by Wesley Lewis
Relief washed over her. “Tom.”
“Should I tell him to come on back or what? I have a client waiting.”
“Yes.” Jennifer was already backing toward the bathroom. “I just need a couple of minutes to get dressed.”
Scarlett eyed the sheet hanging loosely from Jennifer’s body, then glanced at the bed. “Did you and Matt actually fuck or just sleep together?”
“Inappropriate!” shouted Vegas. She shoved Scarlett back into the hallway.
“Oh, lighten up,” said Scarlett as Vegas shut the door in her face.
“What’s that about?” asked Jennifer.
Vegas looked embarrassed. “Matt won’t sleep with her, so she thinks he’s gay.”
“Sorry I asked.” She turned toward the bathroom.
Vegas quickly added, “I can assure you he’s not.”
Jennifer stopped just inside the bathroom and turned around. “Have you and he . . .”
“No.” There was a hint of disappointment in her voice. “But unlike Scarlett, I don’t mind having a conversation that doesn’t lead to sex. Matt says he doesn’t party with any of the girls here because he doesn’t like to get his meat where he gets his bread and butter. If you ask me, I think he’s still not over Courtney.”
Courtney?
As if reading Jennifer’s mind, Vegas added, “The woman he was engaged to.”
The mention of an ex-fiancée filled Jennifer’s mind with follow-up questions that would have to wait. “Tell Tom I’ll only be a minute.”
She closed the bathroom door, dropped the bedsheet beside the sink, and turned her attention to the bathroom mirror. Having Tom meet her in a whorehouse was awkward enough without looking like she’d just worked a double shift there.
She brushed her teeth, gave her face a once-over with her bare-bones makeup kit, and was in the process of running the cheap complimentary comb through her hair when a knock at the bathroom door made her jump.
From the other side of the door, Tom asked, “Jennifer, are you in there?” His voice was shaky.
“I’m here.” She dropped the comb and grabbed the complimentary stick of deodorant from the counter. It was a men’s brand, but at the moment, that was pretty low on her list of concerns. “I’ll be right out.”
“Okay,” he said, still shaky. “I hope you don’t mind, but the girl up front told me to come on in.”
“That’s fine.” She finished applying the deodorant and turned to look for her clothes.
She grabbed the sadistic pair of lace panties from the towel rack and realized, more relieved than dismayed, that they were still damp. She dropped them into the wastebasket.
Good riddance.
She removed her little black dress from the hook on the back of the door, slipped it on, and emerged from the bathroom looking presentable enough for a woman who had survived a shootout, spent the night in a whorehouse, and awakened to the news that her boss and quasi-boyfriend was dead.
Tom, on the other hand, did not look so well. When Jennifer opened the door, he was standing in the middle of the room, nervously rocking the sex swing with one hand. His normally well-groomed hair was a mess, and his flushed face suggested he’d spent a good portion of the drive to Pahrump crying.
When he saw Jennifer, he took two quick steps toward her—she was certain he would have broken into a sprint if he’d had more ground to cover—and wrapped his arms around her.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he said.
Jennifer felt an odd mixture of relief and guilt. She’d half expected him to blame her for what had happened to Ashley. Now she half wished he would.
“Thanks.” She pulled back to take a better look at him. “How are you?”
Tears began streaming down his face. “It’s all my fault.”
“Your fault?” She led him toward the bed. “How could it be your fault?” She seated him on the edge of the bed and sat beside him.
After a moment, he regained enough composure to speak. “Last night, when she took me back to my room, Ashley asked if I wanted her to come in and mix us a couple of nightcaps from the honor bar. At that point my head was swimming, and I told her that I couldn’t possibly drink another drop. Then she asked if I needed to be tucked into bed, and I gave some stupid reply about how I would probably spend the night hugging the toilet.”
Jennifer saw the genuine pain in his eyes. “She was asking you to invite her in?”
“She was practically begging me to. But I’d had myself a nice little pity party over my lost bag, and I was too drunk to accept or even understand her offer. If I hadn’t behaved like such a total ass, she would have spent the night in my room, and she’d still be . . .” He choked back a sob.
Jennifer placed a hand on his shoulder. “The police are looking for her, Tom. They’ll find her.”
“After what those men did to Bryan, I . . .” His words faded into sobs.
Jennifer knew she needed to be delicate, but there was something she had to ask. “Tom, do you know how Bryan and Ashley . . . how they ended up . . . spending the night together?”
Tom shook his head. “All I know is that none of this would have happened if she’d spent the night with me.”
Jennifer wanted to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault, but a small part of her wanted to believe that it was, if only to assuage her own feelings of guilt.
She was still searching for the right words when the door to the room swung open and Crocker stepped inside.
Before Jennifer could greet him, he said, “Good, you’re dressed. We’re meeting in Larry’s cabin in twenty minutes.”
“Sure, okay,” she replied, despite having no idea what he was talking about. “Crocker, this is Tom.”
“Great. Bring him with you. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
CHAPTER TEN
Larry’s was the largest of a half-dozen modest cabins located behind the Prickly Pear’s main building. Unlike the others, Larry’s had no room number on the door, leading Jennifer to infer that it was the only cabin not for rent. In sharp contrast to the rest of the Prickly Pear Ranch, the cabin’s interior was surprisingly tasteful, looking less like the tacky Champagne Suite than like a photo spread from Country Living magazine.
Jennifer sat beside Tom on Larry’s big leather couch and struggled against the anxiety and curiosity pulling at her from every direction. Crocker still hadn’t hinted at his reason for calling this meeting, but in light of all that had happened and all that was at stake, she suspected that her world was about to be shaken yet again.
To her left, Crocker sat on the stone fireplace hearth, scribbling something on a small notepad. In the adjoining kitchen, ice clinked into glasses as Larry prepared a round of drinks.
Across the room, the front door swung open, giving Jennifer a start.
“Hello? Anybody here?” called Vegas as she stepped inside.
Whereas the pleasant décor in Larry’s cabin had almost let Jennifer forget where she was, Vegas’s attire made that impossible. The curvy blonde had changed into a black satin bustier and a ruffle-covered pair of red panties. On her feet she wore a pair of orange flip-flops that clashed with the rest of the ensemble. Jennifer suspected that somewhere on the shoe wall was a pair of stiletto heels that complemented the outfit.
Vegas crossed to the couch and pointed to the empty spot beside Jennifer. “Is this seat taken?”
Jennifer hesitated, half expecting Crocker to tell the young woman that this wasn’t a good time and that she should come back later. But Crocker said nothing, and after a moment Jennifer replied, “It’s all yours.”
Vegas sat just as Larry emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of brimming margarita glasses. He set the tray on the coffee table and said, “I’m afraid it�
��s only lemonade. When this is all over, we’ll celebrate with something a bit stronger.”
“When what is all over?” asked Tom, echoing Jennifer’s own thoughts.
Without looking up from his notes, Crocker said, “We’re still waiting on one more.”
Larry walked across the room and pressed a button on the intercom box beside the front door. “Dottie, is Scarlett done with her customer yet?”
A moment later, Dottie’s voice squawked back, “When I talked to her a minute ago, she was about to shower and head your way.”
“Thanks.” He walked back to the coffee table, picked up one of the lemonades, and settled into the overstuffed armchair across from the couch. “As soon as Scarlett gets here, we can begin.”
Jennifer opened her mouth to ask why they needed to wait on Scarlett, but a loud chime preempted the question.
Tom checked his phone.
Jennifer leaned over to peek at the screen. “Any news on Ashley?”
“No,” he replied, clearly disappointed. “Grace is looking for anyone who knows the San Antonio development well enough to give Bryan’s presentation tomorrow.”
“She’s not going to find anyone. Of the three people who worked that project, one is dead, one is missing, and one is hiding out at a whorehouse in the middle of the desert.”
Both Tom and Crocker shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and Jennifer immediately regretted her choice of words. To her relief, both Larry and Vegas seemed unfazed.
Crocker looked like he was about to say something when the front door swung open again. Scarlett entered, wearing a comically short silk kimono and Japanese slippers.
Inspecting the outfit, Jennifer imagined Vegas and Scarlett as slutty versions of Tweedledum and Tweedledee. In spite of everything, she had to stifle a giggle.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Scarlett, “but I had to shower. Ted, my Thursday regular, sweats a lot. He’s quick as a jackrabbit, but sometimes the big guys—”
“That’s okay,” interrupted Larry. “Just come have a seat.”
She squeezed past the coffee table and, much to Jennifer’s surprise, settled onto Larry’s lap. Without a word, she took the glass from his hand and took a long sip of lemonade.
Marking her territory, thought Jennifer.
“All right,” said Crocker, taking one last look at his notes before standing. “It’s time to get down to business.”
His voice was somewhat deeper and slower. Jennifer wondered if this was the voice he used with his students.
“The reason for this meeting,” he continued, “is that Larry and I are pretty sure we know where Jennifer’s friend Ashley is.”
“You know where she is?” blurted Tom. “Have you told the police?”
Larry raised a quieting hand. “Take it easy, sport. It’s a bit more complicated than that.”
“As I was saying,” said Crocker, “we know where she is, but if we’re to have any chance of getting her back, we have to act fast.”
“Act how?” asked Jennifer.
“That’s what we’re here to figure out.”
“No offense,” said Scarlett, “but what does this have to do with Vegas and me?”
Good question, thought Jennifer.
“You’re here to help Crocker and his friends understand what they’re up against,” said Larry.
“How are we supposed to do that?”
“By telling them about the last time you saw your friend Stinky.”
“How is that going to help?” asked Vegas.
Scarlett sighed. “Seriously, Vegas? You can’t see where they’re going with this?”
Vegas looked both confused and hurt, reminding Jennifer of a puppy that doesn’t understand why it’s being scolded.
“It’s okay.” Crocker gave the young woman a reassuring smile. “It’ll all make sense in a minute. Just tell us about Stinky.”
The hurt expression faded from Vegas’s face. “Stinky was our hookup.”
“Pot?” asked Tom.
“Coke,” she replied. “He was a good hookup too—we could usually count on him even when the rest of the dealers were dry. But there were a couple of weeks last summer when nobody was holding, not even Stinky.
“After the third or fourth time he told us he was dry, Scarlett told him that she was tired of wasting her time with him and that she and I were going to drive down to Tijuana and score on our own. That kind of freaked him out because he thought for sure we’d either get raped and murdered by the cartels or get pinched on our way back.
“He told us he was expecting a shipment in two days, and he promised that we’d be his first call when it arrived. That sounded good to me, but Scarlett didn’t trust him.”
“I didn’t trust him,” interjected Scarlett, “because he was a goddamned drug dealer. He’d probably made that same promise to thirty other people.”
“Anyway,” said Vegas, “Scarlett cut a deal with him to let us come to the buy.”
“What kind of deal?” asked Crocker.
“Umm . . .” Vegas blushed. “She, uh, promised that we’d give him some special attention if he let us tag along.”
Crocker nodded. “Tell us about the buy.”
“It was really scary. We drove out into the desert, where there were these three guys waiting with this big white van.”
“These were Dudka’s men?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure, but they’re some of the same guys who come into the Pear each month after the Winter Palace has its big payday.”
Crocker jotted something on his notepad.
“Anyway,” she continued, “things got ugly almost as soon as we got out of Stinky’s car.”
“How do you mean?”
“The guys with the van weren’t at all happy that Stinky had brought us along. The one in charge started yelling at him. And like an idiot, Stinky told the guy to chill out. That really pissed him off, and next thing we knew, he was pointing a gun in Stinky’s face.”
“What happened then?”
“I really thought they were going to kill all three of us, but Stinky was all like, ‘Come on, Al, you know me. Be cool.’”
Jennifer locked eyes with Crocker. “Al?”
“I think that was his name,” said Vegas. “Anyway, when Stinky said that, the guy kind of relaxed, like maybe he realized he’d overreacted. Then, all of a sudden, he swung his gun and hit Stinky so hard that Stinky fell to the ground and looked like he might not get back up.
“At this point, I was getting really scared because this Al guy was clearly nuts, and Stinky had clearly lost control of the situation. Scarlett and I just wanted to score some blow, and now it looked like we were about to die.”
“But you didn’t die,” said Crocker.
“No.” Her voice was timid. “Scarlett talked to the guys and calmed them down.”
“How did she do that?”
Vegas looked away, and though she didn’t appear to be blushing this time, she looked to Jennifer like she might be trying to blink away tears.
“More special attention,” answered Scarlett, clearly less self-conscious than Vegas about her willingness to utilize the assets at her disposal.
“And after the special attention?” asked Crocker.
Vegas stared at the floor. “Then they sold us the coke, and we left. A few days later, Stinky disappeared. We don’t know if he got scared and left town or if those guys came after him or what, but we never heard from him again.”
“Tell them,” said Larry, “what you saw when the guy gave you the drugs.”
“Oh yeah!” She looked up. “We walked around to the back of the van to get the coke, and when the guy opened the door, I saw that there were four women sitting inside
.”
“Women?” asked Jennifer.
“Yeah, they were just sitting there like they were along for the ride, except there weren’t any seats; they were just sitting on the floor with the drugs. I kind of smiled at them, just to be friendly, but none of them reacted. They all looked really strung out on something.”
“Can you describe them?” asked Crocker.
“Well, they all looked to be about my age or younger—one looked like she might still be in high school—and they looked like they’d be really pretty except that their faces were really dirty, and their hair was a mess, and they were all wearing really unflattering gray sweat suits. To be honest, they looked like escapees from a women’s prison.”
“More like prisoners from some Third World country,” said Crocker.
“Prisoners?” asked Tom.
“Larry believes, and I concur, that those women were being smuggled right along with the drugs.”
“Human trafficking?” asked Jennifer.
“Yep,” said Larry. “Sex slaves.”
Jennifer cast a quick glance at Tom, who seemed to be processing this revelation.
Larry continued, “My money says that’s why your friend Ashley was taken alive—Dudka is hoping to recoup some of the money you cost him.”
“You think they’re going to make her a sex slave?” shouted Tom.
Larry nodded. “It’s rare for sex traffickers to kidnap an American, but it does happen. Most sex trafficking is in one direction, from poor countries to rich, and it typically involves women being recruited under false pretenses, not kidnapped. They take young women from places like Siberia and South America, hook them on drugs so that they’re too strung out to put up a fight and too dependent to run away, and then smuggle them to wealthy metropolitan areas like Moscow and Las Vegas. The women are kept as drug-addicted prisoners and forced to work as unpaid prostitutes. It’s a blight on all of us involved in the legitimate sex trade.”