by Don Travis
No, better to just give Kim the slip and make more careful plans. His legs started to itch. He resisted the urge to scratch until he could stand it no longer. Then he felt the familiar onset of nausea in his belly, accompanied by mild cramping. His mouth went dry; the hair on his arms stood up. Christ! Just get the groceries loaded and get back home.
There was a cop just inside Albertsons supermarket as they entered, and he seemed to take some interest in them, but Jazz kept on Kim’s heels as the man went about his shopping. When they paid at the cashier, he hoped to get a glimpse of a credit card and learn the rest of Kim’s name. But his companion paid with cash.
The cop wasn’t at the exit when they left the store, laden down by party supplies, but Jazz saw him standing nearby talking into a mike through the window of his patrol car. The cop’s back was to them. He turned without spotting them just as they passed.
Jazz was sweating, and the cramps were taking hold by the time they left the nearby liquor store and headed for home. It was only when Kim parked in a three-car garage that Jazz thought to look at the make of the car. A Mercedes four-door. Green. He caught a snatch of the license plate before Kim opened the trunk: 825-something or the other.
The shakes really hit Jazz by the time their purchases were put away; about all he could manage was to collapse in a poolside chair until Kim brought him his pipe. A slight gasp of pleasure escaped his lips when he saw it was the bong fortified with a little marijuana.
His nerves settled but hadn’t yet started to soar when Wings appeared and took a seat on an adjoining lounge. “I heard you took a little trip today.”
Jazz tried to be brusque, but a smile escaped him. “Felt good.”
“If you continue to behave yourself, we can have some more trips. Maybe overnight trips to some nice places. I’ve been thinking of a jaunt to Mexico. How would you like that?”
An alarm bell tried to go off, but the drug silenced it. “Be okay, I guess. Don’t speak any Spanish.”
Wings laughed. “You don’t have to. Just wave dollar bills at them, and they all magically speak English. And if mamacita can’t, then the granddaughter can. Good pipe?”
“Yeah. Good.”
“As you probably surmised from the supplies you and Kim bought, I’m having a party tonight. Usual bunch. Nothing special, but I want you to be nice to my guests.”
“Anybody complain yet?”
“You’re surly nice. Be nice nice. You give them what they want, but you could be a little more… social about it.”
Anger boiled up inside Jazz, almost ruining a good smoke. “None of them complain to me.”
“Oh, you satisfy them just fine. Very well, in fact. But be a little more amiable about it, all right? I’d like them to see what I see when I look at you.”
Jazz took a hit and held the smoke in his lungs until he felt nicer. Then he asked, “What’s that?”
“A nice, engaging, handsome boy.”
“Man,” Jazz shot back at him. “A boy couldn’t handle the gang you run with.”
Wings gave him a peculiar look.
Somehow Jazz felt he’d said something wrong. “Okay, boy,” he backed off.
Wings broke out in a big smile.
JAZZ WAS churlish by the time Wings’ guests gathered at the pool. Kim never gave him his afternoon pipe when Jazz was expected to attend a party. Jazz went through his usual internal routine. He told himself he wasn’t going to parade around before those men. He’d stay in the bungalow. Then the cramps and uneasy stomach arrived in spades. His nerves jangled. He brushed off bugs that weren’t there. Sometimes it seemed like Kokopelli, the Hopi prankster and storyteller, was picking on him. When his physical discomfort drove him out the door, Jazz no longer wore the ridiculous bathing suit. Denim cutoffs were easy to slip out of when he felt the need to swim.
Did he really need to swim, or was he coming to enjoy the public display of nakedness when he rolled the cutoffs down and stood for a moment before striding to the pool? A hush always fell on the small crowd as he exposed himself. Was it pride or shame he felt? Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to do it tonight. He’d just stay in his lounge and enjoy his pipe. Then maybe he’d fall asleep. That would drive Wings batty. The thought brought a smile to his lips. He frowned. He wasn’t sleeping much these days.
A brief silence ensued as he strode out of the bungalow until the beefy Tom called out a greeting. It was the same bunch, Doc and Sam and the skinny kid who never left Sam’s side. But there was a new one too. A good-looking guy so aggressively masculine he didn’t fit in with this group. Probably around thirty, with a body that looked like the man lived in the local gym. He was introduced as Chip. Still irritable from lack of his pipe, Jazz stared at the man. If Wings sent this guy to the cottage later, there might be trouble. This guy probably wanted what Jazz wasn’t about to give. Wings oughta know that by now.
He wasted no time heading for the lounge chair reserved for him… the one with the pipe on the table beside it. The bong again. Good. He lit the pipe and drew in the magical smoke. He held his breath, well aware that inflated lungs made his pecs look larger. He frowned. How did a thought like that sneak in? Was he becoming what Wings wanted him to be? He attended his pipe in silence and let the conversation wash around him.
After a while he began to pick up pieces of information sprinkled among otherwise meaningless words of male bonding. Doc, he decided was a doc, but a doctor of what? Sam, he was willing to bet, was a builder of some kind. Successful too. His watch looked like one of those with a crown on the face that cost more than most people make in a year.
As his attention moved to Jamie, the kid with Sam, Jazz’s thoughts turned sour. Skinny—though with some body definition—with long blond hair, the guy never moved more than two feet from Sam’s side, all the while watching the hard-muscled man with adoring eyes. He constantly kept a hand on his idol’s bare leg or naked belly. Jazz shivered. Was that his future?
Tom, the hairy-chested man, carried an air of authority even while wearing nothing but a bathing suit. Tom had come to the bungalow several times, always permitting Jazz to take a passive role while lying on his back with eyes closed.
Wings—or Rex, as these people called him—was the leader, or was that just because he was the host? As he sucked on the pipe and allowed the smoke to take deeper control of him, Jazz realized that wasn’t it at all. Wings dispensed. Wings controlled what they all seemed to want. Him! He controlled who came to the parties. Who came to the bungalow later.
Jazz’s guts roiled at the thought of what would come next. Had he figured out enough about these people to give him an edge? He’d have to think on that, find some way to test his advantage. But first, he needed to survive the night.
LATER THAT evening, his fear proved right. The brawny Chip entered the bungalow and came into the bedroom where Jazz lay waiting. His excitement was evident. The man was undoubtedly attractive and carried authority in the same way Tom did, but he wasn’t Jazz’s type. Chip stripped and fell on him, his mouth seeking his lips. Jazz managed to lift his head and took the kiss on his neck. Chip’s hands roved him swiftly, roughly. And he wanted what Jazz feared. He tried to flip Jazz over on his stomach. Jazz resisted.
“So you want to watch me do it, huh? Okay with me.”
“I don’t do that,” Jazz said in a steady voice.
“You’ll do whatever I want, kid.”
Without warning, the aroused man clipped him hard on the chin. Jazz saw stars, and the bed swayed drunkenly. Then Chip pursued his goal. As the man lifted his legs, Jazz managed to bring his feet together on Chip’s chest. Still woozy from the blow, Jazz straightened his legs. He sensed rather than saw the husky man fly off the bed and strike the wall. He lay semihelpless, struggling to prepare himself for the vicious attack that would surely follow. But it didn’t come. The next thing he knew, Kim was helping Chip get dressed while Wings stood bedside, touching the growing bruise on Jazz’s chin.
“You okay?�
� the man asked.
“Yeah. He wanted what he couldn’t have.”
Wings nodded. “I warned him.”
“You keep him away from me. I see him again, we gonna lock horns.”
Wings eyed him speculatively for a long moment before speaking. “He won’t be invited back.”
Jazz met the man’s eyes and saw the hard glint disappear, replaced by hunger. Now Wings would pursue what he wanted, and Jazz hoped he had the strength to give it to him.
He gripped the soft hand caressing his bare belly and looked Wings in the eyes. “I’m a top. Won’t ever be a bottom.”
“It’s an acquired taste, Jazz.”
“Uh-uh. Not for me. That’s one thing I won’t do, but there’s another thing too.”
“What is that?”
“I don’t want to go to Mexico. I just want to stay here—” He swallowed and forced the words. “—with you.”
The wary, dangerous look on Wings’ smooth features mellowed. “We’ll see.”
Chapter 19
I WAS in the office alone on Saturday morning when the phone rang. It was Gene.
“BJ, we’ve had a sighting of Jazz.”
I came up out of my chair. “When? Where?”
“Patrol cop was at Albertsons on Coors when he spotted Jazz. He went back to his unit to take another look at Jazz’s photo and call it in. After that, he went inside the store and searched, but he couldn’t find them.”
“Them?”
“Yeah, looked like Jazz was with another man.”
“Silver Wings?”
“Not unless Silver Wings is an Asian.”
“Was he restrained in any way? Seem coerced?”
“Not according to the patrolman, whose name is Small. They walked through the door side by side and disappeared inside.”
“Does the store have cameras?”
“Yep. We’ve got a shot of them as they paid the tab. Seemed to be party supplies.”
“Anyone recognize the man with Jazz?”
“Nope. But I’ve got a copy of the tape. You can take a look if you want.”
FIVE MINUTES later Gene waved an officer out of his office and beckoned me inside. He punched a button on the tape machine as soon as I was seated. My heart took a leap when I saw a handsome face flash before me. It was Jazz, all right. No question about it. He looked to be in good shape. He was thinner, but they weren’t starving him—which was sometimes a problem—and he acted normal. He was dressed casually in shorts and a polo shirt that clung to his trim body.
“That’s him. He’s okay.”
“Almost,” Gene said. In answer to my lifted eyebrows, he backed the tape up to where they arrived at the Albertsons cashier’s station. We could see glimpses of the two as the clerk finished ringing up the customer before them. The Asian was stolid, placid, economic in his movements. Jazz seemed jumpy by comparison.
“See right there,” Gene said. “He’s picking at his skin. That’s a sign he’s hooked on something. And watch him put the items from the basket onto the counter.”
Now that Gene called my attention to it, Jazz’s movements weren’t as graceful or coordinated as the man I knew. “They’ve got him hooked on something,” I said. “But what?”
“No way of telling from this. Methamphetamines. Heroin. Crack cocaine. The pimps use them all as a means of control.”
“They didn’t take Jazz to be a streetwalker. He’s worth more to them than that. Meth would burn him out too fast. And he wouldn’t voluntarily use the needle.”
“You mean the Jazz you knew wouldn’t. You don’t know what all he’s been through. They might have restrained him and shot him up until he was hooked. Besides, you can smoke heroin too.”
“True. If I had to guess, that’s how Juan netted him. They developed a decent relationship after Jazz came to meet him, but Juan told him the crack or heroin or whatever it was would make things even better. After Jazz got hooked, Juan turned him over to Silver Wings.”
“Probably something like that. But the cartel didn’t just give Jazz away. They sold him to Silver Wings.”
“Unless Silver Wings is the cartel,” I said.
Gene pulled a scowl. “Don’t think so. If he was, everyone in the family would have known it. He’d have to kill a lot more than ten people to give himself protection. No, this is somebody who works with the higher-ups. A facilitator. A protector.”
“At least this tells us Jazz isn’t dead or shipped out of the country.”
“Not yet, anyway,” Gene said.
“Silver Wings doesn’t seem to be worried if he lets him out in public.”
“That’s a puzzler. If he’s as connected as we think he is, he’d know there’s a stop-and-question order out on Jazz with a photo attached. Why would he let him out now?”
I didn’t like the answer I came up with. “Maybe Jazz hasn’t been kidnapped. Maybe he’s with them willingly.”
“Or he’s staying with them willingly because they furnish him the drug.”
“If this happened yesterday, why are you just getting the info?”
“SVU says they waited until they had a copy of the camera surveillance to give me. Then they put it on my desk.”
“Where you wouldn’t have seen it until Monday.”
“If I hadn’t come in today.”
“Deliberate?”
“Come on, BJ. These are cops. Ones we’ve grown up in the department with. Hell, you know most of them.”
“Let me remind you, there’s a leak.”
“Yeah, I looked into that. You know the department’s always stretched for resources, and we don’t have the funds to handle half of what we need to. So the NGOs, the citizens’ councils, and the churches have stepped in with money and help. They’re carrying the big end of the load in combating human trafficking. Especially the churches. As a result they’re privy to everything. They even sit in on perp and vic interviews. Nobody likes it, but we can’t afford to turn them away. They’re resources.”
“What you’re saying is that Betsy’s council and Bishop Gregory’s church know everything that’s going on.”
Gene punched the desktop with his right forefinger. “Right down to the last detail.”
“That means that if our suspicions are correct, then they know—”
“That Jazz Penrod’s been spotted by the police,” Gene finished for me. “And depending upon his circumstances….”
“That might not be good for his health.”
“At a minimum, he’s shipped out of the country.”
“And at a maximum,” I said, “he’s destined for a 9 millimeter in the chest and a .22 in the back of the head.”
“Damn! I hope our first break’s not our last,” Gene said.
“Can I borrow that video over the weekend?”
“Don’t see why not. There’s also some scans of the parking lot from a couple of outside cameras. You want those too?”
AS SOON as I got home and showed Henry the store’s camera scan, he brightened before he frowned. “Looks good. Man, he looks good.”
“Does he?” I asked.
“See what you mean,” he said as we watched his brother unload the shopping cart at the cashier’s station. “That’s not Jazz’s usual moves. He flows like water. That was almost stop and go. He’s hooked, ain’t he?”
I nodded. “The question is, what on?”
“Can’t answer that,” Henry said, “but we know someone who can.”
“Nesposito,” I said, grabbing for the phone. Lonzo Joe didn’t seem to mind me interrupting his Saturday. I put him on speakerphone and filled him in on the latest.
“Glad Jazz is alive and kicking. Wasn’t sure he would be after that massacre down there last Tuesday. So you wanna know what the White Streak family feeds its vics?”
“And Julian Nesposito just might have the answer. Is he still in custody?” I asked.
“So I understand. Tribal cops found somebody willing to file a complaint about their
missing girl.”
“You think he’ll give us the answer?”
“Might. He’s not going to give up Silver Wings but might not see much harm in telling us their drug of choice.”
Henry put in his two cents. “You tell him if he doesn’t, Louie Secatero’s going to come knocking on his door. And whatever my dad leaves of him, I’ll take care of when I get back.”
Once that call was completed, Henry fired up his Harley and headed for the Albertsons on Coors. Didn’t make any sense. Jazz was long gone, but Henry wanted to cruise the area looking for something. Jazz. Or a slender Asian male. I didn’t put up any fuss. That was better than my friend drowning his fears in the Blue Spruce, where Detective Zimmerman might pop him again.
Paul was at the country club discharging his duties as aquatic director and wouldn’t be home until later that afternoon, so I sat down at my desktop in my home office and started a long, boring review of the parking lot tapes. They were time and date stamped, but I covered a much broader swath of time for fear of missing something.
I was on the verge of giving up when I spotted it. Two men, one pushing a shopping cart of bagged groceries, walked down an aisle and headed for a car. Jazz and his minder. They stopped at a Mercedes. The sun was at the wrong angle. Couldn’t make out the color before the camera continued panning to the left, losing the view of the two men. By the time it returned to the area, there was nothing but a vacant parking spot. I thought of calling Gene and asking him to locate the shopping cart for possible fingerprints, but that took place yesterday. How do you pick out the right cart from a hundred others and then take fingerprints of everyone who’s touched it since? You don’t.