Skin Game

by J. D. Allen

  Oscar kept his expression blank. “Where?” He trained his glare directly on Jim. The lion was close to the surface now. That told Jim his conclusion was right.

  “What is it, anyway?” Erica took the camera from the table, looked at the screen. “Dog crates?”

  “People crates.” Oscar’s hand had a slight shake to it. He still looked at Jim as he said it. “Where was that taken?”

  Erica answered. “The Showgirl in Coyote Springs.”

  “Have you told her?” Oscar pointed at the camera with an irritated flick of his wrist. “What that means?”

  “Wasn’t completely sure. Wanted to confirm my suspicions before going into it.”

  O looked down and slowly shook his head before he gave Jim a piercing look. “Better to hear it from me, huh?” Jim didn’t have to answer. O’s face softened. He suddenly looked older, much less threatening.

  “My wife.” He took a drink from his mug. “We were here on our first anniversary. Up on Freemont Street, downtown. We got ripped. Really ripped.”

  Erica was frozen in her seat. Jim saw her ball her hands slowly into fists to steel herself for the story that was coming. It was no fairytale with a happy ending. That was clear from the way Oscar pushed himself back into a stiff upright position. He was putting some distance between himself and Erica. “We were in a strip club. Thought it was cool. She was all proud of herself for doing it.”

  He looked right into Erica’s eyes. “It was loud, dark, and late. I only lost sight of her for a minute. She was in line for the bathroom. There one second. Gone the next.”

  Erica was already tearing up. Jim felt helpless. She needed to know what they were facing. Needed to hear it from someone who’d experienced it or she would have trouble even believing it. Jim had when he first heard the story, but time had told him that people did horrific things. Still, Jim had never heard the account of the night directly from Oscar. Not like this.

  “After months of badgering the police and selling off everything thing I owned, I moved here and started digging myself. I found a trail. A trail that led to Mexico, then to a man in South America. It’s known as human trafficking in the media.”

  Erica’s mouth opened. No words came out.

  “They stole her, then sold her. We have a plague of it in this country. Both workers coming in and girls going out.” He took his hat off, twisted the brim, and then placed it back on his head. “After more money, three years, and more than a couple busted heads, I got proof of where she had been taken and eventually … proof that she’d been killed.” He swallowed hard. His hand went to the leather choker around his neck. A single, small gold ring was braided into it. He touched it gently.

  Erica was trembling. Jim felt the urge to go to her. Hold her. No matter the past, this was not what anyone deserved to hear, to experience.

  “I’m … I’m very sorry for you, Mr. Olsen, but are you suggesting Chris has been kidnapped and sold?”

  He let out a long sigh. His face tightened back up. Business. “She worked for juvie?”

  “Yes.”

  “She look anything like you?”

  “Yes.”

  He took another drink, scratched his chin. “Is she the kind of woman who’d notice that she was losing girls from her client list and go looking for them?”

  Erica didn’t answer right away. The pieces were falling together for her. The same as they had for Jim driving that road. “Exactly that kind.”

  He nodded. “Sorry, lady. My guess is she found something that pointed to the clubs. The girls were going to work and not coming back. Your sister went looking.”

  Erica sat silent for a moment. Jim watched a range of emotions cross her face. Fear. Hurt. Anger.

  He decided to do something. He couldn’t just sit there any longer. He glanced to the waitress station a few feet from the back table they occupied. He got up and grabbed the coffeepot Sandy had left on the warmer. He slid in next to Erica, the vinyl creaking in objection to his weight. He refilled her cup. No need to reach out. Just wanted to be there if she needed.

  “I knew she didn’t start stripping for money or drugs.” It was directed at him.

  “You were right.” Not that it helped, but he said it anyway.

  “Is she gone?”

  21

  Erica looked like she would shatter at any moment. The big bounty hunter had told his tale but had no reassurances to offer. Or didn’t want to say it. Both he and Jim delivered bad news often enough. It was Jim’s job to find out bad things about people and then deliver that news. He was glad he’d had O here.

  “Is my sister dead?”

  “Most likely.” Oscar swallowed. “And if not, it might be better if she were. You don’t need to know any more details.” He shot Jim a look.

  “Has to be really ugly based on the looks on your faces.” She was searching for some hope. Jim had none.

  “Bean, you need to let me handle this.” O turned to Jim. “If you won’t carry a weapon, I don’t even want you on this one. We’re talking South American drug lords and shit. Not a game for a guy used to chasing cheating husbands. I can’t even trust you to be sober.”

  “I don’t carry.” Frankly, everyone was safer if Jim didn’t have a gun. His real-life aim sucked no matter how much he practiced on the range. Probably would have never passed his FBI academy training years ago. But he was good with hand-to-hand, knives, street fighting. Easier being a brute. He could use his head too. Smarts got him out of more situations than brawn ever had.

  O trained his big eyes on Erica. “And you need to be at home. Safe. With a guard preferably.”

  She glared right back. “I’m not going anywhere until I know exactly what happened to Chris. I will camp in that hotel, or buy a house next door to yours, if need be.”

  So she said the next part directly to Jim. “Whatever it takes, Korey. I will not walk away from her. I will not.”

  He cringed, but Oscar didn’t flinch at her use of Jim’s real name.

  She made her point. “I realize I should have had the same conviction for you, years ago. It’s too late for that. I won’t make a mistake like that again. I’m going with my gut, and my gut says I need to be right here.” She pointed a finger at Jim. “If you want out, fine. I’ll hire someone else.” She pointed at Oscar with her thumb. “Him, even. I’ll call in the FBI. But I am not leaving her out there with that kind of vermin.”

  They all exchanged exasperated glares. Hung jury. No one giving in. Jim finally spoke to O. “I’ve known Erica for years. And as much as I’d like her to, she won’t go home and wait by the phone. Not for me and not for you.”

  The trio sat in a silent stalemate. Erica inched forward, straightened, tried to look taller, stronger.

  Oscar pulled that hat off, twisted the brim again. “If you’re going to see this out, you have to know what we’re dealing with. You have to be able to face it. You will never feel the same about anything ever again. Anything. This is the kind of shit that rips the spirit out of people. Destroys their belief that humans are generally good.”

  A bit of hair had fallen into her eyes as she looked down. She nodded but didn’t look up. She was staring directly at the camera. Oscar didn’t start immediately. Jim knew he was letting her process things for a moment.

  It was a tactic Jim used in with clients and subjects all the time. Let the other party think through his options before you close on him. If she stayed, she was going to have to deal with how bad it could be for Chris. O wanted her to know that for sure.

  “Even knowing that it’s out there is going to change me. It already has. I still don’t see a scenario where I abandon Chris.” She picked up the camera. Advanced to the next picture. It was the one with the handcuffs. Her hand shook. They were giving her time to understand this. “Women have been in those crates? Like dogs?”

  She advance
d it again. Another shot of them. She zoomed it in. Sat taller. Stiffened. Zoomed it farther. She tilted the camera to Jim. The image was the last one he’d shot. There was a design drawn on the inside of that crate—a black-inked doodle against the plastic of the rear interior of the crate.

  “It’s her.”

  Oscar leaned over them, looming large. “What?”

  “That symbol.” She pointed to the marking on the screen. “Chris used it all the time as a kid. It was just a doodle for a long time, but then it became a signature of sorts.”

  He looked down. Erica had been excited by the revelation. Oscar was not.

  “That means she was there.”

  “It does.” Oscar’s voice was low, controlled. “I’m going to say again that I think you need to go home. Let Jim, me, and the police take care of this.”

  She shook her head.

  “Look, lady, I have years of pain and money wrapped up in this investigation. I’m close to proving some very nasty things about some pretty big names. Casino owners. Politicians.”

  Jim figured he meant Zant. He wanted to vomit. He was risking a lot for her, for Chris.

  Oscar continued not knowing just how deep Jim had gotten in with Zant. “If you two do anything to jeopardize this case, I will kill you myself.” He looked from Erica back to Jim. “You may be my friend, but I will not lose these guys again.”

  Erica interrupted. “I’ll do what you say. Everything. I can help. If Chris left us a trail, I can follow it.”

  “You’ll listen and understand for a minute. If you can still sit here after I’m done, I’ll consider sharing with you.”

  Sandy walked up with the food. She placed the plates at the appropriate places. No one made any move toward them. She huffed. “It isn’t all that bad. You’ve got real turkey bacon.”

  Erica mustered a pleasant enough face. “Thanks.”

  Oscar pushed his food away. His face had lost some color as he contemplated where to start. He pointed at the camera. “Those cages, they’re for breaking the girls down. Destroying their will.” He looked to make sure no one else was paying attention to the conversation. Satisfied, he continued.

  “They are drugged, put in there naked, then abused beyond belief. In the crates. Starved. Left for days. Raped. All while being told that if they escape, if they don’t do exactly as they are told, when they are told, their loved ones will be killed, or worse—captured and put through the very same thing.”

  He had to take a breath, to swallow to stop from tearing himself up. “It’s done for days, sometimes weeks before they’re shipped south in trucks to be sold like stolen electronics. Some, the prized women, are sold right here”—he tapped the table with his middle finger. The letter L tattooed on it—“in Vegas to Whales from overseas.”

  It was suddenly quiet. Erica wasn’t breathing. She had to be imagining that happening to Chris. How could she not? He was. Chris, in one of those crates.

  She tried to move, but Jim still sat beside her. It was a decent gesture at the time, he guessed, but now he could see his size was making her feel claustrophobic. She shoved at his arm. He moved, sliding out. “Erica …”

  She crawled over him before he had made it out of the way. She stepped on Oscar’s foot too. ”Sorry.” She looked down to check if he’d been hurt. His big black boots protected his toes from her. She let out an absurd, confused giggle. As if being concerned over his foot meant a hill of shit when her sister could be in a crate somewhere living out a nightmare.

  “Erica.”

  “I just need some air. A minute to breathe.”

  She ran out the door.

  O pushed his untouched plate farther away. “I have yet to figure out how people do this to other people. Her baby sister … She’s going to need a friend.”

  Could he be a friend to her? After she’d been the first one to make Jim see how much people could hurt each other? Had he been tortured and raped in that cell? No. But his spirit had been broken.

  He got up and followed her.

  She was behind the building. On her knees, holding herself up with her hands. She stayed there, clawing at the rough gravel under her fingers.

  She vomited. Her body tried to expel her agony, like a dragon sending fire and rage to burn the away the horror. But he knew the meager contents of her stomach had no such power. He drank way too much, far too often. Her stomach may have felt better for its effort, but nothing was going to rid her of the feeling of helplessness. Ever.

  Erica learned things today she couldn’t ever unlearn, couldn’t recover from.

  22

  Jim picked her up and cradled her.

  “I’m sorry.” It was whispered against his chest. “I’ll be fine.”

  Oscar loomed behind them, his tone tight, grim. “No, you won’t. Unless we’re wrong, you’ll never be fine again. I know.”

  “Enough,” Jim fired back at his friend. “She’s got it, O. It’s bad.”

  Erica tried to pull away. He held her. All these years of wishing she knew just how he’d felt back then, and now he’d cut off his fucking foot to keep her from living this pain.

  “No way. I’m not going anywhere.” She managed to wiggle and twist enough to get herself out of his grasp and to her feet. She wiped her chin on her sleeve. Her face was stern. White as a ghost, but unbending. “I don’t scare that easy.” She looked back at Jim as he stood. “Anymore.”

  His body was tired. His brain hurt. Now he wished she’d just let the past drop. Her pity and references made him feel like a heel. They faced much bigger problems. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” He put his hand on her lower back, urging her toward the townhouse. “And you need some rest.”

  “I’ll square up inside,” Oscar said. His voice had softened. “I have to drop a runner at the courthouse. He’s locked up in my garage. I’ll be over in a few hours. We’ll compare notes. See what we have.”

  “You mean there’s someone in your garage? Like as a hostage?”

  “Relax, girlie. It’s a holding cell. Human-sized, and this Jack had better get used to it. Gangbanger. Three strikes. He’s out. Going in for life. I needed to get some backup before taking him in. I was hoping that’s what Bean here was up to when he called.” Oscar turned and headed back inside. “And I do want the fucker off my property. He stinks.” He waved over his head. “Later.”

  Jim urged her all the way to the townhouse. Erica moved along like a robot. He led her in, straight up the stairs, past a protesting Annie and to his room. She sat on the bed looking at her own reflection in his window as Jim turned on the hot water.

  He rummaged through his drawers, found a pair of sweatpants that would be big but keep her warm. He tossed them next to her. He dug out a black T-shirt. “Take a shower. Take a nap.”

  She nodded. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her face still pale. He was sick at the thought of Chris going through what Oscar had described; he knew Erica had to be experiencing an anguish he couldn’t even imagine.

  Jim always kept a distance from his clients. And like Oscar had said, most of his cases were domestic—abuse usually came in the form of cheating, dodging child support.

  He didn’t like being invested. Connected.

  Sometimes he tracked down evidence for police for bigger cases. He’d seen some rough stuff, but it was distant, happened to someone else. There was no way to distance himself from this.

  She got up and headed into the bathroom. “Where’s your room key?”

  She didn’t turn. “In my purse. In the diner.”

  “I’ll go get your things. Bring them back here.”

  She nodded again and closed the door on him.

  Jim saw Banks trudging his way as soon as the polished glass elevator doors opened. Jim was wheeling her small suitcase. No way to avoid contact. He’d meant to get in, get her bag, and get out. Banks had to have be
en watching for her. Waiting.

  The goon was cleaned up, wearing his good suit to mix with the upscale crowd at this hotel. His age-faded tattoos barely showed over the top of his white shirt collar. The small bandage behind his right ear could have come from anything. Jim could tell by the glint in Banks’s eye that he hadn’t been fooled by Jim’s poor ninja skills. Toyota had probably given Jim up with the slightest bit of questioning. Say what you will, but those girls loved working for Big Banks.

  “Let’s go out back, shall we?”

  Out back? Jim knew it was the one spot in the casino with no security cameras. Where fingers got broken and knees got busted. Not a chance he’d go willingly.

  “Not sure I have time for that, Mr. Banks.” Not for the meeting nor the medical recovery that it might require.

  “Fine.” Banks grinned. “No need to get worried, Bean. We’ll have a friendly chat in the VIP lounge. Nothing major. I suggest you take my hospitality while it’s being offered.” The big guy didn’t look the slightest bit upset. But then again, he now had the upper hand.

  The VIP area was for big players, limited personnel in the area. Jim followed him behind the velvet rope. “You think it’s okay for us to be here? Not one of your usual jobs.”

  The huge man smiled. “I have friends in all kinds of places. You have no idea how popular a guy I am.”

  Huh. Not good. That meant that Banks and/or Zant had connections with security in this hotel too. If Jim decided to make a move, they would swarm in and that would land him in an unsurveilled room. Better than out back, but still. No good options. He had to play it out. If he’d been really ready to hurt Jim, there would be no nice conversation in the casino.

  “After you.” Jim gestured.

  Banks turned and walked to the back table. Jim was smart enough to follow.

  They stopped in the far corner of a high rollers parlor that had yet to open for the night. The big-money men were still being impressed with golf and spa experiences all over the city. Wooed by the casinos with big-money lunches. They were sipping on wine that cost more than Jim’s rent.