by Alan Lee
She wanted to move but couldn’t muster the nerve.
Mario snapped his fingers. “Oye. Vamos, levantate.”
Come on, get up.
She stood. Walked carefully over the floor slats in her heels. She missed Hubert and the Appalachian Palace.
She didn’t know where she was. They’d blindfolded her for the trip. It’d only been two hours long in the little turboprop, but she’d glimpsed enough to guess they were out of Virginia.
This wasn’t a whore house. No men would come here for the services of a prostitute, not in this part of the world. It was a holding cell, more or less. One of dozens on the East Coast, temporary housing for trafficked girls. The house could be easily abandoned, and probably would be soon.
In one hand, Mario held her purse. With the other, he pointed up a staircase.
“Arriba.”
“What’s up there, Mario?”
He didn’t answer.
She translated, “Qué hay ahí arriba, Mario?”
“Tu cuarto,” he said.
Your room.
“Who else is here? Quién más está aquí?” she said.
“Te callas. Darren no está aquí. Lo entiendes? Nos pagó bien y no te tocaremos. Tal vez. Nos gustan las chicas blancas. Es bueno para ti si olvidamos que estás aquí. Créeme. Sube las escaleras.”
Shut up. Darren isn’t here, understand? He paid us so we won’t touch you. Maybe we like white girls. It’s better for you if we forget about you. Trust me. Go upstairs.
She nodded but stayed still. Somehow going up the staircase felt like a breaking point. The stairwell was the final barrier between her and the rest of the world. Once she did, the chances of her reaching Mackenzie plummeted. There were beds upstairs. And no doors leading outside.
She was hesitating and Mario hit her. An openhanded smack. Not hard. There wouldn’t be much of a print, but the force of the big hand threw her into the plaster wall and made her ears ring.
“Ahora,” he said.
She obeyed, wobbling. She closed her eyes, praying he wouldn’t touch her from behind. The steps creaked, each one. On the top landing, a fat brown rat watched.
“Gross,” she muttered.
“No asqueroso. Puede ser tu comida.”
That’s not gross. He might be your dinner.
He pushed her down the dark hall. She passed two doors. The first door, a woman glanced up from her mat on the floor. She was thin but not emaciated, clean, and she had circles under her eyes. Her only light came from a television, showing an old In the Heat of the Night rerun. There was a dresser. The second door, two women watched her pass. They had a lamp and books and the window was boarded shut.
Mario took her into the final room. There was a rusty iron bed frame with a thin mattress, stained brown in spots.
He grabbed her wrist. She cried in surprise. From a back pocket he produced handcuffs. Snapped one end around her wrist, the other to the head of the frame. He set her purse on a wooden dresser.
“Hogar dulce hogar, puta.”
Home sweet home, slut.
Hours later.
One of the girls brought dinner. It was a mostly thawed hamburger from McDonald's, still in the wrapper, and an unopened water bottle. The girl couldn’t be more than seventeen.
“Gracias,” said Ronnie. Her eyes clung to the girl like she was a life raft. Which was wrong and unfair.
“Don’t try to run,” said the girl in Spanish. She wouldn’t look up.
“I won’t. I can’t.” Ronnie rattled the handcuffs.
“They will take it off. Don’t try to run. Everything is locked and there is no help.”
“I won’t run.”
“Good. They would hurt you.”
“What’s your name?” Ronnie asked in Spanish.
“Mariana. The men are nice. They don’t hurt us if we behave. We are given everything. We eat better here than we have in months.”
“Where are you from?”
“El Salvador. You’re very pretty.”
“So are you. Your hair is beautiful,” said Ronnie.
“It needs to be washed.”
“Yes it does.”
The girl smiled and glanced up. Shy, still as hopeful as Ronnie.
A man stepped into the room. It was a sudden entrance, the machismo purposeful and proud. He wore jeans, work boots, and a heavy jacket but no shirt. His stomach and chest were blue with tattoos, and so was his neck.
“Shut up. Stop talking,” he said in Spanish. He was too thin, all muscle and sinew. His eyes bulged and his facial hair was sparse.
The girl looked down.
“You are scared,” he said. “This is a scary place. You could die here, yes? I am your only friend.”
Ronnie didn’t reply. She preferred Mario to this man.
He said, “I’ll stay out. I will stay out of your room tonight, little woman. So you can sleep. Are you scared?”
“I’m cold,” said Ronnie. “It’s winter.”
The man said, “Get her a blanket.”
The girl ran. The man stayed. He kept his bulging eyes on her while running his thumb across his lower lip.
It wouldn’t take much, Ronnie knew, to get this man into bed. She recognized cruel lust when she saw it. That was a card she could play as a last resort, and even then probably not get her anywhere. But it was something.
“Do you work for Darren Robbins?” she asked.
The man kept rubbing his lip.
The girl returned with a thin wool blanket. She set it on the bed and backed up.
“Thank you.”
“It’s nothing,” said the girl. “Get under the blanket. Even your head. When you wake up, shake the blanket. The roaches will fall off.”
Ronnie’s mouth went a little dry.
“You pee in the bucket under the bed,” said the man. “Buenos noches, gringa.” He pushed the girl away, leaving Ronnie alone again.
She gripped the bed frame until her fingers hurt, which helped.
The lamp was too far away for her to reach, so the room darkened as night fell. She saw no roaches and she saw no rats, but who knew how long that luck would last. She finished every crumb of the hamburger, so as to leave no scent to draw scavengers.
What bothered her most, as she huddled for warmth under the blanket, was herself and the demons battling within. Because when she looked at the cruel man in her doorway, and when she knew that he wanted her, and when she understood that she could have him and maybe manipulate him…something inside her stirred.
It wasn’t revulsion.
It was a comforting familiar sensation, a sickening delight in the perverse.
She closed her eyes and shook.
Monday Evening
Manny
Rocky Rickard rode shotgun in the Camaro, Beck in the back. It was past dinnertime but the District still hummed with activity and importance.
Manny had demanded Beck ride shotgun but she’d tactfully overruled him.
Rocky set his hand on the dash. “A remarkable machine. So much power. I cannot remember the last time I rode in a Chevrolet.”
“Like riding on the wings of a bald eagle, sí?”
“You know that BMWs, Hondas, Toyotas, Nissans, these are all manufactured in America now,” said Rocky.
“I thought that was a lie invented by lazy Europeans, until I looked it up,” Manny said.
“And?”
Manny patted the steering wheel. “You can get BMWs and Mercedes made in America now. But not the good models. Nothing with enough muscle. Play it safe and buy American horsepower.”
“Sinatra cautioning us to play it safe,” scoffed Beck. “When have you ever done that?”
He glared at her in the rearview. “BMW starts manufacturing the M5 series in the States, you let me know.”
“Turn here,” said Rocky. “On Tilden.”
They were in Spring Valley, still inside DC, three miles from Georgetown, four from the White House. Rocky’s street had fe
lt like a city, crammed with prestigious townhouses, but this neighborhood was like the secluded countryside, grand estates with private yards.
“Last chance, Agents Beck and Sinatra.” He watched the manors slide by. His reflection was pensive, maybe a little sad. “There can be no turning back, once you sit down. You can’t unsee faces, you can’t pretend you didn’t hear what you’re about to hear, no matter what it is. You’ll forever be a person of interest, a potential liability to dangerous billionaires. Once you’re on that list, you can’t get off. But you can keep driving.”
“I’ll drop you off at the corner, Beck, and call you an Uber,” said Manny.
“You go, I go, Sinatra.”
“What is it with you two?” said Rocky, still gazing through the window at the dark night. “This isn’t patriotism. This isn’t zeal for king and country. The sanctity of America isn’t at stake, agents. Why risk it all?”
“Sinatra would burn the world down for Mackenzie. And Sinatra has saved my life on two occasions. I won’t abandon him now, despite this being a personal issue for him.”
“Even if it costs you your life?” asks Rocky.
“Perhaps the lone redeeming aspect of Sinatra’s belittling machismo,” she said, “is that he won’t let me die. You and I are safer in this car, driving toward danger with him, than we would be elsewhere.”
“Is that true, Agent Sinatra?”
“You white people. You have too many words and complicated emotions. It’s not hard, señor. The wife of my friend is missing. What could stop me from helping?”
“You can’t solve the problems of all your friends.”
“I am a simple and humble Spic.” Manny jerked a thumb at himself. “That’s why I only have one friend.”
“Two,” said the girl in back.
“You’re not a friend, Beck.”
“Yes I am.”
“You’re a colleague. Get a hold of yourself.”
“I’m a colleague whose vase you keep supplied with fresh flowers in spring,” she said. “I’m a colleague who never has to pay when we go out. I’m a colleague whose floor you sleep on occasionally. I’m a colleague whom you visited in the hospital when I—”
“Ay! Dios mio, mama, that’s enough. Caramba.”
“We’re friends,” she said.
“Only for the sake of our founding fathers. Only because Thomas Jefferson would want it that way.”
“Sounds to me,” said Rocky, “like you might be more than friends.”
“No,” said Beck.
“No. She wishes.”
“I do not.”
Rocky partially pivoted at the waist, the better to see Beck in the back seat. “Why do you let him sleep on your floor? Does he ask?”
“He does.”
Manny’s Camaro veered slightly off course. “Beck, maybe you don’t tell the mob’s lawyer these lies.”
“They aren’t lies. We all get lonely, Sinatra, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I do not feel shame.”
“Does he sleep on Mackenzie’s floor too?” asked Rocky.
“He does. It’s complicated, though, now that Mackenzie’s married.”
“You’re gonna walk home, Beck. Thomas Jefferson isn’t worth it.”
“A fascinating friendship,” said Rocky. “It baffles me, as does yours with Mackenzie August.”
“You don’t have friends?” said Manny.
“I have friends.”
“Would you die for them?”
“Of course not,” he said.
“Then I don’t know if you have real amigos, Rickard.”
“I’m suddenly wondering that myself,” he muttered.
“Through hell or high water.”
“Speaking of hell,” said Rocky. “We’re here.”
Monday Evening
Manny
A gate opened and Manny drove up the cobblestone drive to a large stone colonial, both sprawling and stately. Inside, most of the lights were on. Dark shutters and manicured boxwoods. Warm landscaping lanterns clicked on.
“Nice place,” said Manny. “If you’re into four-million-dollar houses.”
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Doesn’t look like hell,” he noted.
“Satan wears a smile, Agent Sinatra, didn’t you know?”
“You still haven’t told me who lives here.”
“Yes I did,” said Rocky.
“Satan, sí, I know, the leader of the Kings, but not his name.”
“Patience, Sinatra, you’ll find out.” Rocky stood, pushed the seat forward, and helped Beck.
A man in a dark suit stepped from the three-car garage to investigate. He saw Rocky, nodded, and ducked inside again.
Rocky led them around the garage, along a walk, to an expansive rear patio. The pool was covered for winter. A fire burned in the outdoor fireplace, under the pergola. The covered area was also warmed by overhead butane heaters. A Washington Wizards game played on the television.
A severe bald man was setting glasses and bottles of bourbon onto the bar. He saw them, nodded to Rocky, said, “Help yourself, Mr. Rickard,” picked his firearm off the bar, and went inside.
Beck lowered into a wicker patio chair near the fire and Rocky laid a blanket in her lap. A moment of indecision on her face, almost pain—an agent for the NSA did not admit she was cold, did not accept blankets from handsome men working in the corrupt underworld. But she wasn’t here representing the National Security Agency.
“Now we wait for her majesty,” said Rocky, sitting beside her.
“Her?” said Manny.
“Her. She’d insist you try the bourbon.”
“Her,” Manny said to himself, thankful to be dealing with surprise now instead of later. He picked two bottles off the bar to inspect. Blanton’s and Old Rip Van Winkle. He filled the bottom of a highball glass with Blanton’s and opened the humidor. Inside were Montecristo and Cohiba cigars from Cuba.
“Satan knows how to live.”
“That she does. Have one. She certainly will. And pour me a glass please.”
Manny cut the cap of a Montecristo. Struck a match and held its flame near the tip, puffing on and rotating the cigar to toast its outer edges. He waved out the match and took a drink to Rocky. He returned, struck another match and held it closer, drawing air through the cigar.
“Why light it twice?” asked Beck.
Manny released the air pressure and his cigar flared. He shook out the match and joined them, carrying the glass of bourbon.
Rocky answered her. “The first match is to toast the foot, or the outer edges. The second ignites the inner tobacco. It’s a more enjoyable experience when done correctly.”
“Do you smoke?”
“Not often,” said Rocky.
“Nasty habit. Ruins your mouth,” said Manny. “Once a year is enough. Teeth like mine don’t happen naturally, migos.”
Manny relaxed a little in the shoulders. He drew on the cigar enough to determine its potency, and he enjoyed watching the smoke uncoil from the red ash. The bourbon was good and he drank half the glass.
And yet.
“This is wasted on me,” he said.
“How so?”
“I am but a humble Puerto Rican.”
“Argentinian,” said Beck.
“I claim both. But neither heritage is enjoying this. Know what I want? Tequila and lime on ice.”
Rocky swirled his glass. “You are a humble Puerto Rican.”
The french doors leading onto the patio opened and a woman joined them. Manny recognized her but he couldn’t place where, probably the news or a magazine article written about her. Self-made billionaires who were women got attention.
“I’m late. Don’t get up.” Her voice wasn’t husky, but it wasn’t not husky either. She thrust her hand at Beck to shake. “Noelle Beck, I’m Kerry Price. This is last minute, I know, and I’m glad we could work around my schedule.” She shook hands with Manny too, firm and quick. �
�Manuel Martinez, Kerry Price. I’ve heard a lot.”
She was mid-fifties maybe, very blonde, some of it pulled back. Thin, brown eyes, strong facial architecture. She wore a pencil skirt that reached her knees, heels, and a tailored white button-down oxford. Strong forearms, like she spent mornings at the gym.
“I have kids I want to put to bed in an hour, if possible, Rocky.”
“We’ll do our best,” he said.
She went to the bar. Didn’t like what she saw. Took a bottle of wine from the fridge under the counter and poured a glass of Pinot Grigio. She also selected a cigar from beneath the bar, a private stash, the cigar more slender than the others. She sat on the same wicker love seat as Manny.
“You’re risking your careers by coming here, agents.”
“Maybe,” said Manny.
“And your lives.”
“Maybe not.”
“I spent the last two minutes convincing angry men with guns not to kill you both.” Price began the process of carefully lighting her cigar.
“It’d take all of them. And still come up short.”
Rocky chuckled. “I told you that you’d like him.”
“You’re compromised, Rocky,” she said.
“We’re all a little compromised right now, Kerry.”
“Mackenzie August and Veronica Summers,” said Kerry, “have ruined far too many of my evenings.”
“They’re worth it.” Manny’s cigar smoke mingled with hers in the air above.
Kerry Price pointed at Beck. “I need to hear it again. Start with Saturday morning. I’m familiar with the backstory.”
“Much of my knowledge is second hand, Ms. Price.”
“Mrs. Price, please. Do your best. Agent Martinez can fill in what you missed.”
Beck did as she was asked, relating the story of Manny coming home and spotting the confrontation in the living room. About Manny calling her and them tailing the cars. About the Appalachian Palace and Hal New slipping away. About Darren’s demands and what Mackenzie August had learned from him that morning over breakfast.
