by Steve Jordan
Episode 3: The Ukrainian Connection, subtitle: DOS Vedanya!
By Steve Jordan
1: Living the good life
The Moon was high and full over the San Diego mountains. Okay, I suppose they’re just hills, technically… but compared to Baltimore, my last port of call, they’re mountains. It provided the largely-cloudless night with the kind of illumination that often convinced people that they could drive all night without their headlights on, or walk the most secluded streets without fearing the shadows. It also made slightly uncomfortable the kind of people who might take advantage of the night to lie around on a mansion patio, nearby the infinity pool that faced the bay, totally naked.
People like myself, for instance.
Despite any amount of personal discomfort I felt for being thus exposed, however, I stayed right where I was, lying on a plush outdoor carpet just beyond the lip of the pool, next to a creature who apparently did not share my reticence for being exposed to the potential voyeurs of the night. And considering her tastes, not to mention her physical assets, I’d be willing to bet there were telescopes all over the neighborhood that regularly swung in this direction. But she showed no inclination to cover up, and frankly I was too tired to bother. I swear, I had probably lost five pounds in the last month, just from hanging out with this woman. And for the record: I don’t diet.
My uncharacteristically-poetic musings were finally broken when Gail, my new main squeeze, and formerly my older brother’s wife and main squeeze, rolled onto her side, pressing her warm and inviting flesh against my side, and said, “you look slightly puckered.”
I grinned. “Two hours of sex in a pool will do that to you.”
“Actually, I meant your forehead,” Gail said, poking me playfully in the ribs. “What are you thinking about?”
“How many of your neighbors have managed by now to catalogue the type and number of my pubic hairs while I lie out here.”
Gail seemed to consider my comment carefully. Instead of one of her typically off-the-cuff sexual remarks, she finally said, “Mike, I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable when you’re with me. Ever. C’mon, let’s go inside.” Whereupon she stood up, striking the most incredible figure in the moonlight, and chivalrously offered me a hand up. (Does that even apply for women?) “We’ll let the bed have some fun for a change.”
“For a change,” I echoed wryly. It was true, Gail had managed to introduce me to almost every horizontal surface, quite a few vertical and inclined spots, and shapes that I didn’t even think two human bodies could fit into at the same time, all over her house. Gail loved to find, and exploit, inventive ways to have sex, and I have to admit, she even seemed to get more turned on by the fact that I was so far not shying away from any of them. At times, I wondered where I would finally draw the line… but so far, she hadn’t managed to invite anything into our sex-wrestling that looked like a line to me, so I kept coming. “I’m thirsty… is there—”
“Plenty of beer—” Gail started to say, then caught herself. “Plenty more besides beer… whatever you want.” She took my arm and walked me past the outdoor spa, past the sauna and into the entertainment room, where the fully-stocked bar awaited, with soft built-in lights that gave it a late-night-on-the-town glow. She steered me to a stool, and once I’d sat down, she gave me a pat on the rear , then stepped behind the bar, and asked, “What’s your poison?”
“Surprise me,” I said, as I watched my naked bartender work. If nothing else, I was sure she wouldn’t get me a beer. That was Pete’s preferred drink… Pete, my brother, that is. Pete, my brother, her ex, that also is. Maybe she hoped I hadn’t noticed her little slip-up back there… on the other hand, she wasn’t stupid, so I was pretty sure she knew I’d noticed, and was thinking hard trying to figure out a way to make me forget it. Therefore, I could depend on my next drink at her hands to be tasty, powerful, and sexually charging.
When she handed me the glass from behind the bar, I took a sip, and I swear, for a moment the walls changed color behind her. I gasped, and smiled. “You would make a great bartender.” I took another look at my glass. “No cherry?”
Gail smiled, and in response, came out from behind the bar. I looked down and saw, nestled among the smooth ab-lines of that incredible body, a cherry in her belly-button. She paused next to me, and waited expectantly for me to get my treat. Not to be one to turn down a cherry (finish that line yourself, you perv), I set down my drink and knelt down before her, ready to partake.
And I couldn’t help thinking to myself: Exactly what did I do to deserve such an incredible turn of luck in my life? At moments like this, it was hard to imagine that getting blackballed from my old job on the East Coast could be anything but the best thing that ever happened to me, bar none. Fate had dealt me a do-over for a going-nowhere existence, and I’d hit the life lottery on the first day. Increasingly, the mysteries behind the firing, the question of the mysterious “Merc,” and the concern over who had chosen me to be sacrificed upon the altar of secrecy, mattered less and less. Life had become heaven, with my own personal centerfold angel. And I didn’t ever want to turn this page. Slowly I reached out, seeking something to hang onto.
That’s when the cellphone on the bar started playing “Life in the Fast Lane.”
I wouldn’t say Gail jumped in surprise or anything. But when she turned in the direction of the ringtone, the cherry popped out of her navel and bounced on the tile floor. I looked down in disappointment at the cherry, and couldn’t help but reflect on the disturbing symbolism inherent in that moment; then up at Gail, who was already moving away and around the bar, reaching for her phone urgently. She picked it up from the bar as I stood up, and before she keyed it on, she flashed me a strange look. Then she hit the receive button and tucked it against her ear.
“Martin. It’s kind of late,” she said, revealing another talent she had: Being a master of understatement.
She listened to the voice at the other end for a time, without speaking. Abruptly, she looked at me. I couldn’t describe the expression on her face… I have recently proven that I’ve gotten really bad at reading people. Suffice it to say, she didn’t look happy. It occurred to me then, that I’d heard many different ringtones on Gail’s phone—she was the kind of person who used personalized ringtones for her contacts, and as a geek myself, I could get behind that—but I had never heard this one before. Finally she said, “Don’t worry. It’ll work out. I’ll see you there, okay? Don’t talk to anyone else.” She paused to listen. “ Especially not her.”
She flicked the phone off. This time, when she looked at me, I knew exactly what she was thinking. “Someone you know needs my help?”
She nodded her head.
2: Martin and me
Despite the moonlight, Gail mercifully drove with her lights on as we carved out of the San Diego hills, heading for town. Needless to say, we were now fully clothed, which for San Diego meant I had on a Hawaiian shirt and baggies, and my baggies actually had underwear underneath them. Gail, wearing a tank top and biking shorts, and no way to tell for sure if she actually had on underwear, would have looked positively angelic, if it hadn’t been for her expression.
Gail normally did not mind guys watching her. But on this occasion, she seemed uncomfortable knowing how closely I was watching her. Finally, she blurted out, “Oh, for Christ’s sake, will you just ask me already?”
“Boyfriend or business associate?” I asked calmly. I was starting to get used to Gail’s “relationships,” so I was just taking things one step at a time.
“Business associate,” she said. And then she added, “Mainly.”
I nodde
d. “I had a feeling. What did he tell you?”
“He’s been robbed,” Gail said. “And now he’s being blackmailed with what was stolen.”
“Does that mean, what was stolen wasn’t his?” Gail shook her head. “Then, it’s illegal.” Gail did not shake her head. “Should I ask?”
“You’ll know soon enough,” she said, abruptly turning into the parking lot of a set of modish-looking stucco townhouses. Even in the dark, I could make out the pastel colors on the outer walls… the official colors of American retirement chic. Gail parked, we got out, and she started for the unit on the end. It was a two-story unit, with the entrance actually on the side of the house, as opposed to the front like the other units. As we came around to that side, I saw a decent-sized balcony running along the second floor, and an expanse of windows… the place had a decent view on that side, but you’d have to ask those inside if they ever enjoyed it, because the windows were all opaque from the outside. A second door opened to a sidewalk that ran to the rear of the house, and ended at a ten foot fence with a gate. Privacy ahoy.
When Gail reached the door, she tapped with her knuckle, once, then twice more. If that hadn’t been a coded knock, I’d turn in my official Maxwell Smart Portable Cone of Silence keyfob. We waited long enough for someone on the inside to come to the door and look out the eye-hole. After a moment, the door opened, and a man regarded us. He was about my height, maybe ten years older than me, but better-built, body-builder muscular from what I could tell through his clothes. He looked like he had the strength to kick my ass. On the other hand, his face suggested that he wouldn’t know the first thing about fighting. He had that serious lifelong-surfer look about him, the kind of guy who’s too mellow to hurt a fly. I was ready to put even odds on the word “Dude” being the first thing he aimed at me.
The guy looked at both of us, then just at Gail. “Gail,” he said. “Who’s the dude?”
I’d call that a payout.
“This is Mike. He’s my man.” I blinked. I don’t know the last time I’ve heard it put like that. Surfer-man looked me over quickly, nodded, then stepped back and opened the door all the way. We stepped inside, and the guy closed the door behind us. Once inside, Gail said, “Mike, this is Martin.” And, to Martin, she said, “Mike might be able to help.”
Martin looked at Gail. You know the feeling you get when people are talking around you, and the way they say things tell you that they’re not saying as much as they are saying? (Did that even make sense?) Anyway, that was the vibe right then. Martin asked Gail, “New?”
Gail looked at me, then told Martin, “Avocado-green.”
I just rolled my eyes. But Martin got the gist of what Gail was telling him, so he nodded, and motioned for us to follow him. “Let’s go to the office.”
He led us to a door off of the kitchen, which led to a set of stairs going down to the basement. I’m not sure why I didn’t think the place had a basement, but I probably should have known better. We went downstairs, and at the bottom landing, we found a door on the left, and a short hallway leading to a door on the right. I noted that both doors had deadbolt locks on them. We went down the short hall, and Martin unlocked the door and led us inside.
The office was small, but comfortable, with a sofa on one wall, a bookshelf on another, and a fairly modern-looking desk with one of the small Dell desktop computers and an LCD screen on its top, plus a few other accessories. Martin indicated the sofa, and we went to sit. As I sat down, I glanced at the bookshelf across the room. It was at that moment that I realized the bookshelf was not full of books, but of black-plastic cases… the kind that hold film cassettes. I’d guess at a few hundred, at least. I didn’t notice any unusual-looking gaps in the shelves, so it was probably a good guess that whatever was stolen, wasn’t from there.
Martin sat on the edge of the desk, and looked at me pointedly. To Gail, he asked, “Are you sure about this?” Meaning me.
Gail replied, “He’s Pete’s brother.”
To this, Martin’s eyebrows rose, and he looked at me again. “I should have seen it, dude,” he said, and he shook his head. “That’s how thrashed I am over all this.”
“So you know Pete,” I said, glancing at Gail.
Gail ignored my look, and before Martin could respond, she said, “Martin, tell me what happened. Do you know who robbed you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It was Esmeralda.”
“Why would she do that?”
Martin looked at Gail sadly. “I screwed her.”
3: From vague to specific
I looked at Gail, and I was gratified to see that his explanation made as little sense to her. Gail had the presence of mind to say, “That’s not much help, Martin.”
“I don’t mean I screwed her,” Martin replied, shaking his head again. “I mean… well, yeah, I did… but it was… and when I did, I… see, there were these unexpected taxes, that I couldn’t… so I had to… I screwed her.”
I had absolutely no choice, but to cradle my elbow with one hand so my other hand could cradle my head. I was beginning to conclude that knowing Gail and having the greatest sex in the world wasn’t worth being exposed to people like this. Or maybe… it was close.
“Jesus, Martin,” Gail finally said, “will you just tell us what happened?”
Martin hung his head, then lifted it and examined the ceiling, then turned it and searched the walls. Presently, he said, “Es found out I conned her out of her fair share of the last video.”
Now we were getting somewhere, though I wasn’t sure I liked the direction. I looked at Gail. “Video?”
Gail rolled her eyes at me. “It’s not what you think.”
“We’ll see about that.” I looked at Martin. “Go on. How did you con this girl?”
Martin shrugged. “Got her drunk, had sex, and got her to sign a contract she was too trashed to read.”
I had to give him credit. He hadn’t sugar-coated it. “But she found out. And did what?”
“Well, she showed up and brought some kid off the street with her. I mean, not a kid… just… off the street. Wanted me to try to sell her on working for me.”
“Doing more videos?” I asked, sharing the same looks with Gail.
Martin shrugged and nodded at the same time (neat when you get to see it, actually). “She turned out to be a strung-out junkie… no one I could use. But while I talked to the kid, Es had gotten into the big vault and hauled ass with a bunch of tapes, and contracts. That was last week. Didn’t realize it until the other day… I haven’t been back there much this week, and I didn’t realize it had been opened. Then she called me, and told me to pay her what I owed her, or she’d go to the cops with the tapes, plus accuse me of rape and coercion.”
I nodded, partially impressed that the word “coer cion” had even managed to get out of the surfer-boy’s mouth. “So, I guess these are nasty porn vids, with, I dunno, barnyard animals or—”
“Mike!” Gail snapped, surprising me with her venom directed at me. “We didn’t do any illegal porn films! It wasn’t porn at all, for God’s sake!”
I stared at her. Hard. After about five seconds staring back, Gail said, “I swear, we didn’t do any porn!”
“Well,” I said, “what else could get him blackmailed over it?” This was not a rhetorical question. If they weren’t discussing illegal porn, I didn’t know what else could get them into blackmail-level trouble. “Come on… what are the films about?”
“They’re instructional films,” Martin replied. “On yoga techniques.”
I stared again. Harder. “Yoga,” I repeated.
“Yoga,” Gail replied. After a pause that I was trying to make pregnant as possible, she added, “Okay… not just a traditional production.”
Here it came. “Let me guess: Naked.” After a moment, Gail nodded. She didn’t seem to want to look me in the eye. “What else?”
“Couples,” Martin supplied. “Intimate.”
“So: Intimate couples yoga, in
the nude,” I summed up. When neither of them contradicted me, I said, “And that’s not illegal?”
“No t with no sexual contact,” Martin replied , “it’s not.”
“ Per se,” Gail added.
“What?” I sighed.
“Some of us models were… young… when we did the—”
“Intimate couples yoga, in the nude, with minors,” I summed up. “ That’s illegal.”
Gail nodded. “Pretty much.”
“Lord luv a duck,” I said.
“What?” Martin said.
“Huh?” Gail said. “Did you say—”
“ No,” I said quickly. “Let’s stay on topic, here! So, Esmeralda stole tapes showing some of your minors… and what? Proof of age contracts?” Martin nodded. “That I suppose won’t stand up to a moment’s scrutiny?” He nodded again. “Can you pay her off?”
Martin shook his head. “I already used the money to pay the taxes I owed, man.”
“Is there anything else he can do?” Gail asked.
I looked at them both, as I contemplated the possibilities as I knew them. Finally I crossed my hands across my chest, and said the only thing that would come to me.
“He can start packing. I hear Mexico can be nice.”
4: That’s it?
“That’s all you got? That’s it?” Gail snapped.
“Is there an echo in here?” I snapped back. Just as quickly, I checked that. It was just the chapter title. “ Uh, I mean, I’m an IT guy. I’m not a magician, able to make minors older with a wave of my hand. I can’t fake birth certificates. I don’t know any D&D incantations that will dissolve your stolen tapes from a distance. And I can’t print money!” I looked at Gail and shrugged. “Babe, I don’t know what the court is likely to do to you if they see those films.” I looked at Martin. “But you, dude, are screwed.”
Martin looked at Gail. “ Dude, that’s harsh.”
“Mike,” Gail asserted, “there must be something Martin can do!”