are you at your hall right now?”

  Never a dull moment with Miles. “I am.”

  “Cool. One of his boys will be by shortly.”

  “I’ll be here for an hour.”

  “I’ll let him know.”

  She hangs up without further ceremony. I adjust position on the floor again, trying to find that one little tweak that will open up my back. These days, if I get out of bed the wrong way, I’m stiffer than a dry wedding.

  “Hey, Greg!” Bernie calls out.

  Slowly, carefully, like I’m about to cut the wire on a nuke, I get out of this position on the floor and climb to my feet. I already feel an inch taller. Stepping out into the pool hall to see what Bernie needs help with now, I find Miles himself at the counter.

  “Greg, my man!”

  “Yo brother!” Hand-slap and hug. “You always were one for the cloak-and-dagger.”

  “Yeah, man, I read that Spy Who Came In From the Cold. Shit is old, but a lot of good tradecraft in it.”

  Tradecraft.

  “A little birdy told me you were really busy.”

  He bobs his head toward my office. “Mind if we?”

  “By all means.”

  Miles looks out the front windows and signals. A car parked by the curb pulls away and drives off.

  Today, Miles is wearing all black. He looks ready for a pick-up game of hoops in his vintage Jordans and Under Armour gear. I close the door.

  “Drink?” I ask.

  “Nah, man, I’m vegan now.” He flashes a chrome smile. “I don’t touch the liquor.”

  “How’s it working out?”

  “Dropped fifteen.” He pats his stomach. Miles is wearing a shirt but I can tell there’s a six-pack lurking under the fabric. Where does he find the effing time to exercise with all that he does?

  “Good for you. I oughta try that.”

  “The cops are up my ass,” he says by way of explanation, “so I’m laying low right now.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “I know you’re boys with a couple of them,” Miles leans in, “but I’d appreciate it if—”

  “Miles, you’re a friend. I have no idea the cops are looking for you. I’m not inclined to call them. Alright?”

  “Cool.”

  “So long as it doesn’t have anything to do with kids or women,” I say, giving him the eye. “I have a zero tolerance policy when it comes to that shit.”

  I get the chrome smile again. “Who you think I am, Greg?”

  “I think you’re an entrepreneur who commits mostly harmless and usually victimless crimes.”

  “Allegedly.”

  I raise an apologetic hand. “Allegedly.”

  “One of these days, man, you and I are gonna do business. Sky’s the limit. This is fucking America, Greg.”

  I have to admit, “This is indeed fucking America.”

  He laughs. “Cool cat, as always.” Then he grows serious. “Listen, man, I mean it when I say this can’t come back on me.”

  Good God in heaven, what has he heard about Shannon Lahill and Marcus Tanner?

  “My word.”

  I stick out my hand. He shakes it.

  “You hear things,” Miles says, “and most of the time it’s just bullshit. He said, she said. Somebody runs a red light that was actually yellow and next thing you know, every motherfucker’s saying the dude’s got a warrant out for his arrest. Well, he probably don’t, and even if he does, it’s just for not paying a ticket or some shit. You know what I’m saying?”

  “Yep.”

  Miles leans back in his chair. “I call it the bullshit discount. Everything I hear, I gotta treat it like it’s fifty cents on the dollar. You feel me?”

  “I feel you.”

  “I heard some shit, years back, about Shannon and Marcus. They was a big-ass deal, everybody local had a story. Everybody’s talking, everybody’s fronting, pretending to know them, nobody knows what’s actually real.”

  “Miles, I’ll take everything you share with a grain of salt. No need for the disclaimers. I’m a big boy and of majority. What I do with the dirt is on me.”

  He nods slowly, closes his eyes for a moment. “Greg, man, I like you. You a fucking hero. You helped that kid out and then got that creep put away. That took balls. But this, Shannon, Marcus, this might be next level.”

  “Like what?”

  “Trafficking.”

  “Drugs?”

  He nods. Then adds, “Maybe bitches.”

  I think I’ve misheard him. “Hold on. You’re saying Shannon and Marcus were involved in human trafficking?”

  A slow nod. “Somebody I trust told me that.”

  Holy.

  Shit.

  “Wait a minute,” I say, trying to make sense of everything. “You’re saying Shannon was …” What’s the word? “Trafficked?”

  “Nah, man.” He looks me dead in the eye. “I’m saying she and Marcus brought bitches in to Mexico.”

  Fifteen

  I need a moment.

  Sixteen

  “How did it work?”

  Miles purses his lips. “They lured girls. Shannon and Marcus befriended them on Facebook and would invite them to come for work. She promised them good money at an exotic locale.”

  “You are shitting me.”

  He shrugs. “That’s what I hear.”

  “I don’t believe it.” I don’t. Maybe I can’t. There’s a dangerous difference. “Shannon is fifteen years old when she ran off with that dipshit. Up until that point she never got into trouble for anything in her life. She was a model citizen, daughter, athlete, and student. Why does she do this?”

  “Yeah, man.” He gives me a knowing look. “But, like you said, she ran off with that pedofuck.”

  “And he what?” I’m trying so hard to understand how this is even remotely possible. “He forced her to help him traffic girls?”

  “You know what an American bitch fetches in Mexico?”

  “Miles, for the sake of my admittedly delicate sensibilities, please refer to women as women, and not bitches.”

  A devilish smirk. “I forgot. You all noble and pure.”

  “Hardly noble, hardly pure, but I do my best to respect the fairer sex.”

  “Word.” The smirk is gone. “Everybody thinks they can just go somewhere and there’ll be money waiting for them. Shannon waits tables, or does whatever, and comes to find out a million pesos ain’t worth a shit. And Marcus ain’t no genius. He ain’t no businessman, like you and me, he’s got no talent, man. So what do you think he does?”

  “He turns to crime. Okay. I get that. But human trafficking? Where do they even fit into that operation? Like you said, Marcus ain’t the mastermind. And Shanno
n isn’t running that show.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I just can’t believe it. “She’s a goddamned teenager.”

  “They need money, man,” he says. “What can I tell you?”

  “You can tell me this is one big joke.”

  “Nah, man.” He smiles, folds his arms. “Told you. I’d discount this too, but you know what?”

  I nod, knowing where he’ll go next. “It’s too outrageous not to be true.”

  He points at me. “Egg-fucking-zactly.”

  “Did you hear anything else?” I ask.

  “That was it. Drugs and bi—I mean, women—moving back and forth. That was it.”

  “That’s enough.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what went wrong?” I ask. “Aside from the obvious.”

  He shakes his head. “Sooner or later you fuck up. Either the guys they were doing biz with got mad or the police got curious, and they had to jet.”

  Unbelievable.

  “Yeah, man. Shit’s crazy,” Miles said.

  Shit is crazy.

  “Thanks, pal. I appreciate it.” I give him a look. “Now what’s up with you?”

  “Ain’t nothing.” He looks away and I know how serious it is. Miles just got out last year, and it looks like he’s headed right back to where he was. “But listen, I gotta an idea for a web service.”

  Everybody hustles.

  “Sorry, pal, I’m up to my eyeballs right now.” And I remember I completely forgot to call my business partner about the vintage t-shirts. How did I forget to do that? Too much going on.

  “Just hear me out, yo.” He smiles. “I came all this way.”

  “Alright.”

  And I try to listen. I really do. But how could I right now? Miles just told me Shannon Lahill was mixed up in drugs and human trafficking in Mexico. When he’s done, I smile and nod and tell him I think it’s a great idea but it’s not a great time for me to try out something else.