by William Cook
“It won’t be long before we can just sit back and be entrepreneurs—have other people do all the heavy lifting for us.”
“Well, just keep that bitch away from me, or I swear…”
Gideon grabbed his shoulder. “You swear nothing,” he snarled. “You so much as lay a finger on her, and I’ll cut off your other ear. And maybe your dick, just for good measure.” He pushed him away.
“Then you keep your hands off her, too! No tasting the merchandise.” Paul gritted his teeth. He walked over to the closet they had locked the girl in. He pounded his fist on the door. “Judgment day is coming, bitch!”
He was beginning to hate Gideon. Or maybe he had hated him his whole life. It was hard being the invisible son when his brother won all the accolades—all the trophies, all the friends, all the love their father had to give. He could hear his mother’s voice, coaching him to be smarter than Gideon, but that was hard to do when all he really wanted was to hurt him.
“I’m going home,” he snapped. “Don’t forget to feed and water her.”
On the other side of the closet door, Patricia lay curled in a fetal position. She had no clear recollection of her escape attempt the previous day, other than the terrible cold and wet. She was dressed in the dry, baggy clothes Gideon had brought her, but it still had taken hours for her core temperature to return to normal. An empty thermos, as well as an empty plate and fork lay beside her, but she couldn’t recall what she had eaten. The passage of time was beyond her grasp. Had she been in this prison hours? Days? Weeks? Perhaps she had died and her body simply refused to acknowledge it. Memories came in fragments, splinters of mental activity without context. The thought, my mother is safe, echoed in the darkness, but she wasn’t sure what it meant. She felt disconnected from her life, as though she needed to reboot it the way she restored her cell phone or router.
She stretched, and in so doing, saw again the horizontal list of names behind the door. In a sudden moment of clarity, she picked up her fork and slid across the floor. Lying on her stomach, she scratched Patricia next to Deirdre, adding her name to those of the lost, names attached to real people, to human beings as innocent as she. It was all she could do—this silent testimony against the wrongness of it, against the unspeakable crimes. I was here, too, she thought.
An idea struck her like a thunderbolt. She clenched her teeth and pulled several strands of hair from her head. Wetting her finger with saliva, she ran it along the strands and stuck them in the crease between the baseboard and the wall, making them adhere in the crack, barely visible.
“My message in a bottle,” she whispered to the door, “with just about as much chance of being discovered.”
“Goodbye, Paul. Don’t let the doorknob hit you on the way out, you dumb shit.”
He had to get out of this madhouse. Between the crazy girl and his crazy brother, he needed some relief. He had wanted the girl in the closet—wanted to ravage her as he had their other prizes—but he knew it was unnecessary now. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she was already broken. The wild mustang had been tamed. Other women in town could satisfy his needs. Besides, the girl was a big paycheck, and they were short cash after missing a month of crabbing. His frequent trips to the casino had not helped either. Paul would really freak if he found out about that.
A mirthless smile curled his lips. What to do about Paul, poor whiny Paul, who doesn’t know enough to come in out of the rain? Dumbass Paul, who had spent his childhood studying ballet instead of learning how to play football. Is it any wonder our father wouldn’t have anything to do with him?
Paul had taken the SUV, which was just as well. The pickup had a better sound system in it. As he started it, his mind wandered to Melody. Had he paid last month’s child support? Shit! That’s what he’d forgotten. Any day now she’d start filling his phone with texts written in all capital letters, leaving voicemails shrieking about what a horrible father he was. He felt an involuntary shudder as he anticipated the onslaught. Then he laughed. She was so predictable. How old was his kid now? Ten? Eleven? He couldn’t keep track. Melody had been so set against “the cold and wet” of Oregon that she’d flown off to southern California with Tanner, and now was turning him into a perfect mama’s boy. Well, she could damn well wait for her check. She’d get it when he was good and ready.
As he approached the lights of town, he thought of Volkov and the ship that would be coming to take their prize. He knew the man only over the phone, a disembodied voice that sounded educated and condescending, its Russian accent surrendering to common American. Paul had spoken with Volkov first, but wouldn’t talk to Gideon about it. Then Gideon had been contacted by one of Volkov’s local representatives, Abram Sokolov, about doing a little “side business” for the Portland crime family. The offer had come at an opportune time, when Gideon’s gambling debts had begun to exceed his income from crabbing. They had met at Sokolov’s lounge, Club Chaos, in Driftwood.
A pretty young waitress brought two bourbons, neat, into the office and set them on the desk between the two men.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Drake,” the man with the raptor’s eyes said as he extended his hand. He had brown hair and a short, neatly trimmed beard. The ghost of a scar on his left cheek, from his eyelid to the corner of his mouth, lent a grim power to his face. A lap top computer and a large ledger occupied the left side of the oak desk.
Gideon shook the offered hand, felt the strength in it, then motioned with his other arm back toward the door. “Nice place you got here, Mr. Sokolov.” He could feel the heavy bass from the dance floor pounding into the sound-proofed office.
“Thank you.” He raised his glass in a toast to the fisherman. “Your brother was impressed as well when I met with him last week.” His smile radiated pride and self-confidence. “Let us get right to business, shall we?”
Gideon took a sip and set down his glass. “Sure.”
The Russian riveted the visitor with his gaze. “We know about your history of smuggling, Mr. Drake. You and your brother.”
“Hey, those charges were all dropped. They never got enough evidence.”
“And two key witnesses recanted their testimony. Interesting.”
Gideon squirmed. “Jesus. It was only weed. The damn stuff is legal now.”
Sokolov raised his hand as if to stop Gideon’s protests. “No harm, no foul. Is that the expression? We also know about your debts at the casino.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Please, Mr. Drake. Do not insult our intelligence. You need money. We need your skills. We can have a mutually beneficial relationship.”
“Tell me more. Paul wouldn’t talk to me. Said I had to get it straight from you.”
The man behind the desk nodded. “We have…product…to move. Up from California to Oregon and Washington. We would like you and your brother to be a link in that chain. A short boat trip for you actually—just five to ten miles directly out from port. When trucks bring goods north to you, you will bring some to me here at the club and the rest out to sea, where you will transfer them to a yacht out of Roche Harbor.”
“And how are you gonna get past Customs in Roche Harbor?”
The Russian shook his head. “Why trouble yourself with our problems?”
“OK. OK. But why not just truck it all the way up? Why go out of your way with this whole boat thing?”
“We like to keep our enemies guessing. What is the term from American football? A fake? The trucks continue north from here, but are innocent if they get stopped.”
“Well, it sounds pretty easy on my end. Not a whole lot of risk for me.” He took another sip of whiskey.
“There is a harder part, if you are willing and courageous. Of course, it pays much more money.” He lowered his voice to a sinister whisper. “About four times a year we will want you to bring us people.”
“People?”
“Young girls mostly. Sometimes boys. We have a very discerning client.”
Gideon’s eyes went wide, and he inhaled between clenched teeth. “Holy shit! So that’s why Paul wouldn’t talk about it.” When he recovered, he said, “I guess that’s the whole enchilada.”
“Indeed.”
“I thought they collected vans full of people. Worked them in the fields. Pimped ‘em out.”
“Our client does not want migrants. He has no need for truckloads of poor people, sick people, people who cannot speak English. He wants American-born, healthy, attractive specimens…to be his ‘companion.’ One person at a time, four times a year.”
“How would I—we—catch them?”
“We leave that to your own ingenuity. Yours and your brother’s. Paul has some very interesting ideas.”
The fisherman nodded and pursed his lips as he digested this latest development.
“We will provide you with fast-acting sedatives to keep your cargo quiet.”
“And just so I know, what kind of money are we talking about? For moving product. And for the other.”
Sokolov lifted a pen from where it lay on the ledger book and wrote some figures on a piece of paper. He slid it across the desk so Gideon could read the numbers.
Gideon gasped. He looked at the ceiling, shaking his head back and forth. Suddenly, he furrowed his brow and lowered his gaze to the man who sat across from him. “But what’s to stop me from taking this sheet to the police and telling them about the whole caper?”
“A bullet, Mr. Drake. Or several, actually. For both you and your brother. He asked the same question.” The Russian withdrew a Glock from the right-hand drawer and set it on the desk before him as if to emphasize his point.
The crabber frowned and exhaled deeply. “Did I—we—ever really have a choice?”
“Not once you heard the plan, I am afraid. That is already a crime.” He smiled. “I believe your lawyers call it ‘conspiracy.’ But please. This is no time for unpleasantness. You and your brother are about to become very rich men.”
“And how did we get so lucky?”
“We recognize talent when we see it, Mr. Drake.”
So much had changed since then. Sokolov had died last spring when Club Chaos burned to the ground. It looked to Gideon that the dead Russian’s drug empire had taken a big hit and still had not entirely recovered. Volkov had gone through several local people, but was not yet satisfied as to who should take over his central coast business. Gideon and Paul just did as they were told.
Paul had become quite proficient at selecting their targets for abduction and developing ways to entrap them. But he was a spider. He had to be watched. His fondness for knives had started before he was six-years-old, and not long after, neighborhood cats had begun to disappear one by one. Gideon had told their mother that a pack of coyotes was to blame. He had never said anything to her about the “operations” Paul had performed on the hapless animals in the woods behind their house.
“Enough!” Gideon shouted above the music from his sound system. “I don’t need to be thinking about my stupid brother now. I need to get drunk and get laid. In that order.”
He pulled the truck into a parking place before The Mermaid’s Tail, a dimly lit watering hole that catered to local fishermen. A gaudy neon sign in the window flashed off and on, simulating the flapping motions of a well-endowed mermaid with long, flowing green hair. As he entered and his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he saw a woman at the far end of the bar waving to him.
“Hey, Dragon. It’s been a while. Whiskey?”
“Right on, my love.” He turned to the bartender and raised his hand. The man with the tattoo on his neck that read, “Momma Tried,” knew his frequent customers and what they liked to drink. He reached for a bottle on the shelf behind him. Gideon turned back to the woman. “Did you miss me?”
She made a point of looking below his belt. “Sure did, sweetie. But I know you’ll make it up to me.”
24. Special Delivery
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 30, 2018. The white panel truck was inscribed with the bright red logo of Cosmic Case, a luggage manufacturer out of southern California. A Bag For Every Need on the Planet, proclaimed a space-suited icon, two fingers of both hands raised in the peace sign. The windshield wipers squeaked with every pass back and forth as the vehicle drew to a halt before the old gray warehouse.
“Where are they?” the passenger in the blue monogramed coveralls griped.
“They’ll be here. We’re a few minutes early.” The driver lowered the zipper on his coveralls a few inches, removed his cap, and scratched his head. His long, dark hair was matted and oily. “Christ, I could use a shower.” He returned the hat to its perch on the top of his head.
“You’re telling me!” his partner joked, earning a punch in the arm.
“You’re not so sweet-smelling yourself, asshole. Anyway, we’ll be in Portland in another hour, hour and a half. Then we can crash.”
“I want a good steak dinner and a few beers, first.”
“No shit.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a black SUV that parked alongside them.
“See?” The driver climbed out of the truck into the light rain. His partner hesitated, then also exited the vehicle, complaining under his breath about the weather.
“Hey, Gideon. Paul.” The driver tipped the brim of his hat. He saw the bandages on the side of Paul’s face. “What happened to your ear, man? Crab bite it off?” When Paul turned away, he added, “Just a joke. Didn’t mean nothing by it. Anyway, I got a late Christmas present for you guys, compliments of Mr. Volkov. You want them in your car or in the warehouse?”
“Warehouse for now. Let me get the bay door up.” Gideon entered the key code on the entrance door and pulled it open. Once inside the dark enclosure, he flipped on the overhead lights. A motor whined, and the bay door slid upward. “Drive your truck in here so we don’t have to unload it in the rain. Gives us privacy, too.”
Minutes later, with the truck safely inside, Gideon lowered the bay door. “How many bags this time?”
“Twelve small ones. Six big ones. No drop off in Driftwood. Boss wants all of them out to Elysium.”
The small bags were an assortment of overnight cases in a variety of styles—leather, metal, canvas. Each weighed between twenty and twenty-five pounds. The big suitcases were considerably heavier, perhaps fifty to sixty pounds, and were made of polycarbonate. The driver and his partner began pulling them from the truck and wheeling them to Paul and Gideon, who rolled them off to the side. They stacked the small ones nearby.
With the unloading complete, Gideon walked over to the door-opener. As he pushed the button, the driver handed Paul a sealed envelope.
“Till next time.” The men shook hands with the brothers. “We’re outta here.” They climbed into the truck and backed out into the rain. Gideon lowered the door.
Paul opened the envelope. “New Year’s Eve. 6:00 P.M. Here’s the coordinates.”
“They must be having a helluva celebration on that yacht—that ocean liner—with all this stuff. This shit is heavy. Suppose it’s meth? Maybe heroin? Or all kinds of pills?”
“Probably all of the above,” said Paul. “Volkov owns Portland. His is the only product on the street. And I’m sure we’re not the only people in his supply chain.”
“Suppose he’d miss it if we just took a taste?”
Paul clenched his teeth. “You know the cases are locked. And even if we could break into one of them, Volkov would sure as hell find out. Probably has each bag weighed to the quarter ounce or smaller. So, no. No taste.”
“I swear, you’re such a Nervous Nellie, little brother. A real kill-joy.”
“Maybe, but I’m not gonna steal so much as a paperclip from the biggest criminal in the Pacific Northwest, OK? It’s not worth it. I like living. With all my fingers and toes and arms and legs.”
“We’ll have to prep Ms. Pizza for the trip. Get her all cleaned up. Get her sedated so she doesn’t give us any trouble.”
“
Good riddance, I say.”
“I’ll bet you do. But we’ll have everything we need for our new boat.” He walked over to the closet where they were keeping Patricia. He opened the door to find her lying on the floor. “Good news, honey. Moving day is tomorrow. We’ll get you all cleaned up and ready for your new home in the morning. For now, come out and use the bathroom before we tuck you in for the night.”
He escorted her out to the small bathroom and allowed her to close the door. He knew she could never escape through the porthole-size window that bordered the alley. In moments, he heard the toilet flush and the water in the sink. Patricia opened the door and walked out, a blank expression on her face.
“Good girl.” He never saw the letters “P” and “C” she had ripped from paper towels and laid on the floor on the far side of the toilet. “There you go. Back inside. Tomorrow you can say goodbye to all of this.” He turned the key.
As they were leaving the warehouse, Gideon said, “Just drive me home. I’ll meet you back here with the truck tomorrow at noon. We’ll take the large cases in the truck and the small ones in the SUV. You can get the boat ready to go in the morning, while I come over here and prep Ms. Pizza.”
“OK. But I gotta pee before we go. I’ll be right back.”
Gideon heard Paul’s shriek in the bathroom. He went running. “What? What?”
“This!” Paul held up the paper letters Patricia had left on the floor. He balled them up and shoved them in his pocket. “The bitch is trying to leave clues!” He stormed over to the closet door and pounded on it with his fists. “You’ll be lucky if you make it out of here alive, bitch!”
Gideon put his hand on Paul’s shoulder. “Easy, bro. Calm down. We’re almost done. Let’s not blow it now.”
They got into the car, and Paul stared out through the rain-streaked windshield. He slammed his right palm on the dashboard. “We still haven’t decided what to do about Hamisu. He’s seen her. I’m sure she gave him an earful.” He looked at his brother in the passenger seat and huffed. “We’re into some real shit here. We get caught and we’re doing hard time for sure.”