Blood and Roses

by Douglas Pratt

  “Put the gun down,” I told Leo.

  He handed me the butt, and I placed it next to the other one.

  “You could shoot one of us at least,” I said. “I would recommend you start with him. Otherwise, you’ll never get the second shot off.”

  Manning cut his eyes to Leo.

  I added, “You will have to deal with witnesses and our bodies. Not to mention the numerous breadcrumbs I left indicating we were planning to see you. Lots of scrutiny.”

  “Instead,” I continued, “let’s talk business. I am willing to pay for the girl.”

  Manning furrowed his brow.

  “I don’t like what you do, but if it’s not you, then it will be someone else. I just want this girl.”

  “I don’t have her,” he stated.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  The bodyguard lurched toward Leo. His arm snapped out, slamming the base of his palm into the man’s nose. The crunch was audible. He crumpled back into his seat.

  “My offer still stands. I’m willing to pay for the girl.”

  I motioned for the door. Leo stepped in time with me as we walked past the bouncer still by the front door.

  “I think we got his attention,” Leo said.

  “Kind of like getting the attention of a swarm of hornets.”

  10

  Jason Watts’ face widened in a grin when I stepped into the doorway of his spartan office.

  “Sawyer,” he exclaimed. “What are you doing here? Looking for a job?”

  I laughed. “No, I’d like to think that I know better than to come to you for a job.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “I’m desperate for copy. Even if I had to put up with your shitty attitude. It’s not easy to find good reporters. You know, I was just repeating the corporate rhetoric. Most of us wish we had been able to tell the bosses to eff themselves, especially with the style and grace that you did.”

  “You pretty much did, didn’t you?” I said waving my hand around his office.

  Jason leaned back in his chair, still smiling. “Sure. I mean, I don’t have the budget that the Post does. I don’t have the same resources the Post does. Or any resources, for that matter. I’m lucky if I can get enough ads to pay my child support.”

  “I don’t know. You have the media presence in this city that the Post lost when they were bought out. They’re giving away subscriptions just to boost their numbers for ad revenue. From what I’ve seen, you are even beating the TV stations on social media. Times have changed, and the local news everywhere missed the boat. The younger generations aren’t reading newspapers or watching the 10 o’clock news.”

  “It’s all great, but I don’t see the outside much anymore,” Jason said.

  I sat down opposite his desk. “Do you have backers?” I asked.

  “Besides my 401K and some savings? No. You interested in investing in a news blog.”

  Offering a shrug, I said, “I’d have to let my financial advisor look into it.”

  “Ah,” Jason said, “there’s no great financial gain in media, so…”

  “He’s always talking about loss carryforwards. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like a strategy where I lose money.”

  “Then are you in luck,” Jason joked.

  “Truth is, I’m here about something else.”

  “I figured. I haven’t seen you in years. I didn’t figure you’d pop up just to chat about the fate of journalism in the next decade. What have you got on your mind?”

  “Human trafficking.” I leaned forward. “Especially young girls.”

  Jason widened his eyes. “Good, cheerful stuff. Is this for a good reason, or did you just develop a fetish?”

  “The first,” I affirmed. “A friend of mine was murdered the other night. He came down from Cincinnati looking for his 15-year-old daughter. She was kidnapped last year from a mall up there.”

  “What made him think she was in Memphis?” Jason asked.

  “His ex-wife got a phone call last week with a Memphis area code.”

  Jason nodded slightly. “Phone call? From the girl?”

  I nodded. “The call was cut off before the girl could say anything.”

  “Like someone cut her off?”

  “That’s the assumption I’m making.”

  “That’s not good at all. Certainly sounds like she isn’t staying of her own volition. What about the phone?” He was asking questions like a journalist. Looking for connections.

  “Pre-paid burner. Probably tossed after that.”

  Jason leaned forward with interest, asking, “How did he get killed?”

  “Looked like an overdose. He was found in one of those hourly motels over off Summer Avenue.”

  “The one Sunday morning?” He asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I heard Terry got that one, and he dragged someone down to the scene,” he said. “Was that you?”

  “Yeah. I was the last phone call he made.”

  “Dude,” he whistled. “Only Max-effing-Sawyer gets sucked into a story like this. What did he say when he called?”

  “I didn’t answer. I was occupied.”

  “Occupied?” He lifted an eyebrow curiously. “What makes you sure that he didn’t do drugs? Losing a child like that can send you to some dark places.”

  “According to his ex-wife, he has spent the last year obsessed with finding Naomi. He was convinced that she was being prostituted somewhere in Cincinnati, so he scoured the streets looking for her.”

  I continued, “It just doesn’t track that the first sign that she’s still alive is going to push him to a needle.”

  Jason conceded with a shrug.

  “What do you want from me?” Jason asked.

  “You did a report on human trafficking about a month ago,” I explained. “I’m hitting a wall. Just hoping you have some clues about what direction I should go.”

  “What have you done, so far?”

  “Pissed off Elon Manning.”

  Jason chuckled. “Max-effing-Sawyer, indeed. Surprised you haven’t tried to catch a bullet yet. Manning is not someone who will find you all that charming.”

  “The day is still young. On the plus side, I didn’t introduce myself. Just asked the questions.”

  “Not sure why you think that would stop him. I hope at least the Titty King of Memphis gave you something worthwhile?”

  “Only thing that he said was that he was a legitimate businessman that doesn’t practice that type of thing, and he repeated that over and over.”

  Folding his arms, he said, “Then it must be true. People like Manning don’t lie, right?”

  “How prevalent is this kind of human trafficking here?”

  “It’s scary how prevalent it is. Drive down Summer or head over near the Airport. Many of those girls on the street have been forced into that life. There are a few that ‘choose’ to be out there, but so many more are coerced or forced.” He made finger quotation marks around the word “choose.”

  “What about the under-aged ones?” I asked him. “Where are they?”

  “Everywhere.” Jason started gesturing with his hands. It was something I forgot he did when he got excitable. He continued talking, “There are girls pimped by their own parents for drug money or, sometimes, the drugs. Some are pimped by older boyfriends who convince them that he is their whole world. There is a mobile home park where, I know, the residents regularly trade their daughters for sex. Like borrowing a cup of sugar or a lawn mower. I almost got killed trying to get that story. I could never get anyone to go on record.”

  “Why don’t the cops stop something like that?” I asked.

  “Like I said, no proof. The mobile home park is private property. Gated and just outside of the city limits. Family services are aware of the allegations, but the kids don’t talk.”

  “What about girls, like Naomi?”

  “Her name’s Naomi? I don’t know. She could be anywhere. These guys might keep her in a house somew
here, or she could be working the streets. She won’t be in any of the strip clubs. Too young.

  “Maybe something private though. I have heard rumors of clubs. Something sinister that even you might find disgusting. These are the kind of clubs where the members have plenty of money and think they can do whatever they want.”

  I shivered. “I’ve seen something similar, just not here.”

  “It’s everywhere. Perverts live everywhere,” he said. “I don’t judge most things. You want a girl in a Pokemon costume to piss on you, then more power to you. Just make sure she is legal and everything is consensual.”

  “I could use a direction,” I said. “This is more depressing than helpful.”

  Jason shrugged defensively. “Your girl could be anywhere. Truth is she is probably on the streets. If she’s even still in the city. If your friend’s murder was too close, then she could be long gone. She’ll become a liability.”

  I let out a sigh. That wasn’t the first time I had considered that Nathan’s death might have been a precursor to Naomi’s.

  Jason said, “There is a detective downtown that I interviewed. He was responsible for busting up a small group of traffickers going after kids at the mall. Bryant. I can’t recall his first name.”

  “Thanks, Jason,” I said, “That might help.”

  “He isn’t going to like you.”

  I shook my head. “I’m a delight. Why wouldn’t he like me?”

  Jason chuckled, “You are a lot of things. Tenacious, annoying, maybe even, intelligent. A delight is never a word I would use to describe you.

  “Bryant is a hard-ass. He doesn’t have a great sense of humor. At least, not one that would appreciate your specialness.”

  “I can play nice,” I promised.

  “You never did when you worked for me.”

  “Maybe that was a testament to your leadership style.”

  Jason waved his hand around his office like a game show model. “Apparently, it was enough to get me all this.”

  He added, “Seriously, I hope you can find this girl. This isn’t a life you want anyone to have to endure. But, you need to be aware that almost every person that is the victim of this kind of human trafficking is never heard from again.”

  I sighed. Jason was right. The only hint that Nathan even came close to finding Naomi was because she was able to reach out. Whoever had her would probably not let that happen again.

  11

  Jason’s office faced Madison Avenue, closer to downtown than midtown. My little rental Hyundai was parked on the street about a block west in front of one of those burger bars that started popping up across town. I turned out of his office toward my car. Unlocking the door, my eyes caught sight of a silver sedan with two heads in the windshield. The car parked a few hundred feet behind my car. I paused for a second when I noticed them.

  When I had the little engine pumping cold air, I made a 180-degree turn across all four lanes. When my three-cylinder coupe passed the sedan, it pulled out behind me. The little hairs on my neck stood up. Maybe it was nothing. There were only two ways to go on this road, so someone heading west was possible. Maybe I was just a little jumpy after the roadhouse brawl and the dust-up at Roxie’s earlier.

  I tried to convince myself I was overreacting.

  Besides, I told myself, how would Manning even know who I was. We didn’t give out our names. Jason’s comment about that not stopping Manning came back to me.

  The bikers at Carl’s didn’t seem to me to be the type to stalk around in a sedan that was old enough to drink. A straight run at me was more up there alley.

  They could be cops, my inner voice said. Terry could have tossed a couple of guys to trail me.

  Or I could be overthinking all of it.

  When I stopped at the next intersection, I took a right. The sedan was two cars behind me when it turned. The chances of this being all coincidence dwindled.

  Looking in the rearview mirror, I tried to get a look at the drivers. The windshield had a crack that meandered from the bottom right corner toward the upper left. The sun reflected off the glass, making any visual description of the driver impossible.

  The next light turned yellow as I approached it. Pressing down on the accelerator, I turned left quickly onto a smaller side street as the light changed to red.

  The silver sedan ran through the light as it followed me through the turn.

  My heart raced as the adrenaline pumped through me. That answered two questions. They were definitely following me, and they didn’t care if I knew.

  Could still be the police, I tried to convince myself.

  Stay calm, I reminded myself. Follow the rules.

  The rules were simple. Something my father taught me when I was younger. He said these rules will help you navigate any stressful situation.

  One. Stay calm. Fear is a natural distraction. It will overwhelm the brain. Control the fear, then the brain can work on the problem at hand. When someone begins to panic, they make mistakes.

  Two. Breathe. It was less about breathing, but more about using that second that it takes for the lungs to fill and empty to evaluate the situation.

  After that breath and evaluation, rule number three comes into play. Identify the problem. In this case, I was being chased by some unknown adversaries.

  Finally, four. React accordingly.

  The thing my father told me is that following the rules did not always mean a successful outcome, but at least, it increased the chance of success.

  In this case, I was still calm. My chest was pounding, but I wasn’t panicking. They were still behind me, but as yet, I wasn’t positive that they were wanting to do anything to harm me. However, another thing that my father taught me was to plan for the worst.

  There were two possible reactions I could have. Find out who was in the sedan or escape the occupants before they chose to do me any harm.

  At that moment, I liked the latter.

  I inhaled slowly and scanned the street ahead of me. The section of midtown I was in was one of the older neighborhoods. The streets lined with bungalows and cottages from the early 1900s. Narrow alleys cut behind the homes providing driveway access in the rear of the houses.

  The driver of the silver sedan didn’t care that I knew he was following me. That was the problem. If he didn’t care enough to be discreet, then he was going to act quickly, whatever his motives. For the moment, I assumed those were not going to be in my best interest.

  My foot went down, and the Hyundai lurched forward surprisingly quickly. Twisting the wheel, I turned left onto the next alley, barely missing a Volkswagen going the opposite direction. The suspension bounced as the rental jumped over the edge of the curb.

  The little engine in the Hyundai barely whined as I pushed the needle of the speedometer past 80. The sedan didn’t hesitate to push closer to my rear bumper.

  As the alley ended on the next major street, I jerked right, cutting the corner and tearing through a small hedge. The tires squealed when they hit the asphalt.

  The Hyundai was no match for what I guessed was a V-6 in the sedan. The first bump was the sedan’s front fender striking my rear right. He wanted to push me into the curb.

  Plan for the worst, I reminded myself. The next thought was a reminder to remain calm.

  Braking hard, I wrenched the wheel left into another alley. The silver car overshot the turn and had to back up. I pressed my lead and pushed that little three-cylinder up to 90. The passenger side mirror ripped off as I scraped past a fence.

  The sedan was now in the alley. It was gaining on me, but I still had a hundred yards on it. Although that distance was shrinking fast.

  The Hyundai flew out of the alley. Two cars, going opposite directions skidded sideways trying to avoid colliding with me. The car bounced again as I entered the alley on the other side of the street.

  The sedan had me on horsepower, but I was counting on the little coupe’s maneuverability and size. I just needed a path that was
too narrow for them.

  Stay calm. I was doing that. Mostly.

  The sedan was almost on my rear bumper again when I went right out of the alley. This was still not a major street, just a side street with no traffic. Pulling to the left, I shot down another alley.

  Ahead I saw exactly what I was looking for. Another small alley ran perpendicular to the one I was flopping across. Without touching the brakes I skidded sideways as I made the turn. The passenger side of the car crunched as it ricocheted off a brick column. The rear window shattered. Several layers of red brick fell off the column.