B0056C0C00 EBOK (7 page)

CHAPTER 7

N
IKA LET THE RUMBLE OF THE
tires on the road lull her, she lay back using her bag as a lumpy pillow. Her first day in this new world was spent locked in back of a sweltering, windowless van. Three other girls traveled with her. Two were from Ukraine, the third came all the way from Norilsk, up in the permanently frozen north. They had spoken in the dark - trying to keep their courage up - all agreed this wasn’t as bad as it could be. Soon they would walk onto the wonderful streets of America. They passed a jug of water, but there was no food. Their sweat and cheap perfume mixed in the stale air.

“Hey Moscow, what the fuck are you doing?” Yumma asked. At nineteen, she was the oldest of the girls, she had the thick gravel in her voice that only years of tobacco can give.

“It’s Yaroslavl.” Nika twisted, unzipping her dress.

“I don’t care fuck where you’re from, keep your dress on. You want them to think we’re whores?”

“I’m hot, and you’re not my mother.”

“Thank god for that. Do any of you useless cows have a cigarette?”

Nika pulled the dress over her head. In her slip, she felt much better. After a long, hot moment, she heard the zippers of other girls following her lead.

“Oh, that’s real classy. What will they think when they open the door and find you idiots naked?”

Twenty minutes later, Nika smiled when she heard Yumma’s zipper slowly go down.

Lunch hour came and went without a break. In the afternoon the van stopped and they could hear a loud tinny radio playing brassy music. None of the girls spoke Spanish, the rapid speech of the DJ was a blur of noise to them. They heard the gas tank filling. Nika knocked on the door, pleading that she needed to pee.

Blinding light filled their compartment. Glowing in the sun, the man with the acne-ruined face tossed a plastic bucket in to them. Before Nika’s eyes could adjust enough to make out the surroundings, the door banged closed again. It embarrassed her to squat over the bucket, but it was either that or have her bladder burst. The sound of her urine splashing down caused one of the girls to giggle.

“What?” Nika snapped. She had no idea which girl it was, but she would be damned if they would laugh at her.

“Sorry.” It was Guzel Saifutdinova, the girl from Norilsk. Nika could tell by her small mouse like voice. It was as if she thought even in their dark cage, someone would overhear her.

Nika felt a little better having lost the pain of a swollen bladder. It was the most satisfying piss she had ever had. Strange, she thought, how denying a thing can make it so much better once you got it.

“I’m hungry.” This came from the deep voiced Zhanna. She had told them she was seventeen and came from Odessa. She had been studying for her college entrance exams when her mother lost her job at the Volga automobile factory. With no money or hope, she decided to leave for America.

“Here,” Nika said. On the plane, she had slipped saltines and peanuts into her bag. “No cigs, huh?” Yumma said.

“No. Have a cracker, pretend it’s a smoke.” Nika shared her snacks with the others. Why not, soon they would have to stop for dinner. The man driving the van wouldn’t starve them.

They didn’t stop for dinner. Nika’s stomach was growling when she finally let sleep take her away. How long she slept was impossible to tell. The combination of jet lag and the monotony of the dark van left her disoriented. A knot had tightened in her belly, from both fear and hunger. The van had turned from oppressive heat to bone chilling cold. The girls huddled together, wrapping the rough Mexican blankets around themselves.

“We never should’ve come here,” Guzel whined, near tears. “If I wanted to freeze to death, I could have stayed home. Where are they taking us? We don’t even know who they are. This was a terrible mistake.”

“Shhh, we’ll be alright,” Nika said.

“How do you know? They can do what they want with us, who will protect us?”

“Why would they fly us across the world to hurt us?” Nika was sounding much braver than she felt. “I don’t know how it was in Norilsk, but in Yaroslavl it sucked.”

Guzel sobbed quietly.

“Stop crying.” Nika grabbed the girl’s shoulder and shook her roughly. Guzel fell silent. Nika lay back down, pulling up her blanket. Since her big sister left home, she had been forced to grow up. She took over the household. It was her job to keep her father in line, or he would spend what little money they had on wine.

At thirteen, Nika was the youngest in the van, but now she was the one they turned to for leadership. If she had to be harsh to keep them from falling apart, she would. With every step, from Yaroslavl to Moscow to Mexico, she had faced new fears, and with each conquered she felt braver. Whatever came next, she would deal with it. And in the end, she was sure the prize in America would prove to be worth it.

“The phone’s been ringing off the hook,” Gregor said when I returned.

“Who called?”

“Who knows? Boss, everyone has an answering machine. I could hook you up.”

I should have guessed he wouldn’t answer it. I hadn’t asked him to, and why would I, the damn thing never rang. Before I could ask him where Anya was, the phone started ringing.

“Where the hell have you been?” It was a seriously not happy Detective Lowrie.

“Out. What bug crawled up your ass?”

“I’m running on two hours of sleep and paranoia, so don’t screw with me.”

“Ok, but I can’t answer questions you’re not asking.”

“Who the fuck did you piss off?”

“Excuse me?” I felt like I was caught in some bizarre hidden camera show.

“I call my man in the Russian mob squad, twenty minutes later I have some cowboy with a Homeland Security badge at my door.”

“A fed?”

“Yeah, a big fat G-man. He wanted your name and kept throwing terms like ‘enemy combatant’ like it was confetti and the Lakers had won the title.”

“You give me up?”

“Screw him.”

“Thanks.”

“Didn’t do it for you, I can’t stand anyone coming into my playground and telling me the bat and ball are theirs.”

“What’s their interest here?”

“Hell if I know, I was kind of hoping you might shed some light on this bullshit.”

“No idea. Did the Russians say anything to the Mob Squad?” I asked.

“Hell, they never even rolled on it. My guy said the house was on a federal ‘don’t touch’ list. Is that pure crap or what?”

My mind spun. If the Russian mobsters weren’t in lockdown, then they would be out hunting us. They didn’t know my name, and even if they did, I paid cash for my rent and the utilities were in the owner’s name. If you didn’t know me, finding me was next to impossible.

“Odds are real good the captain’s going to be on my ass to give up my snitch, and that’s you,” Lowrie said.

“Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll be smoke.”

“Tell me it’s for a good cause.”

“A thirteen year old girl has been trafficked. I have to find her before the Russians do.”

I could hear his breath as he exhaled into the phone. After a thought-filled moment he finally said in a flat measured tone, “I’ll give you what I can.”

“Thank you.” I knew he would do what he could, and that was the most I could expect of any man.

I was about to fill Gregor in when Anya stepped out of the bathroom. Wet from a shower, she was dressed only in a towel. I had to control my jaw from dropping. Fresh, clean, without makeup, she looked years younger and made me feel years older for lusting after her.

Gregor looked from her to me, then got up and went into the kitchen.

“Where did you go?” Anya asked, moving up to me as if she were unaware of the affect she was having on me. I watched a bead of water roll over her collar bone and down her chest. She watched my eyes, and smiled softly.

“You are going to find my sister, yes?”

“Yes.” The phone rang, saving me from falling into Anya’s eyes.

“Moses, things have gone crazy down here.” It was Piper and she sounded uncharacteristically rattled. “They tore this place up, broken bottles, booze all over the floor. Put Turaj in the hospital.”

“Slow down, darlin’, who tore it up?” I asked

“I got here early, Turaj was setting up, I was in the dressing room. I heard shouting and stayed hid. What kind of mental midget robs a strip club before it opens?”

“They robbed the club?” Even stone cold idiots knew we took the cash to the bank every night, all we ever had at the beginning of a shift was a couple hundred for change.

“You know, I forgot to ask them what they were doing there, I was a little busy crawling into the back of a closet.”

“You didn’t see anything?”

“Got a good look at the back of the closet. Did you know one of the girls keeps a box of dope and a pipe back there?”

“Real interesting. Where’s Uncle Manny?”

“Glendale Adventist, that’s where the paramedics took Turaj.”

“Paramedics?” Turaj was the club owner’s nephew and a worthless womanizer, but if anyone was going to fuck him up I wanted it to be me.

“They hurt him bad. What the hell is going on, Mo?”

“I don’t know. Call Doc, tell him to get his black ass in there, then call Jesus and see if he can put together a cleaning crew. Have them restock the bar. I’ll find Uncle Manny and see if he wants us to open.” Piper was much calmer when she hung up. The girls might mock me, think I was a jerk and a joke, but when the shit hit, I was always the first they’d call.

“Gregor,” I called out, “stay put, and watch the door.”

“What’s up, boss?” He came out of the kitchen carrying a fry pan he was drying.

“When I know, I’ll call, so pick up.” I was out the door at a run.

Uncle Manny was pacing in the surgical waiting room. Fereshteh, Manny’s wife, sat quietly with her head bowed. I had never met her, but recognized her immediately from the family photo Manny kept on his desk.

“Moses?” Uncle Manny looked surprised to see me.

“Where’s Turaj?”

“Come.” Uncle Manny nodded his head out of the room. He led me through the hospital and out onto a small smoking balcony.

“Do you have a cigarette?” It was the first he had spoken since leaving his wife.

“Quit years ago,” I told him.

“Me too.” His eyes were rimmed with red, and he looked old.

“Who did it, Manny?”

“This is none of your concern.”

“Bullshit. Someone comes in my club, fucks with my people, it’s my business.”

“It is not your club. It is my club, and I’m telling you to stay out of it.” His voice was flat and devoid of emotion.

“Was it the Russians?”

“Go home, Moses. This is family trouble, I will handle it.” Without meeting my eyes he turned and walked back into the hospital.

Walking to my car, it hit me. How fucking stupid could one man be? In the mansion, we trussed up the old man and his thugs, but we left the girls free. They may have hated the mutants who held them captive, but without passports, or any cash, the girls didn’t have a lot of options. I made sure the Russians didn’t know my name, but Marina sure as hell knew my name and where I worked. If she sold me out to save her own skin, I didn’t blame her, I blamed myself for not thinking of it. Now Turaj was in surgery, he had taken the weight meant for me. Whether he gave me up straight away or they beat it out of him, fact was, I was sure they had my address.

Running to a pay phone, I fumbled two quarters in and dialed home. The phone rang fifteen times before I clicked off.

I parked around the corner from my house, I took my 1911 .45 from the tire well, slipped it in my belt and moved quickly along the sidewalk. An empty black Mercedes was at the curb. Keeping their car between me and the house, I crouched down by the fender. It takes more force than most think to slit a tire, even with a razor honed buck knife. The air escaped with a crisp hiss. I peeked over the hood, but nothing moved in the house.

Slipping along the side yard, I stole a glance into the bedroom. It was free of Russian dick heads. With a Bullmastiff as an alarm, I had taken to leaving my windows open. Pulling up onto the sill, I dropped silently to the floor. From the living room or kitchen, I heard several men speaking in Russian. I needed to cross the open doorway to get to the closet, and the hidden cabinet where I kept the big guns. Holding my breath, I took one long step across the opening. Pinned against the wall, I waited for them to come running. But they kept talking in the same casual tone.

Sliding my hanging clothes aside, I pushed the spring lock on the cabinet set into the back wall. The lock popped much louder than I had hoped. The conversation in the living room stopped abruptly. Footsteps moved quickly toward the bedroom. I grabbed the first gun my hand hit, my Mossberg 12-gauge street sweeper.

The first man through the door was a tanned muscle boy, he was sweeping the room with a small automatic when I rolled out of the closet. From the floor I fired up, the blast of buckshot took him in the chest and sent him doing the rag doll tumble into the living room.