Vice Enforcer

by S. A. Stovall

  There’s a burning tightness in my chest when he says all this—what I wouldn’t give for a cigarette. I maintain my forced calm as I say, “Stay away from him.”

  I jerk my arm from his grasp and walk through the kitchen without truly seeing my surroundings. Once I’m outside, I allow myself to breathe again. I fucking hate Rhett. Nothing would make me happier than to send him over the side of a bridge.

  Someone puts a hand on my shoulder, and I wheel around, ready to fight. Logan flinches back, startled.

  “Sorry about that,” he mutters. “I’m here to tell everyone the food is ready.” He waves to the backyard. “Food is up, everyone! Come get it!”

  There are at least thirty people at this get-together; a lot more than I thought would be here. They’re all roughly the same age, I would guess in their midtwenties, but some, like Logan, are a little older, while others, like Miles, seem to be tweens. I give them all brief glances as they pass by and then make my way over to Miles. He’s by the barbecue, chatting it up with the guy cooking, but he stops once I get close.

  Miles taps the cook on the shoulder. “Lars, this is my boyfriend, Pierce.”

  I hate the word boyfriend. Every time he says it I curl my lip in disgust.

  The cook turns around and gives me an odd glance. “Did you say boyfriend?” He quickly smiles and offers me his hand. “I, uh, didn’t know you were seeing anyone. I’m Lars. Nice to meet you.”

  He’s a small guy, practically a foot shorter than both Miles and I. With a quick nod I say, “Same here.”

  Lars gives me the once-over before returning his attention to the food. His brow is furrowed, like he’s worried, and I wonder if I’m giving off some sort of aggressive aura. I try to relax, but it’s easier said than done.

  I pull out my cell phone and call Shelby.

  Nothing.

  I dial his number again.

  Still no answer.

  “You okay?” Miles asks me.

  “Tell me,” I drawl as I dial Shelby a third time, “is it legal for police officers to pay people to be a mole?”

  “Uh, yeah. Kinda. They’re called paid informants. I mean, not every officer is authorized to do that, but a police department could decide that—”

  “That’s all I needed to know.”

  Miles rubs at his neck. “What did Rhett want?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  When the third attempt doesn’t go through, instead of dialing Shelby yet again, I decide to call the hospital. It’s still within the visitation hours—the nurses should put a call through—and I wait impatiently through the ringing. When it clicks, I talk before the nurse can even get a word out.

  “I need to speak to Michael Shelby.”

  “Who?” the nurse asks.

  “Michael Shelby. In room—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, cutting me off. “He was discharged several days ago.”

  “He’s not there?” My mind goes blank for a moment, thinking back to when last I saw him. “Is he dead?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of. He walked out of the hospital, spry as a fox.”

  I’m at a loss for words. Where is he? It’s not like the nurse would know. “That’s all I needed,” I mutter before hanging up.

  “I’m going to get us some food,” Miles says. “I’ll be right back.”

  I allow him to leave without commentary. Lars flips a few hamburgers and turns a couple hot dogs, glancing at me but never striking up a conversation. The smell of the barbecue reignites my hunger, and I focus on that rather than Shelby’s disappearance. Before I mentally return to the party, I text Shelby and ask him to call.

  “Hey!”

  I look up and see a scrawny guy with a goatee standing before me. Lars gives him a quick nod, but the man never takes his eyes off me.

  “It’s nice that you have such a good relationship with your son,” he says, elbowing my arm. “Not a lot of twenty-one-year-olds would take their father to their party.”

  Lars half spits in an attempt to stifle his laughter.

  Tsk. And Miles wonders why I don’t like socializing with his buddies. I roll my eyes and point to a cooler. “Hand me a beer.”

  The guy complies and tosses over some light brew bullshit that gets me frowning.

  “I’m Julian,” he says, “one of your son’s classmates.”

  Lars’s chuckles get louder.

  “I’m not Miles’s father,” I drawl. “I’m his”—I still can’t bring myself to say it—“significant other.”

  The statement rocks Julian. He stares at me with wide eyes and shifting eyebrows, caught between shock and confusion. I pop the top off my beer and take a swig. After the gears in his head rotate full circle, Julian cracks a smile.

  “Really?” he asks. “Or are you pulling my leg?”

  I don’t answer.

  “There’s no way. Right? I mean, Miles looks like he should have a hot piece of ass at his side. Have you seen him? Any little Japanese lady would be happy to get with him, I think. Or Korean. Or whatever he said his mother was. Chinese? You would know.”

  Lars meets my gaze and mouths I’m sorry. He’s red from empathic embarrassment, and I chortle to myself. Men like Julian don’t bother me. Stupidity knows no restrictions, after all. I wonder how often Julian gets into fights over his unfiltered commentary. That would amuse me more than this inane conversation.

  I take another swig of my disgusting beer. It’s foul tasting and watered down. A shame.

  “So,” Julian continues, ignoring my lack of participation, “you are his father, right? That other part was a joke?”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Did I stutter?”

  That statement gets him quiet. Even Lars avoids looking at me. If this had happened while I worked for the Vice family, I might be worried. Some people get upset over simple bullshit or perceived insults, and when they’re upset, they do all sorts of brazen things. Then you add guns and drugs to the mix, and there’s a good chance people end up dead.

  But this is a backyard barbecue. Any challenge to authority isn’t going to end in a firefight.

  “So,” Julian once again continues, “you are his boyfriend? Like, he’s gay? And you’re gay for him? Because you don’t look gay.”

  Lars pulls off a whole host of burgers and hot dogs as he says in a hushed tone, “Julian, damn man, drop it.”

  “I’m just curious.”

  I ignore their squabbling and pan my gaze over the crowd of people. Miles interacts with each individual as he walks back over to the barbecue. I hear a parade of happy birthdays and you’re finally all the way legal, and Miles takes his time to acknowledge each one. He looks happy—and I know I shouldn’t jeopardize that with my sour mood—so I take another swig of my beer and attempt to force a positive outlook on things.

  As if the universe is conspiring against me, Rhett walks over and motions to a hot dog. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, which is for the best, but Julian takes it upon himself to correct everything.

  “Hey, Rhett,” Julian says. “Have you met Miles’s boyfriend?” He leans in closer to the other man. “He isn’t Miles’s father.”

  “I’ve met Pierce,” Rhett says. “He’s a private detective here in town.”

  “Oh yeah? I guess it makes more sense now. Miles had to learn all his law from somewhere.”

  I hold back a laugh. Miles doesn’t need me to teach him law—all I teach him is streetwise and gunplay—well, and “gunplay.”

  Rhett, now engaged in the conversation, turns his attention my way. “So, Pierce, why don’t you tell us what school you went to for undergrad?”

  “I didn’t,” I state, my tone curt.

  “Oh yeah? Do you have any plans to attend? I know a good place if you’re interested.”

  “No, thanks. If I’m interested, I’ll find my own place.”

  Julian rubs at his copper-red goatee. “Rhett got his bachelor’s degree at the top of his class, and he knows all kinds of things
about the legal system. I bet whatever school he recommends is awesome.”

  Tsk. I guess some people are born to play the stooge in a relationship. Or maybe he wants to bootlick his instructor. Or, most likely, he’s just a numbnut and doesn’t understand the subtext to the conversation.

  “Have you worked on any high-profile cases?” Rhett asks, driving us further into confrontation.

  I throw back a mouthful of beer. “I haven’t.”

  “Is that right? Well, how long have you been a PI?”

  “I don’t remember my start date.”

  “That long, huh? But no important cases. What did you do before you became a PI?”

  Anger eats at my self-control. He knows I’m lying about my previous occupation. Does he want to correct me again, this time in front of everyone? Now I wish I was back in the Vice family compound. A firefight would handle this perfectly.

  But, alas, we’re in a goddamn backyard barbecue.

  “I did some odd jobs,” I reply after a strained moment. “That’s when I met Miles. Life has been looking up since.”

  Rhett offers a quick smile. “That’s good to hear.”

  Lars and Julian must finally pick up on our animosity, because they say nothing. When the silence persists, Rhett takes a bite of his hot dog and then regards Lars with a nod. “This is excellent,” he says. “Best I’ve had outside of a baseball game.”

  “Of course you like it,” I interject. “It’s rather phallic.”

  From the look on his face—I wish I had been recording—he doesn’t like me commenting on that at all. I can’t help but chuckle. Lars and Julian slink away after exchanging knowing glances, leaving the barbecue unattended. I flip off the gas and grab a burger.

  “What’s wrong, Princess?” I ask Rhett. “You don’t look so hot.”

  “Keep my personal life out of this,” he commands, terse.

  “What’s that about your personal life? You want me to ask you a bunch of questions in front of other people like some sort of verbal dick-checking contest? I’ll get right on that.”

  Miles walks up before Rhett utters another word. He has two plates of beans and chips. He hands me one, and I hand over the burger. The tension in the atmosphere doesn’t wane. Miles flips his attention from me to Rhett, and back to me.

  “Logan is a great cook,” he says, picking the diplomatic route and ignoring the situation. “How do you like the food, Pierce?”

  I take a bite of the beans. I wanted to snap back an answer, but the savory flavor of the food stops me dead in my tracks. You know what the Vice family parties lacked? Food like this. Sure, they got catering, but it lacked the magic. I don’t even like baked beans—I got a scar once from opening a can of baked beans all wonky—but these are so good I might not eat anything else.

  After a second mouthful, I nod. “I like it.”

  “Yeah, right? Logan has talent.”

  “Hm.”

  “So, how are you getting along with everyone? I saw you talking to Lars and Julian.”

  I finish up my fifth bite and snort. “Julian thought I was your father.”

  Miles half chokes on some of his beans. After he recovers, the hacking quickly turns to outright laughter. “Are you serious? Man, could you imagine if my father was actually here?”

  “This party would devolve into an episode of Cops,” I quip.

  Miles and I share a round of chuckles. I guess good food really does help my spirits. Plus everything is a little better with Miles around. He’s not the type of guy to get offended, even when the punch line is his own father.

  Rhett glances between me and Miles, his expression neutral. “I take it your father isn’t much in your life, Miles?”

  “No,” he replies. “But I’ve reconnected with my mother, and I have my brother and sister.”

  “What about your father?” Rhett asks me.

  “Dead,” I state. “Has been for some time.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  I shrug. It’s hard to feel something when I never think of the man.

  “Do you see your parents often?” Miles asks Rhett, no doubt being polite, but who really wants to talk about their old man and woman?

  Rhett shakes his head. “No. They died a while back.”

  “DUI?” I ask.

  Miles hits me in the ribs. “Pierce. We shouldn’t talk about this.”

  “That’s how my pops went. Killed himself in a car accident.”

  “Drive-by shooting, actually,” Rhett intones. “We lived in a bad neighborhood and shared a duplex with a bunch of drug dealers, apparently.”

  Heh. That explains a lot. Guy really doesn’t like crime, and I can see why.

  “Sorry for your loss,” Miles mutters.

  I eat some more of my fancy beans and then lament the fact they’re gone once I’m finished. I don’t have much more to add to this conversation that wouldn’t be callous or unnecessary. I’m not as hung up about death as most people seem to be. Who cares if my father wasted himself? I’m still drinking beer, aren’t I? Or maybe I’m just a dumb fuck who hasn’t learned his lesson.

  My phone buzzes, and I pull it out to check the screen.

  Shelby.

  “I have to take this,” I say to Miles. “I’ll be right back.”

  He nods and then gives his attention to Rhett. I almost want to ignore the call and stop that from happening, but I really need to talk to Shelby. I walk a few paces away and then answer.

  “Pierce?” I hear him say through the speaker.

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Where are you?”

  “I’m in danger.”

  I hold my breath and wait. He says nothing. Finally, I mutter, “Okay. What’re you doing about it?”

  “Is anyone following you? Has anyone asked you to look for me?”

  “Yeah. The cops.”

  “Are you helping them?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you call me?”

  I let out a long exhale. “I need to talk to you about this case. I’ve discovered some weird stuff about it.”

  “Then meet me at Red Roof Inn,” he says in a whispered voice. “Don’t tell anyone, especially the cops.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now.”

  Fuck. I roll my eyes. “Fine,” I say. “But this can’t take long.”

  “Don’t worry—it won’t.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I PARK in front of the Red Roof Inn and stare at the generic cookie-cutter establishment. Better than Noimore, with its seedy businesses and shady practices, but it’s still a lackluster hotel that reeks of mediocrity. I step out of my car and keep my new jacket zipped tight. I’m not a fan of this jacket—too stiff—but it’s thick enough to hide a handgun.

  My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen. Miles sent me a message that reads: if something happens, call me. He didn’t want me to go, I could see it in his eyes, but he didn’t try to stop me. Probably for the best. I don’t know how well I would have gotten along with his classmates anyway.

  The parking lot has a few bums roaming around, but I ignore them as I walk into the lobby. To my surprise, Shelby is waiting for me, a long coat pulled tight across his large frame, the collar propped up.

  He nods to me and then motions to the side door. I follow him out, and instead of going to a room, he takes me to the sidewalk and starts walking toward the outskirts of town. I get nervous—the farther from civilization, the more likely questionable things will happen—but I trust Shelby enough to give him the chance.

  We pass an open field of grass lined by trees, and it’s a pleasant evening sight. We continue a few blocks, into residential areas, and the quaint houses ease my anxiety. Shelby is silent, and he walks with stiff, locked legs, like he’s hurting. Makes sense. He should be in the hospital. What little of his skin I see is paler than usual.

  I wait.

  Finally he says, “What have you found? Do you have any evidence yet?”

  “It’
s been a week, old man. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have this case solved.”

  “I don’t have much time.”

  “You said you were in danger,” I state, glancing over my shoulder and scanning the pleasant countryside. “What’s going on? Who’s on your trail? Why aren’t you in the hospital?”

  Shelby lowers his voice. “I’ve made a lot of enemies, Pierce. Davis didn’t do me any favors when he got us caught. I’m running out of time.”

  “What’s going on? Give it to me straight.”

  He stops. I follow suit. For a moment we regard each other. “Did the cops send you?” he asks.

  “Yeah. A cop asked me to speak with you about your sources. He thinks you’re helping the traffickers.”

  “And you’re here for him?”

  “Of course not. I don’t trust cops. I came here because things aren’t adding up. You said the cops are in on everything, but I don’t see much evidence. They look busy picking up other criminal offenders. Or are you saying they’re allowing it to happen?”

  “That’s not it.”

  He doesn’t offer any more information. I step back, frustration eating my thoughts, but the coolness of the night relaxes me. I like the darkness. It’s easier to think. Pulling my jacket close, I glance around for a second time. I can’t see right with a blind eye. Anyone could be hiding in the shadows for all I know.

  “The police pick up people to sell,” Shelby states out of nowhere, drawing my attention back to him. “And then someone in the jails selects the right ones, and then someone else ships them out of the state for sale.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Do I have to spell it out for you, Pierce? The police pick them up. Prostitutes. Druggies. And then someone in the jails sets them up. They’re discharged straight into the human traffickers’ hands, before they reach the street again, and then they’re shipped out of town, ready for sale.”

  I piece all of Shelby’s words together. “So who’s packing them and who’s shipping them?”

  “I don’t know,” Shelby says through a forceful cough. “Some older organization has a hold on the jails. It’s been around for decades, but it was chased out of Chicago and Noimore until just recently. They came back, and they’re operating in full force now that they have shippers willing to run bodies for them.”