Starr Sign

by C. S. O'Cinneide

  A crackle of gunfire sounds from below. They must have unlocked the gun safe where everyone, security included, had stored their weapons before the game. You might be surprised by that, but no self-respecting gangster is going to give up his piece at the door when Alex’s goons are standing there packing. It’s about trust, Alex told me earlier. More about distrust, I’d say.

  I slip the duck into the USB port and immediately the laptop’s screen explodes with dozens of windows filled with commands that scroll like the whole computer’s messed up on crack. Deep told me not to take it out until the screen went clear again. I keep one eye on the laptop as I fish around in the confiscation bin for my phone, plucking it out and dropping it in my pocket in case I need it later. The laptop’s screen is still pulsing with malicious intent when I hear the steps on the back stairs. That girl was fast. I’ll have to head her off at the pass, send her back down to get some other useless thing I’ve learned from British television, at least until the malware finishes loading. But a scream that would freeze even the blood pooling beneath the dead guy on the floor rises up from below. Then silence.

  I take off my fancy red shoes and tiptoe barefoot across the room, listening. There’s the sound of hurried movement now. I crouch behind the wall by the entrance to the back stairs, clutching the high heels, one in each hand. The ginger bursts into the room, not noticing me in his mad bid to find a way out. What an amateur. Criminal 101’s first lesson is never return to the scene of the crime. He must have got lost in the labyrinth.

  Taking advantage of his breakneck momentum, I ram him full force from behind, flattening him spread eagle onto the far wall, where he stays, since I’ve nailed him there. A shiny red shoe sticks out from each of his impaled hands. When I removed the lifts from my six-inch stilettos earlier, I’d filed them to a deadly point. Like that broad from prison, I can also fashion a makeshift weapon out of what’s on hand.

  His own weapon clatters to the floor. It really was a bone, possibly from a forearm, also filed to a point. A clever way to beat the metal detector. I kick it across the room. Then I sink my fingers into his thick red hair and bounce his face off the wall until he hangs loose and unconscious from where I’ve crucified him into the drywall.

  Snatching up the bone dagger, I step over the dead guy to get to the laptop. The screen has gone quiet. I pull the duck out of the USB port and pocket it, start making my way across to the stairwell where the scream came from. I’m halfway there when Bruno runs in huffing and puffing from the hallway. He stops dead when he sees the ginger hanging on the wall.

  “Jesus Christ,” he says. I’m not sure if this is an exclamation or a comment on the martyr motif.

  I toss him the dagger. When he realizes what it is, he drops it to the floor in disgust. He really is such a baby.

  “I heard a scream from down here before he came up,” I tell him, indicating the narrow stairwell. “I’m going to check it out. I think it was one of the girls.”

  “Wait,” he says, then starts talking into his radio headset, informing the rest of them of the situation. But I’m not waiting for the cavalry. I’m sick of being told what to do by these cowboys.

  When I find the girl, she’s crumpled on the bottom step, the towels still clutched in one hand. A battered kettle lies on its side next to her slippered feet. When I turn her over, I see the deep gash across her neck, a ruby-red choker that spills over to soak the front of her flimsy baby doll.

  Bruno joins me. His bulk casts a shadow over her in the light from the game room above. I can hear the ginger up there, wailing as they pull him down from the wall. I guess he woke up.

  “Unfortunate,” a voice says from behind me. It’s Alex. I can smell the stale smoke of his Cuban cigars. “But I hear you incapacitated the culprit, Candace. Good work.”

  He motions for me to move aside. The stairway is so narrow, I have to back down a few steps to let him pass. He pulls a knife from his pocket and leans over the body, working so quickly I don’t have time to object. I can’t see what he’s doing from my vantage point below, but the girl is past caring. When he stands, he drops a gory package into a plastic baggie that Bruno holds out for him.

  “Now get rid of her,” Alex says. He steps on the girl’s outstretched fingers as he makes his way around her and up to the game room to deal with the wailing that has now turned to whimpers. That ginger boy will be doing worse than that before the night is through. But I don’t care about him.

  I care about the kid in the baby-doll nightdress, now hiked up to her waist, revealing she wore no underwear. Her plump pink sex is waxed clean, making her look even more like the little girl that she was. A girl I sent on a useless fucking errand so I could get Deep’s code loaded, and now she’s dead because of it. But that’s not what’s making my stomach clench, threatening to bring up all those creamy mashed potatoes from dinner right there in the stairwell. There’s a chunk of flesh missing off of the girl’s pale round hip where Alex Scarpello cut into her.

  “What kind of sick fuck does a thing like that?” I say, punching the wall. This one’s old-style plaster instead of the more forgiving drywall upstairs. I might as well have punched a sheer rock face. It hurts like hell and feels good at the same time.

  “Go home, Candace,” Bruno says, putting the bloody baggie in the pocket of this suit jacket. “You’ve done enough for tonight.”

  I find my way out of the mansion, welcoming the cold night air of the abandoned streets. It clears the iron-rich stench of blood where it’s curled up into my nostrils. I hail a cab and give him the address. When Deep opens the door, I walk in and drop the rubber ducky on the table.

  “It’s done,” I tell him.

  “Janet’s gone to sleep,” he says, and looking at his bare chest and plaid flannel lounge pants, I’m guessing he had, too. “Hey, I found the location of that clinical retreat. It’s a rural property up near Lake Huron. I only got a hit on it late tonight. I told your sister we’d check it out tomorrow.”

  “It’s already tomorrow,” I point out to him.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I stand still in the motel room, my feet rooted to the cheap carpet. I’ve heard that expression, not knowing if you’re coming or going, but I’ve never really felt it like this. Deep looks down and notices I have no shoes on. I’d left the stilettos behind. I don’t want them back.

  “Candace,” he says, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”

  That’s when I fall forward, like the guy pierced through the heart in the line for the buy-in. I collapse into Deep’s arms, burying my face in his neck, trying to drink in the goodness that flows from him like some kind of compassionate radiation. I want that shit to burn me, to lay waste the cancer of the things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen. Not just tonight, but for the better part of my life. It is a moment of weakness, and I know it. But for once I don’t care about letting my well-developed guard down. I run my hands through his long hair, snagging my fingertips in the waves. I press my lips against his, run my tongue along the inside of his generous mouth that tastes faintly of root beer and the salt of chips. He lays me down gently on the bed, pushing the escaped strands of hair out of the way that have fallen across my face so he can see me better.

  “Are you sure about this?” he whispers, kissing the cusp of my upper lip in a way that makes my lower one tremble. I pull him in closer, guide his hand up my bare thigh and beneath the hem of my little black dress. He runs one finger along the edge of my lace panties, outlining them on my flesh like an erotic stencil, before he removes them slowly, kissing his way down to the sweet spot between my legs.

  “Make me good, Deep,” I moan softly as his tongue finds the mark. But he doesn’t hear my hopeless plea for redemption. Which is probably for the best.

  CHAPTER 19

  WHEN I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING, the sun’s already been up for a while. A thin line of bright light frames the blackout curtains. I reach over for Deep under the starched motel bedsheets, but he’s no
t there. That’s when I see the glow of the computer screen. Deep sits in front of it, his flowing hair backlit like a dark, wavy halo.

  Deciding clothing is optional, I slip out of the bed fully naked and come up behind him in the chair. Pulling his hair aside, I begin giving him minute licks behind one ear. No reaction.

  “You’re going to want to see this, Candace.”

  I assume by his serious tone that he doesn’t mean the throbbing erection I’d hoped for. I grab one of his dress shirts and pull it over my head without undoing the buttons, then join him in front of his computer. Strings of numbers and dollar amounts fill the screen, along with barcodes like you see on the back of a box of Corn Flakes, and pretty much anything else that’s for sale.

  “Is this what’s on the laptop from the poker game?” I ask.

  “It is. The duck did its job. I was able to access the desktop this morning when a user logged on to do some online shopping at Victoria’s Secret.” Well, that naughty old broad, I think to myself. I picture the chip-lady translator in her tweeds, combing the net for lingerie, completely unaware of Deep fondling her data undies.

  “Watch this,” Deep says. He clicks on one of the bar codes. A profile comes up, looking like something off Tinder, given the young hottie forcing a pouty face for the camera. Below her full-length photo is a map with a red beacon pulsing at an exact location.

  “If you drill down further, there’s financial records, a list of transactions for services rendered.”

  I’d told him about the brothel set-up. We both know what services get rendered by the woman in the picture.

  “What’s the map for?” I ask, mesmerized by the flashing red dot.

  Deep clears his throat. “I believe it’s her location.”

  “What?”

  “I reckon they’ve got a GPS tracker on her.”

  “What the hell?” I look more closely at the screen. The red dot pulses like a heartbeat.

  “They’re normally used for people under house arrest, or for pets,” Deep says. “Did you notice any of the women last night wearing a heavy ankle bracelet, or …” he lowers his voice, embarrassed, “a collar?”

  “No.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Those girls were wearing next to nothing, Deep. I think I would have noticed a big honking tagger on one of their ankles.” Or their necks, I think, remembering the red gash on the dead girl’s exposed throat.

  “Well, there’s another way,” he says, removing his fingers from the keyboard.

  “What’s that?”

  He swivels around in his chair to face me. “It’s new. They’re using it in some countries to keep track of dementia patients who wander off. It’s a small RFID chip implanted under the skin. The battery for the GPS is charged using heat from the person’s own body. They could be using one of those. You inject it with a large syringe.”

  I remember the excised flesh of the girl on the stairs, Alex dropping the bloody mess of it into Bruno’s outstretched plastic baggie. He must have been retrieving the chip from the girl before they dumped her body, the only thing left of her he’d seen as valuable.

  “I think that’s what they’re doing,” I say quietly, not wanting to get into the details. No wonder Bruno said the girls weren’t going anywhere. If they did, Scarpello would just find them using the GPS tracker. They wouldn’t even know how they were getting caught. That Nigerian kid I’d met the first night thought she was being inoculated against STDs. Instead, they were injecting her with technology that would sing louder than that stolen magic harp in the Beanstalk story if she tried to run away.

  I go over to the mini-bar, find it frustratingly empty. I’m about to accuse Deep of hiding the booze from me when I realize I got up around five this morning and drank it all.

  “Okay,” I say, slamming the door of the bar. “This is fucking messed up and all, but what the hell does it have to do with the poker game?”

  Deep turns back to the computer, types in some commands to bring up something new on the screen. I lean over to see what he’s looking at, but it’s only that long list of numbers and figures again.

  “It works a bit like a co-op,” he says. “Each woman is a share owned by a unique ID. The owner’s account is credited when she generates revenue, less a hefty admin fee taken off the top for the Scarpellos.” Deep’s speech is forced and wooden, like he’s reciting poetry he can’t stand. “Just like legitimate shares, they can be bought, sold, or in the case of the poker game, transferred in title without exchanging money at all.”

  I sit down hard on the bed.

  “I’ll be damned,” I say, wishing to Christ I hadn’t downed all the hooch early this morning. “They’re betting fucking women.”

  “It appears so.” Deep gets up from his computer, comes to sit beside me on the bed. “The QR codes you saw the players scanning represent the shares they’re willing to wager. They’re using the women as currency.”

  “Human trafficking meets bitcoin.”

  “I’d say so. There’s no chance those women are there of their own free will, given the tracking device.” Deep rubs at one temple, closes his eyes for a moment. This kind of sick shit is way too much for a guy like him. “I’ve downloaded all the records, taken some screenshots,” he says. “You can send it to your friend, Malone.”

  “We do that, and the Feds will be on the Scarpellos faster than the speed of goddamn light.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

  I guess it would be, although it would be difficult to blackmail Alex Scarpello if he’s in jail. I sense my cash cow being put out to pasture. But I’m starting not to care.

  “I said, wouldn’t that be a good thing, Candace?” Deep goes to put his arm around me. Despite what went on the night before, and what went on was damn fine, I pull away from him.

  “I know it would be a good thing!” I shout, standing up. I expect my sister to come running into the room, wondering what the racket is. But it remains quiet on the other side of the adjoining door. She could be eavesdropping, but more likely she’s choosing to ignore both of us, sitting with her earbuds in, sketching another nasty picture of me. I’m not her favourite person these days.

  “I just have to think, okay Deep?” I pace the floor in my bare feet. Shit, even my boots are back in the guest bedroom of the Scarpellos.

  “You heard from that guy in Russia yet, about the birth records?” I ask him.

  “Not yet,” Deep says, lying back on the bed.

  “If we had proof of Alex’s real identity, we could use it to force him to drop this fucking sick co-op, or whatever it is. That way, we could shut the whole thing down without ever involving the cops.” That is if Alex Scarpello is who I think he is. But I’m rarely wrong when it comes to scams. I just know that egotistical prick is hiding something.

  Deep doesn’t respond, only sighs, looking up at the water-stained ceiling of the motel room. I think the adventure of all this is beginning to wear thin for him. Or he’s disappointed in me. Hell, I’m disappointed in me. I want to get those women out of Scarpello’s racket, but there’s part of me that just can’t be the harp that sings. A little bit of grassing to the cops can be useful quid pro quo, but this would be a fucking bumper crop’s worth of snitching, a whole goddamn front-lawn of-the-White-House level of grass.

  “You know I want to help those girls, Deep.”

  He rolls over on his side on the bed and props himself up with one arm. I tug down on the buttoned shirt I’m wearing in a futile attempt to cover up. I don’t want to distract him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Then help them,” he says.

  I stop pacing and sit down next to him. He reaches out one strong arm and wraps it around me. This time, I let him.

  “Okay, we’ll send it all to Malone,” I say, admitting defeat of a sort. At least the defeat of my honour among thieves. “But first I want to check out this retreat that Angela’s supposed to be at before all the shit hits the fan. You said
you found the address?”

  “It’s in a place called Carsonville, about an hour-and-a-half north of here. It was listed under the doctor’s wife’s name and zoned agricultural. That’s why I had trouble finding it. They’ve got about twenty acres. I reckon it used to be farm.”

  I check my phone on the bedside table. It’s already after eleven. “Okay, we’ll get Janet some grub and then go. Be back in time to give Malone the goods before dinner.” I start walking over to the adjoining door to roust Janet out of her hard work of ignoring me.

  “You’re not going to bring her to the retreat, are you?”

  “Not a chance,” I say. “I’m not sure if I’m even bringing you.” I’m about to call out to Janet in the other room so she can let me in when a heavy knock sounds on the outside motel door. Deep gets up from the bed and starts making his way to answer it. I rush over and stop him before he can.

  “Are you expecting someone?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  “No.”

  “Neither am I.”

  I can’t risk peeking through the curtains to see who’s behind the knock. I don’t think I was followed last night, but the taxi I caught to get here wasn’t that far from where the game took place. Someone might have seen me. I can’t afford to take any chances.

  “Where did you put my gun, Deep?”

  “Honestly, Candace, do you really think —”

  More heavy pounding on the door.

  “Listen, Deep, that’s not Avon calling. Now, where the fuck is my gun?”

  His mouth forms a tight line before he opens it to speak. “I got rid of it.”

  “You what?”

  “I told you I didn’t want it, Candace. I couldn’t stand having that bloody thing around. I tossed it.”

  “Where?”

  “In a rubbish bin out back of the Brooklyn Street Local.” The place where we went for lunch yesterday. I picture my Ruger buried under greasy leftovers with deconstructed desserts stuck to the barrel. I don’t care how good the sex was last night, I think I just might kill Deep for this.