Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (23 page)

Cools captures a quick look, moving to the bar. Welcoming them is a young stud bartender lording in front of glistening display cases of exotic liquors. Cools places his badge and orders a glass of Jameson.

Michelle checks him out as he searches the wall behind him for the bottle. Then back to the girls. “This…uh…is a lot nicer than I thought,” she yells over the music.

“Yeah, not too bad,” he grins.

The bartender, sporting a tight-fitted shirt, sets the drink on a coaster and says cordially, “I’m Aaron. Can I get you anything else detective?”

Cools swallows the liquor in one gulp and motions him to lean in closer. He pulls Kimberly’s picture out of his pocket and shouts out, “I came here to get every last bit of information there is on her. And I promise you, if I leave here today not knowing all you know, I will return and shoot you in your pretty face.”

Aaron looks to Michelle for help. He finds none. Then he nervously replies over the noise, “You want to talk to Tommy, the manager!”

“Where is he?”

“I’ll…uh…get him for you,” he says and begins to back away.

“We’ll come with you,” Cools says and tracks him to the far side of the stage area. Michelle steals a couple more quick glances at the girls before they enter another dark hallway. The music sounds more distant as they round each corner and travel through a maze to the rear of the building, taking note of the names on the doors: Lovers Lace, Ecstasy, Ablaze, Lady Demure, and so forth.

Aaron opens a door and begins to say, “There are two police—”

Cools pushes past, followed by Michelle, who slows with a warm smile in front of the bartender.

“Hey, what the fuck is this?” Tommy yells.

“You know exactly why we’re here. Now I want some answers. Tell me everything you know concerning Kimberly.”

Tommy lets out a sigh, waves his bartender away, and offers them a seat.

Michelle inspects him and his office. He’s a tall, fit, bronze-skinned man in his midforties who would be very good-looking if it weren’t for the pock marks covering his face. His small, square office is cluttered, and glass-enclosed frames cover every available surface on the walls. Inside are numerous girly magazines:
Penthouse, Hustler, Playboy, Maxim
, and
Club
. Michelle presumes the featured girls make up the weekend lineup on the stages.

As they sit Tommy sets the rules like a shrewd businessman. “Fifty million dollars bail shelters my thoughts for the time being, but let me ask you this: is there any chance of him getting out?”

Cools, immediately understanding his concern, answers confidently, “No, he’s not going anywhere. And even in the event he does, he’ll be under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Also I want you to know anything you say here today will be between you, me, and my partner, Detective Robertson.” He presents her.

She smiles while Tommy muses over the circumstances for a spell, then replies, “There’s a lot you need to know, and some of it will be hard to believe.”

.

Chapter Thirty-One

T
he cold, pallid cement walls, where Joshua sits, are paint chipped and adorned with graffiti, gang symbols and obscenities: “Blue-dog is a Rat,” “Fuck the police.” An electric deadbolt actuates screeching steel, and a door opens. William, trying not to touch anything, walks past mothers, girlfriends, and gangster buddies until he sees
his
problem waiting behind the glass. Joshua wears an unusual grin and is sitting tall.

William takes his seat on the round, stainless steel stool. He picks up the phone, ordering, “Listen to me, Josh. Do not utter a word until I have finished saying all that I need to say.”

“No, you listen to me. I—”

William slams the phone back into its cradle.

Joshua protests for a spell then relents; his muted appeals are barely heard through the thick screened-glass barrier. William holds out until he’s sure he will get the chance to speak first. He is a prudent man who has just spent the last hour procuring a judgment to have the recording system turned off while conversing with his son. Still he does not trust them and doesn’t intend to permit an opportunity for Joshua to say anything incriminating. Also he has an obligation to keep this scandal as far away from the archdiocese as possible. It is a delicate dance, as none of this rests well with the church—his prized client, which he’s represented as chief legal advisor for more than a decade and aims to protect at any cost. The wealth gained in service to them has guaranteed his devotion and has become a large part of his professional and personal life. For better or worse, it is who he is, even if it is all a sham. Attorney William Siconolfi is forever putting on a show, practicing the art of spin and deception, not just in the courtroom but in the public light as well. The greatest decision he ever made for his career was the blueprinting of his public Christian persona, projecting himself as a follower of the faith:

a hypocrite for hire.

Again he picks up the receiver. “I need you to say nothing; this conversation could be monitored, and anything you say can be used against you. Sometimes cases can be won or lost due to the slightest bits of information given up by the defendant. Now, I already know you are innocent, so you need not try to convince me otherwise.” Then he attempts some small talk to ease things over. “How’re you doing in there? You look horrible.”

Joshua, pressed to behave, starts in an even tone. “Dad, I know I say some crazy shit sometimes, but listen to me carefully. They really did torture me; they have this room with chaotic lights; they drugged me and kept me in some kind of pressurized cell, and I want it told to the press. I want the world to know. I want them to pay for what they did to me!”

“That’s’ not important right now.” William shakes his head, finding the fortitude to tell it to him straight. “Josh, I’m not…we’re not going to attack this with accusations of police brutality. We all know it happens, but in the end, it’s not a good defense strategy, basically because no one cares. Half of the public won’t believe it; the other half silently condones it.”

“I don’t care; I need you to tell the press about my forced confession!”

“Fine. If that’s what you want, I’ll make a statement. Now answer my question: how’re you holding up?”

He laughs sarcastically. “I’m doing just fine. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Do not speak to me in that tone, son; I think you should show some respect and appreciation that I’m even here.”

There’s a pause and then Joshua asks, “What’re they saying about me in the news?”

“They’re saying all kinds of things, but none of that’s important. Now listen to me. We’re in a lot of trouble here, and the fact that you seem more interested in your media coverage makes me question your very sanity even more so. They want to execute you, son!”

“I don’t care; they can try if they want. And who gives a shit anyway?”

“I give a shit! Yeah…you know, you may be my wayward son; you screw off all your money, and I put up with all your nonsense, your religion, your fantasy world you live in with your stripper wife, your…your drugs! And still I care.”

Not wanting to get roped into another discussion of drugs, Joshua changes his approach. “What do you mean
we’re
in a lot of trouble. I’m the one in here, remember?”

“Oh yeah, it’s all about you, isn’t it? Well, let me tell you something. I’ve lost ten pounds since you started all this mayhem. And I’m walking a fine line trying to save you and my practice. I’m hesitant to show my face in public because of you, and I have the nagging notion to walk away and wash my hands of all this completely!”

Joshua changes and pushes his face to the glass. There’s a boiling anger in his eyes, looking as if he could smash through with hatred alone, but he says nothing, since it is nothing new—this talk from his father and his position in the community he’s heard all his life. William can see his son drifting to wherever he goes when he’s this way; he attempts to pull him out of it, saying, “I told them Kimberly isn’t real—that she’s only in your imagination.”

“Sure, that’s just fucking like you! Let’s quit playing games, or maybe we could talk about your church. Why don’t we talk about the fact that—”

William hangs up again, motions for the guard, then watches his son being escorted away without looking back. A parental guilt rises in him. Maybe I could’ve been a better father; maybe things would’ve been better if he still had his mother. I have to do anything and everything possible to get him free. But more importantly I have to shield the archdiocese; I have to protect myself.

Joshua is taken back to isolated confinement. The guards call ahead, clearing the hallways before moving him. They have to stay vigilant and keep him safe because of the many other criminals who may attempt to make a name for themselves.

.

Chapter Thirty-Two

T
ommy replies, “There is a lot you need to know, and some of it will be hard to believe!”

His visitors listen ardently, taking notes.

“She came to me a year ago, begging for a job, but said she couldn’t reveal her real name. My first thought was she was under age. So I put her on the stage, hoping she’d fail miserably, that I could get rid of her right away. But it was just the opposite; she was a natural, and desirable; she took to it like I’d never seen before. Her moves were naturally sensual. She said she’d never danced before, but we didn’t believe her. And after some of us took a good look at her and concluded she was of age, I hired her on the spot. I told her to come back later that evening at nine, but she never showed. I tried to call, but she didn’t answer. Then two nights later, on a Saturday night, the place was packed; she strolled through the front door dressed as some sort of queen vampire. She wore a black see-through cape with a red choker. Then she stole the center stage. All eyes were on her as she interrupted the other girl, simply staring at her, saying nothing, with a glare telling her to leave. She was powerful, and needless to say, she had our full attention. The other girl—can’t remember her name—bounced away in a fit. And Jeremy, our DJ, played into the theme. He lowered the lights and beamed a bluish, glowing spotlight on her and a slow pulsing strobe; the set held a trickle of decadence and sin. Then she began to dance in ways never seen, bending her silken curves, teasing, inviting all of us to feast our eyes, and we did. But after she was done, she fled the club without saying a word. I thought she was going to get away, but I chased her down in the parking lot and, after a lot of pleading, persuaded her into doing a regular show.”

“The one with Amberly?” Cools asks.

“Yes, yes, it was a dual act she and Amberly performed; they were our most asked for. I had men
begging
me for Kimberly; one even offered one hundred thousand dollars for her.”

“What do you mean,
for her?
” Michelle asks cynically.

“Uh…maybe I’m stepping out of bounds here trying to help you? If my information isn’t helpful then maybe—”

“No, that’s okay,” Cools quickly clarifies, then looks to Michelle and says, “We’re not here to investigate anything that has to do with the operations at the Kitty Club.” Michelle rolls her eyes without reply. Again Cools turns back to Tommy. “There’s nothing you tell us here today that will incriminate you.” Tommy returns a skeptical look. Cools holds a finger, pulls out his cell phone, and calls Captain Jackson. While it rings he asks for Tommy’s last name.

“Cools what do you got?”

“Well, not much yet, Captain. But in order to take this where we want it to go, I need to get credit for Mr. Tommy Latson and the Kitty Club.”

“Your timing couldn’t be more perfect. Sit tight; I’m gonna call you right back in his office.”

“Okay.”

“What is that—a credit?” he asks.

“Exactly what it sounds like. If you or your business ever find yourself in any legal troubles, you now have credit. And Captain Jackson said he’s calling us right back.”

Michelle sighs in frustration; she cannot condone extending a free pass to men who take advantage of lost girls. Inside her mind a fitting catchphrase materializes: “Pimps with Connections.”

Just then his desk phone rings—Jerome Jackson. Tommy pushes a button, answering it with the speakerphone. “Hello?”

Captain Jackson’s voice comes through, “I presume I’m speaking with
only
Mr. Tommy Latson, Detective Cools, and Robertson, is that correct?”

All three answer at once.

Then a moment later, there’s another voice, one neither Cools nor Michelle have ever heard before, though Tommy seems to immediately know who it is. The voice says, “Tommy, I am going to ask you to fully comply with any questions these detectives may have, absent any names of course. And feel free to inform them as to what it is we do, so they get the full understanding of what they are dealing with.”

“Are you sure about this? There are going to be some that won’t agree.”

“Anything they want!”

The call ends.

“Who was that?” Michelle demands.

“Uh…I’m
very
certain I’m not going to answer that.”

She looks insulted and presses further, “What do you mean you’re not—”

“Michelle, leave it be! Let’s just get what we came for. Tommy, you were saying?”

He takes a long stare at Michelle, his eyes becoming more serious. He sits forward. “OK, we all know what goes on here, so let’s not kid ourselves. But the Kitty Club operates on a much higher level—all the escorts from Vegas would kill to work here. And we have a special club within a club. No doubt you’ve noticed a few of the exotic cars in our parking lot?”

Images of the expensive automobiles spotted earlier flash in Cools’s mind. “Yeah, I was going to ask you about that.”

“Well”—he grins pretentiously—“on prearranged nights, the Kitty Club is not open to the public; it is invitation only. We have a car club, and we race at night. You ever have to detour past sections of freeways or thoroughfares at night because they’re blocked off for construction, but when you drive by the next day it doesn’t seem like anything’s been done?”