by Alan Lee
“This your first time?” asked Manny.
“Are you…what, are you the…what’s going on?”
“The girl upstairs, she is a lady,” explained Manny. “And you made the arrangement. Sí? You go pay the lady.”
The guy’s face was only an inch or two from Manny’s, and he experienced what we all did—that Manuel Martinez was absurdly good to look at, and that the attractive facade hid an animal. A dark and dangerous one.
Manny was frightening. Something like kinetic violence on the cusp.
“…um…” said the guy.
Manny turned him in a circle and pushed him back up the stairs. “Go. Now. Or I sodomize you with my pistol.”
“Oh my god,” said the man, jogging back up the stairs. “This…this whole thing…this is messed up.”
Manny turned to me. “Mack, you hear? Sodomize? Good, yes?”
“Yeah real nice.”
Carlos slammed his hands into the Tahoe again. “Open it. Open the door.”
Johnny cursed.
I shook my head at Johnny. “Don’t open it. His daughter’s missing. He’ll kill you.”
“Oh god,” said Johnny.
The man on the second floor threw some money at the girl. She cursed at him and lit a cigarette.
“Look at that, Johnny,” I said. “He paid. We took care of your problem. How about that, Johnny?”
He groaned. Said, “Great. Real fucking great.”
“Last chance, Johnny,” I said. “Before we come in there with you.”
“Why you doing this, man?”
“You’re low hanging fruit. Easy to get,” I said. “But I’m not after you. I’m climbing my way up. Give me what I want and we’re gone.”
The trim and meek accountant carefully edged around Manny, ran to his Corolla, fumbled the keys, got inside, cursed loudly, started it, and left in a hurry.
“You’re looking for Luigi,” Johnny told me. Some would call his tone begrudging. “Luigi. In Willough, on 1st View.”
“Luigi,” I repeated. “1st View.”
The girl at the railing leaned over. Took a long drag on her cigarette and waved at Manny. She propped up her breasts with her elbows. “Hey. Hey gorgeous. You coming up or what.”
Manny blew her a kiss. “I cannot. But you, señorita, I will remember you tonight. When I sleep.”
She snorted. “Lotta good does me now.” All her weight was on the flimsy railing, tilted near the breaking point.
“Who says romance is dead?” I asked Johnny. “Luigi on 1st View. Give me more.”
“Near the corner of Maple. There’s an apartment building and a house. He rents rooms. Okay? Don’t mention me. Now fuck off.”
“Johnny, you know what’s gonna happen if there’s no Luigi there?” I said.
“Whatever man.”
“You know what happens if you warn Luigi? We’re coming back. And Carlos breaks your face.”
He nodded without looking at me. “Okay okay. You think I’d tell Luigi I ratted on him? Get out of here, already.”
“And I’m going to poke you in the ribs. A lot, Johnny. Until it’s not fun anymore. You know what I’m talking about? When it’s frustrating and a little painful? You’re still laughing but you wish you weren’t? You know, Johnny?”
Carlos gave me a look. Like he was rethinking his selection for sophisticated investigator.
“What?” I said. “It hurts when people poke you.”
I made a Let’s go motion by waving my finger in the air. Manny, Carlos, and I walked back to the Accord.
Johnny cursed again, the potty mouth.
4
Twenty minutes later we rolled through the intersection at 1st View and Maple, home of dilapidated multi-family houses. Even in the dark it didn’t take a keen intellect to pick out Luigi’s. Two girls slouched out front, leaning against a green Kia and smoking cigarettes. A guy sat on the concrete steps of what used to be a large house—two stories, pale blue vinyl siding, window air conditioners—but it was now broken into four rental units. Smart money was that Luigi rented all four. The guy on the steps smoked too, bent over his phone.
I buzzed the window down.
One of the girls—she had a smallish face and thin blonde hair and acne—called, “Park over there, baby. Is it your birthday or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
“How many you got?”
“Just me.”
“Come on out, baby. I’m your new girlfriend.”
I opened the door and got out. Manny eased the Accord up the gravel driveway and quietly motored behind the house.
The night air stank of cigarettes and sour liquor and sewage. It was quiet, nearby citizens having bolted their doors against the acknowledged hedonism taking place on 1st View.
“Well, damn, you’re a big guy,” the blonde said and she drew hard enough on her cigarette to use up half the tobacco.
She wore jean shorts, the kind with an elastic waste and drawstrings, and heels and a white sports bralette. She had holes in her nose and earlobes but no jewelry.
“How many girls you got inside?” I asked.
“That depends, baby. How many you need? I can be a jealous girlfriend, though.”
The other girl leaning against the Kia never looked up. She had a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
I said, “Luigi let me have as many as I want?”
“Sweetie, you got the cash? You can buy it all.”
“That’s swell. What a swell guy, that Luigi.”
She made kind of a laugh through her nose. Her sinuses rattled. “Yeah, you know Luigi, a real Valentine.”
“You do back scratches?”
“Back scratches? Sure baby. Whatever.”
“Scalp massage?” I asked.
“You’re kind of a weirdo, mister. What’s your name?”
“Garfield. What’s yours?”
“Jazzy.”
“What about deep tissue, Jazzy? You know, harder than Swedish? Acupuncture? Hot rocks?”
“Garfield, we’re wasting time, baby,” she said.
“You like living here, Jazzy?”
“Sure. Paradise,” she said.
“Where are you from?”
“Where should I be from?”
I said, “I’m from Richmond.”
“How about that. Me too. No kidding,” she said.
“You’re a liar.”
She didn’t want to smile but she did. Her teeth were yellow and she was missing one on the bottom. “C’mon, big guy. Stop asking dumb questions. Let’s go inside, yeah?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m here to see Luigi.”
“This a joke? You wasting my time?”
“Luigi handles all the girls around here, right? Kinda like the pimp boss?”
I removed a big bill from my pocket and gave it to her.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh shit. Go ahead talk to Luigi. He’s on the stairs.”
“No he’s not,” I said.
She turned. The motion stirred the air and her body produced an unwashed odor. “Yeah, he’s…where’d Luigi go?” She pointed at the empty stairs. “He was right there, I swear.”
“I’ll bring him back in a couple minutes.”
Jazzy stared after me but didn’t follow as I went around back, stumbling a little in the dark.
Manny and Carlos were beating the hell out of Luigi in the shadow of an old Cadillac Escalade. I got there in time to see Carlos kick him in the mouth hard enough to loosen his teeth.
I got between Carlos and Luigi, who was on the gravel, holding his side and spitting blood. It was dark behind the house, no source of direct light. Luigi’s shirt and pants were black.
“Enough,” I told them. “Ease up.”
“Luigi think he’s tough,” said Manny. “Pull a knife when I say we only want to talk. I tell him put it back. He didn’t.”
Carlos’s chest was heaving.
Luigi raised up enough to spit a s
pray of blood our way. We stepped backwards and the mist landed on his own face. “Fuck you!”
“Oh yeah?” I said.
“Yeah, all yous. You think I don’t got friends nearby? You think they won’t be here soon?”
I couldn’t see him well. But his accent sounded like New Jersey, one of those guys who say “Fugetaboutid” because they think they’re supposed to.
“Luigi, we’re just leaving,” I said. “Before we go, I need to know the name of your boss.”
“Yeah you can go straight to hell, you can, pal. I got ten guys I’m paying, all them drill you good.”
“Sorry about your mouth. My friends get jumpy.”
“Your friends get dead, when I’m through,” said Luigi.
“Credit where it’s due, Luigi. It’s hard to act tough while cowering like a turtle in the gravel and cigarette butts. But you’ve managed it. Bravo. Who covers this area? Some guy out of Richmond? Out of DC?”
“Christ almighty, you’re all dead.”
“We’re looking for a coyote,” I explained helpfully.
“Coyote? What do I look like, a fucking spic? What do I know about coyotes?”
“Luigi, the next five minutes will be a lot more pleasant if you spill the beans.”
He laughed. I had enough light to see his teeth were red. “What are you gonna go? Your boyfriends already beat me up. Gonna beat me up some more? Go ahead.” He said it like, “Ga’head.”
Manny knelt as Luigi’s feet. There was a snap-click, and then another snap-click. Luigi glanced down, dismayed. His ankle had been handcuffed to the hitch of the old Cadillac Escalade.
“The hell?” he said. “You gonna drag me around town? Jesus.”
“No,” I said. “We’re not.”
He struggled but Manny and Carlos were stronger. Soon Luigi’s right wrist was handcuffed to the bumper of my Honda Accord. He was stretched tight between the two vehicles.
“Okay,” he said and gulped. “Okay, boys, let’s be cool. Aight, got’damn it, let’s relax. Okay?”
Watching this made my stomach churn.
Manny got behind the wheel of the Accord. Started the engine.
“Alright alright!” shouted Luigi. He thrashed helplessly. His eyes turned to me. He shouted over the motor roar. “Alright! Tell your boy to kill the engine!”
“My friend’s crazy,” I said and I shrugged like—what are you gonna do?
“Okay, okay!”
“You don’t work with coyotes?” I asked.
“No!”
“Whose territory is this?” I asked.
Manny dropped the car into gear.
Luigi shouted, “Tito! His name’s Tito!”
The Accord reversed a single inch, stretching Luigi further.
I made a throat slashing gesture at Manny. The car turned off.
Luigi was gasping. In the process of peeing his pants.
“Tito,” I said.
Luigi nodded and started to cry.
“Tito?” said Carlos. “I know Tito.”
“See?” whimpered Luigi, still stretched tight. “The spic knows him. Let me go, okay?”
“I don’t know Tito. I’m getting confused with all the names,” I said. “Who’s Tito?”
Carlos said, “Tito. He works for Duane.”
“Yeah! Yeah that’s the guy! I heard’a Duane! Take off the cuffs, huh?”
“How come none of the crime bosses are women?” I wondered. “Perhaps the underworld is supercilious and sexist.”
Manny snickered.
I knelt beside Luigi. “You promise not to warn Tito that we’re on the way?”
“Yeah man, I swear. I swear to God.”
“Luigi, are you lying?”
“No! Fuck no. Who the hell are you guys? I swear.”
Manny inserted his key into the cuffs and released Luigi’s ankle.
“We’re the good guys,” I said. “Though it doesn’t feel that way at the moment.”
5
Sixty minutes after we’d first knocked on the Chevy Tahoe’s window, Manny parked my Accord at a 7-11. It wasn’t eleven p.m. yet. We were making good time.
“You two guys,” said Carlos. “I work with Marcus. His crew act tough. Do tough things. But you two? You two loco.”
Manny grinned. “Yeah, migo, that be inspired. Right, Mack? Inspired, I say. I almost hit the gas, just to see.”
“That’s disturbing, Manny,” I said.
“Not disturbed. Inspired.”
Carlos asked, “Now what?”
“Tell me about Tito.”
“Tito, he is like Marcus. He run Virginia Beach and Norfolk, the way Marcus run Roanoke.”
“What’s he into?”
“No lo sé. Usual stuff. Drugs. Gambling. Guns. Girls. Money loaning.”
“Lending,” I said.
“Que?”
“A loan is a noun. It’s a thing. Not a verb. You meant to say lending.”
“But we call it loan shark, yes?” said Carlos.
Manny sighed. “Señor August, maybe teach English later.”
I said, “We’re the good guys. It’s important we use the King’s English. Instead of ‘money lending,’ Carlos, you could say ‘usury’ and impress your friends.”
Manny and Carlos, from Puerto Rico and Mexico respectively, expressed a shared sentiment of feeling underwhelmed with my whiteness.
“This Tito,” I said. “He a reasonable guy?”
“Not like Marcus. I don’t mess with Tito.”
“Then I think we’ll call Duane.”
“Jesucristo,” said Carlos.
“I’ve met Duane. Talks soft, wears tight clothes to show off his muscles. I took a lot of money from him in a poker game, about a year ago. Maybe I won’t mention my name.”
“Good idea,” said Manny. “White people hate you.”
“Can you get me Duane’s number?” I asked.
“Simon,” said Carlos and he started texting.
While we waited for a response, Manny went inside for a cherry Slurpee and coffees. Light rain began pattering on the windshield.
Carlos said, “At Luigi’s house. Those two girls you talk to? They were eighteen?”
“Probably not. It was close.”
“What do we do? They are kids.”
I turned in my seat to look at him.
“You’re a professional criminal, Carlos. You’ve seen underaged girls before.”
“Sí. Sí, I know. But…”
“Somehow the world changes when it could be your kid.”
Carlos ducked his head. Twisted a shotgun shell over and over in his thick fingers. I turned back, facing forward.
“Sí,” he said in a soft voice. “The world changes. Why does the police not stop them?”
“There are hundreds of strip motels,” I said. “Bust one, Luigi will start the racket at two others. Not enough police, not enough money, and dozens of Luigis waiting to make money, plus a thousand lost girls. The improprieties of the world outstrip our funds.”
Manny returned with his Slurpee and coffees. The lady working the register gaped after him, like she’d seen a ghost. The Ghost of Christmas Gorgeous.
After a moment, Carlos said, “But they are teenagers. The police, they should do something.”
I said, “Why the police? Why not you? You live in that world, Carlos.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, why’s it gotta be the police?” I asked.
“They are police. It is their job."
“But you’re a human. And a father,” I said. “It’s our job. Collectively.”
“But we drove away. We left.”
Manny drank his red goo and grinned. “Don’t let him fool you, Carlos. Señor Mack is writing down all the addresses and license plates. After this be over, he will call social services and then the police. He cannot sit still and do nothing.”
Carlos leaned forward, so his head was closer to ours. “You are?”
I shrugged. “Don’t
tell anyone. My heart of gold could ruin business.”
“Why do you not call police now?” asked Carlos.
“Mack, he does not trust the government,” said Manny. “He like to spook people and let them make the right choice. He hoping Luigi gets scared straight. Those two girls run home or something.”
“I do not understand.”
“Cleaning yourself up,” I said, “is nothing the government can coerce its citizens to do with any efficiency. The government should be used only as a last resort.”
“Say that again,” said Carlos. “But different.”
“It’s impossible to fix someone. They gotta decide to fix themselves. Once the police arrest them, the girls will dig in their heels. Resist. Because that’s all they know how to do. Much better if they come to their own conclusions. So maybe Luigi quits because we almost tore his arms off. Maybe he sees the light. Gives his girls a ride somewhere healthy. Probably not, but it’s the best I can do. We scare them and give them the chance. A reminder they at least have a choice. Freedom is a terrible thing, but it’s the best path to independence and healthy interdependence.”
“My daughter, Isabella. She does not have a choice. She was taken.”
“Why we’re here with guns,” I said.
Carlos’s phone beeped softly.
“Okay. I have the number. Phone number for Duane.” He didn’t sound happy about it.
Manny reached into his 7-11 bag and pulled out one of those cheap burner phones with a temporary number. I powered it on and got the number and dialed it.
It rang twice.
A voice came on. “Yeah.”
“Talk to Duane,” I said. “Pretty please.”
“What about.”
“He’s been nominated for Villain of the Year. I’m on the awards committee.”
In the back seat, Carlos groaned. Manny grinned around his straw.
The line stayed silent.
I said, “I’d like to speak to Duane about a complex situation involving Tito and Marcus Morgan.”
He didn’t respond but the shade of silence changed. There came faint sounds of movement. A minute later, I heard music.
A new voice. “It’s late. Who is this?”
“Hello Duane. I represent one of your underlings,” I said. “Let’s call him John Wick. John Wick is several rungs below you on the ladder of villainy.”
