Miami Burn (Titus Book 1)

by John D. Patten

  He gave me the finger. I grinned.

  “Where’d you get it?” I said.

  “You don’t want to know,” he said. “Don’t worry. I didn’t steal it, just borrowed it from a friend.”

  “You’re right. I don’t want to know.”

  Morton Hinraker’s house was on Star Island, an enclave of Miami’s ultra-rich and ultra-famous. Ordinary rich and famous need not apply.

  I’m not sure if mega-mansion or giga-mansion is the right term for the marble and glass travesty that appeared to be Hinraker’s residence. It had all the charm of an office building—hell, an entire office park.

  Rows of palm trees lit by in-ground lights surrounded a fancy drive paved with shiny black bricks. Large steps led up to wide glass doors under a portico that looked like the entrance to an airport gate with a line of well-dressed people moving through a security checkpoint.

  I’ve never understood why people who have money need to own big things. Big things are hard to clean.

  “Ready?” I said.

  “So ready, dude—I mean, man,” said Jason.

  “Go back to dude. Dude is okay again.”

  Jason pulled the Lamborghini up to the valet and handed him a hundred-dollar bill. I carefully climbed out, trying not to move like an old man recovering from triple-bypass surgery. The valet drove off and I joined Jason on the pathway.

  “You sure you’re up for this?” Jason said. “You look like a freight train ran over you and then backed up just to make sure.”

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  Luckily, Eddie and his boys broke no major bones. I had a shiner on my left eye and my nose was the color of a Concord grape, as well a new shape. The rest of my body looked like a weather map showing outbursts of storms, although it was invisible under my suit. If Jason noticed it’s the same suit I wore to Sinz, he hadn’t said anything.

  Jason Stark was in a light green suit with a white shirt and white shoes. It may or may not have had an intensity control. I wondered if he bought it from David at the spaceship.

  Jason was alone. Apparently, you don’t bring a “crew” to Hinraker’s. We walked down a path of cubes with images playing videos of genderless people in multi-colored tight costumes performing interpretative dance. Behind it all was classical music.

  “Puccini,” I said.

  “Huh?” said Jason.

  “The music. Puccini. Opera.”

  “Oh, yeah. Of course.”

  “Not what I expected.”

  “Me neither. I’d be dropping some Kendrick Lamar and Chance the Rapper, but it’s his house. Man can do what he wants.”

  I scanned the crowd for Allie Hayes. Nothing. I did see two very famous Hollywood celebrities whose presence surprised me.

  The security here would make the TSA blush. Five young big-shouldered guys in light gray suits, all with shaved heads, dark sunglasses, and earpieces with those little coiled cords.

  As we waited to pass through the metal detector, I said, “Why do they still have those earpieces with the little coiled cords? Hasn’t technology evolved beyond little coiled cords?”

  “They’re cool,” said Jason. “They make you look like Secret Service or something. I tell my clients to wear fake ones. Hot girls love security dudes.”

  I turned and looked at Jason, wondering if he’s real or a figment of my imagination.

  “What?” he said, responding to my stare.

  I just shook my head.

  I held out JoJo Burley’s Sapphire Key. The lead guard placed it in a device that scanned it and handed it back to me without a word. Then, we moved through security. I evaluated the guards. They had an air of quality training. These were not Eddie Corrado-types.

  As I was patted down after setting off the metal detector with my belt buckle, I noticed a light glow behind the glasses. There was some sort of a display visible only to the wearer. These guys were seeing something we weren’t.

  They didn’t like me. I was frisked, prodded, and probed. I figured I would be, so I left my gun at home, again the feeling of nakedness.

  We emerged into a series of interconnected living rooms with spectacular views of the twinkling Miami skyline across the water. Each had a slightly different style but nothing too garish, a subtle unifying theme likely created by an interior decorator who charges a thousand dollars an hour. Couches everywhere. Sculptures looming like demonic stick-figures. Paintings of human body parts tangled in odd ways. The soft classical music seemed to emanate from everywhere.

  The men here skewed older and richer than Sinz, much older. Tonight is Jason’s turn to feel out of place, age-wise. There was even a smattering of middle-aged couples with wedding rings. I didn’t expect that.

  Jason Stark was right about the women, though. I’ve never seen a collection of so many stunning women all in one place. But not like the Sinz girls. The women here were subdued and elegant. Each one looked like she had been coached by Henry Higgins and had her own professional team of stylists on-call. No Bris or Sashes in glitter and sprayed-on neon dresses. This was a different planet. These women wore expensive designer clothes that flowed, exposing just enough skin and curves but with flair and mystery. They sipped their long champagne flutes and kept their eyes down. Respectful. Controlled. Like they had been bred on an island, trained to serve, and imported.

  If I had to guess, I’d bet Morton Hinraker had graduated from collecting drug-addled porn girls to carefully cultivated slave girls. I felt suddenly sick.

  Again, this is entirely my gut telling me one thing that could be wrong. Only way to find out is to dive in.

  I scanned the crowd for Allie. Nothing. More celebrities, though. One famous musician whose albums I collected as a kid.

  “Man, these girls are hot,” said Jason. “Hotter than even I expected, and so elegant.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Hello,” said a stunning girl with auburn hair, blue eyes, and bright red lips. “My name is Aleksandra.” Her accent was thick Eastern European. “I will be private hostess for you this evening. Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Sure,” said Jason.

  “We have celebrity bartender Daniel Deschamps from famous restaurant La Glace in Paris. His specialty is martini made from cucumber vodka, eucalyptus leaves, and Himalayan Goji berries.”

  “Oooh,” said Jason, “that sounds good. I’ll have one of those.”

  Aleksandra turned to me. “And for you?”

  “Is that what you drink in Ukraine?” I said.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Ukraine. That’s where you’re from, right?”

  Fear appeared in her eyes for a brief beat, but she pushed it away with a forced smile.

  “No,” she said, “you are mistaken. I am from Czech Republic.”

  “My apologies,” I said.

  “No, I apologize to you. Would you prefer a Ukrainian girl to serve you?”

  “No, that’s okay. You’re wonderful.”

  “Thank you. You are much kind. What would you like for to drink?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “As you wish.”

  She smiled with a hint of a bow and walked away.

  “Dude, this is amazing,” said Jason. “This whole place is amazing.”

  “Dude,” I said, “stop thinking with your dick and open your eyes. This is fucking creepy.”

  He shook his head and we both returned to scanning the crowd.

  I listened to a nearby conversation. A famous New York fashion designer in an outfit that looked like something out of a Doctor Seuss book was emphatically talking to two young men in matching pink suits and baby blue ties about the upcoming Paris season, gesturing wildly with his hands.

  “So, I heard you fucked Bri,” Jason said.

  I coughed.

  “Who told you that?” I said.

  “She told me herself.”

  I reeled back a little, surprised. “Sorry. She showed up and it just hap
pened. Won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “Relax, man. It’s okay. We all fuck. No biggie.”

  I had a sudden urge to punch him, but I controlled myself. I turned to face him directly.

  “You know, Bri is not a notch on a bedpost,” I said, maybe a little too harshly. “Neither is Sash. They are human beings, not Fleshlights.”

  “Dude,” he said with his hands up, “why are you freaking out? I pretty much stole Bri from you, so you had a right to first dibs. You fuck her, I fuck her, they fuck each other, we all fuck, it’s all good. Fucking is fun. It’s normal. Relax.”

  I stared hard at him.

  “I’m not sure I understand your generation,” I said.

  “That’s okay, dude,” Jason said. “I’m not sure I understand yours.”

  “I mean, do you feel anything at all? Or are people just interchangeable holes?”

  Aleksandra arrived with his drink. He thanked her and sipped it.

  “Oh my God!” he said. “This is amazing. I don’t know what your problem is, dude. I’m liking this place.”

  A gong sounded and the lights dimmed three times.

  “What’s that?” Jason said.

  People slowly began to drift to one side of the house.

  “Must be show time,” I said.

  He nodded and we followed the crowd. We passed the living rooms into a hallway area that ended at three large doors with more security guards.

  On my left along a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows was a sixty-ish man with long white hair in a ponytail and a white beard, smiling and nodding at everyone as they passed. He was dressed in a loose flowing all-white outfit that could have been a suit, a dress, or a robe. Hard to say. It hid the shape of his body well. He could have been moderately heavy or approaching obese. I’d put money on approaching obese.

  On either arm was a cover-girl quality model. I recognized this man from the pictures I found online. So this is what a former porn producer turned philanthropist looks like. All I could think was Jake Preston in about forty years.

  “Titus,” said the man, singling me out of the crowd as Jason and I passed, steely silver eyes locked with mine, “I’m Morton Hinraker. Welcome to my home.”

  His voice was deep and theatrical. I held his gaze as we moved forward and stayed silent. I saw nothing behind his eyes, just a vast emptiness.

  He laughed and said, “Enjoy the show.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” I said, finally breaking the eye contact.

  We neared the doors, which opened into a room that looked like a theater of sorts. Jason turned to me, slapped his arm around my back, and massaged my neck the way sports players do.

  “Dude,” Jason said, “that was a Batman moment.”

  “Thanks,” I said, filtering him out.

  We were in a large room with no windows. It didn’t match the decor of the previous rooms, as if we had been transported to a three-hundred year old château in France. Gilded wallpaper in a gold and maroon floral pattern over a white chair rail and dado with white panel molding. The carpeting was an intricate Persian pattern that matched the wallpaper. There was a large space in the center. Three rows of elegant Louis XVI white chairs with maroon silk padding and gold trim were arranged around an empty space. Everyone entering was sitting down in them. All the room was missing was Marie Antoinette and a guillotine.

  I scanned for exits. There was one large opening on the other side of the room with no door. There appeared to be a hallway running behind it.

  I picked a seat at the end of a row and motioned Jason to take the second one in.

  “Do you mind if I sit on the end?” he said. “I like to sit on the end.”

  I shot him a look I use at Cap’n Jack’s.

  “Naw,” he said, “on second thought, I’ll just sit here and let you have the end.”

  I grinned. We sat.

  I scanned the crowd for Allie. Tons of beautiful young girls, but no sign of her. Four security guards lined up with folded arms behind us at the entrance.

  The crowd seemed collectively under the spell of a substance. Or maybe so enthralled to be there that they couldn’t speak. No soft conversation. Just an ever-building tension and excitement of whatever it is we were about to see.

  In walked Morton Hinraker, the long-gowned cover-girl models still on each arm taking slow steps with him. They paraded him to three empty chairs waiting on a raised dais over to the right side of the room. He paused to wave around the room and then all three sat in unison. All hail Caesar.

  The doors shut behind us and the lights dimmed. I missed my gun terribly.

  Two almost naked and very muscular men in black leather masks and straps holding up almost non-existent black leather shorts walked into the room. Metal studs protruded from the straps and shorts. Combat boots completed the ensemble. Each man dragged behind him a large cage on rollers.

  Inside each cage was a naked girl wearing a black leather gag with a bright red ball in her mouth. My muscles tightened. I felt the urge to retch, but I forced myself to control it by looking at the girls’ faces. Neither was Allie.

  “Fuck, this is weird,” said Jason, his eyes perplexed but fascinated. The couple in front of us turned and gave him a be-silent look. He nodded, looked at me, and shrugged.

  Another gong sounded and the room filled with some sort of confetti. Or so it seemed. Nothing actually landed on the floor. An illusion of some sort.

  I was sweating now, trying not to picture my hands around Hinraker’s throat. Another part of me was planning an escape. Through the guards behind us wasn’t the best idea, maybe ahead through the big door and down the hallway.

  Although I’m sure there were guards over there too. Shit, I’m trapped. My breathing got heavy and I felt a trickle of sweat down my back.

  A young woman carrying a silver whip walked into the room. A spotlight appeared on her and the crowd “ooh”-ed. She wore a bright shiny purple wig in a long pageboy cut with straight bangs. She wore heavy blue eye shadow with thick black lashes. Her eyes glowed with blue contact lenses and her lips glistened with glowing blue lipstick. She wore a silver space outfit right out of an old science-fiction TV show I remember watching as a kid but forget the name of it. Something with a moonbase. A glistening metal collar wrapped around her neck and connected down to a ridiculously short metallic skirt with flared sides. Her firm breasts and tiny waist hid under a tight fabric that looked like chain mail. From under the rear of the skirt swung a long silver tail with a silver arrow at its end. Shiny knee-length metallic boots completed the outfit. She cracked the whip above everyone’s heads as she walked, the tail slapping the carpet side-to-side with the swinging of her hips.

  “Good evening,” she said, her voice filling the room with an air of authority, even though she couldn’t be more than twenty. “Welcome to the Cage Girl Show. Before we begin, let me introduce the Cage Girls. Tori!”

  A spotlight shone on one of the girls, sharply defining her naked body. Music softly rose. I recognized it. “Also Sprach Zarathustra” by Richard Strauss.

  “Tori,” said the silver space girl, “are you here of your own free will?”

  Tori nodded yes.

  “And are you of legal age?”

  Tori nodded yes again.

  She repeated this procedure with the other girl, who was named Anya, timing the answer to coincide with the first crescendo of “Also Sprach Zarathustra.”

  “Now let me introduce the Slave Boys,” she said, going through the same procedure with the two muscular young men who dropped to their knees with their heads bowed. When the music reached its second crescendo, she slapped her whip across their backs.

  Then, in time with the music, she walked to the center of the room as the spotlight narrowed on her face. “I am your domme, Mistress Tiffany. All rise to me!” Everyone in the room stood up except for me as the music reached its big climax. Massive applause greeted another whip display over our heads.

  I glanced at Hinraker, who
was staring at me with a smile. My blood boiled. Sick fuck. I turned to look at Jason, who was looking at me like I was a bomb about to go off.

  For a moment, I seriously considered walking over to Hinraker and slamming his head to the floor. But that won’t end well. I’ll probably end up living in his basement in a box with my arms and legs cut off, being fed by tubes with stimulants to keep me alive. So I should leave. Allie is not here. Why am I staying? If I stay, I’m going to end up busting some heads.

  The room went quiet, the spotlight went away, and more subtle lighting surrounded the cages.

  “Slave boys!” said Mistress Tiffany. “Open the cages.” The two men rose from their knees and each lifted one side of each cage. “Crawl to me, slave girls!”

  The girls began crawling out of the cages. “Heads down!” shouted Mistress Tiffany as she cracked the whip over the girls’ backs.

  I slammed my right fist into my left palm. I had to get out of here soon. I looked behind me at the nearest door, catching the gaze of one of the security guys.

  Then, Mistress Tiffany turned and looked directly at me. I froze in place, meeting her gaze. Hypnotic eyes, even behind the contact lenses. She held me in her trance.

  Oh, but I know those eyes. That face. Those lips. Staring at me from the home page on my Chromebook.

  Shit.

  I just found Allie Hayes.

  NINETEEN

  THE “SHOW” DEVOLVED INTO A VILE SPECTACLE THAT WOULD make the Marquis de Sade proud. The only thought that kept me sitting through the entire depravity was my gut feeling that Allie Hayes had somehow been corrupted into this by Morton Hinraker, and that perhaps Allie’s own father is somehow involved.

  I know that there are some people who are wired to equate sexual pleasure with pain, but I’ve never understood it. Some learn the link from abuse. Once when I was a cop, we responded to a dominatrix with a client who had a heart attack while she was tormenting him. His cadaver had a big grin.

  At each insertion of an object and every other perversion at the command of Mistress Tiffany, a bile rose in my stomach. I wondered if this is how people felt when Rome was in its final hedonistic nosedive into oblivion.