by Zoey Parker
“Sorry. Sam – listen – this is really important. I have some enemies and this isn’t like Hannah at all to go disappearing. You saw her room. Please. I need to know everything you know.”
Sam exhales, nods, her droopy eyes seeming to droop further with my words.
“I’m sorry, too. It was just these past few weeks. She’d have him here sometimes, this tall Italian guy. They always seemed to be having fun together, but she made me promise not to tell you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just figured since you’re overbearing she didn’t want to introduce you when it was so early in the relationship and everything.”
I nod.
Something is definitely up. Apart from the business, Hannah and I have always shared pretty much everything, from crushes to lovers to crazy nights and horrible mistakes.
“What’s his name?”
“Carlos.”
I curse.
“What?” Sam’s mouthful of pizza asks.
I scrutinize her face, but she’s clearly oblivious of just what this means.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, pretty sure. Last week when they were arguing, I’m pretty sure she yelled “Eff you Carlos” more than once.”
Even as my heart falls to the pit of my chest, I can’t help but smile. That’s Hannah for you. Part of the Pierson family, the last three generations in motorcycle gangs, sister to me, leader of the Rebel Saints, one of the most notorious criminal gangs all around, and yet she wouldn’t even cuss.
“Last week,” I say, the pieces falling together in my mind, “Was that the last time you saw her?”
Sam takes a big bite, swallows, finally says, “Yeah but…”
Her gaze flicks to mine nervously.
“That doesn’t mean… I mean I was in and out for school and work the next few days so she could’ve come back at any time.”
With the back of her hand, she wipes sauce off her face, her eyes bulging out of her head.
“I mean you saw her room, she had to have come back. She had to.”
“Thanks,” I say, rising and walking out of there.
I wonder who she was trying to convince: me or herself.
###
The landlord downstairs isn’t any help, nor are her neighbors. They just tell me things I already know:
“Hannah’s a lovely girl, just lovely.”
“Always on time with rent, that one. Real reliable.”
“It’s only been a few days and already my dog Bernie misses her!”
None of them know anything about a boyfriend, but if this is as recent as Sam said, that’s not surprising.
Shit, how could I have missed this – the Piccolos messing with my sister right under my nose?
This can’t be happening.
I inhale then exhale.
Calm down Gabe, you don’t know anything for sure yet. No point in going on a rampage when you still don’t know that Carlos bastard was involved for sure.
I go to my motorcycle. I pull out my phone, and then the phone number. I haven’t stopped looking, in fact, I’ve hardly started. But right now, I need comfort. Release.
Chapter 10
Toni
I’m in front of the building when I get the call.
“Is this my two nights ago?” he says, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Good,” he says, “What about now? Same place.”
I throw a glance over at the Factory, its ragged exterior nothing compared to what’s awaiting me inside. Getting out of this would be nice; I’d like nothing better. And yet I know. There will be no getting out of this. I have to go in there, see the horrors that lie inside. I have to know.
I have to do this.
“What about tonight?” I say, “Same place. Seven.”
“Sounds good,” he says, then “Wait-”
“Yeah?”
“What’s your name?”
I laugh.
“What’s yours?”
“I asked you first.”
I laugh again.
“We’re not there yet. Maybe tonight.”
“I’ll get it out of you,” he says, a smirk in his voice, and hangs up.
I smile as I slip the phone in my back pocket.
At least I have something to look forward to tonight. After this.
I turn to face the Factory and force my legs to start walking.
Better savor that smile while it lasts. After I go in here, the last thing I’m going to want to do is smile.
When I walk in, a few bored-looking men come over, raising then lowering their guns.
“Piccolo,” I say, pointing to myself.
They nod, muttering to each other.
As I walk on and take in my surroundings, I try to keep my breathing steady, my head erect and upright.
But already this is like a scene from some horror movie. The walls are coated with angry slashes of graffiti, the floors with worms of dirt.
The worst, however, is the quiet. It’s as if nothing living is here. And, in a way, there isn’t.
When I round the chipped-off corner, the sight of what’s there paralyzes me.
Dogs of women are tied to a pole jutting out of the floor. From an out-of-place armchair in the corner, their cowboy-hatted guard nods at me. Just another day in the life for another regular white old hillbilly.
There’s about ten or so women. Most of them don’t even glance at me, though some slide glassy gazes in my direction. They’re dirty, gray. Everything’s dirty, gray, dank. Everything except their lingerie: bright fuchsias, baby blues, yellows. They’re like half-unopened mashes of candy. Their limbs are smeared with bruises and dirt, their faces with traces of makeup and happier days.
Most are Asian, there’s one black and, in the corner, there’s me. Or almost. The woman looks just like me. She’s curled in the corner with a chunk of a book. Her head is dipped deep into it, probably trying to make sense of the cut-off words.
I inhale, then exhale, but more breath, more clarity, only makes this worse.
No, there’s no making sense of this. No making this right.
I walk over to my doppelganger in the corner, lean down. When I put my hand on her shoulder, she jerks.
“Hey,” I say, “Hey, I…”
But she keeps her gaze locked on the book, on the sawed-off words, the chunked together meanings. Her eyes are drug glazed, her skin malnutrition-faded.
I turn away, and the man shakes his head, gestures to the woman with his gun, “No English.”
He grins gums. I stare at him and he grins back obliviously.
He has no idea. No concept of how wrong this is.
I open my mouth, “This…”
My voice dies away, dies in the face of his complete and utter ignorance. The man probably hardly knows English himself.
I take another look at the clump of women in the center.
The few who noticed me already lost all interest, all their focus on the bottles of beer or wine they have cradled in their arms. They scratch absently at the tears of dirt on their faces and the indents of handcuffs on their wrists.
I don’t blame them for hardly taking notice of me.
After all, to them I’m just another one of their merciless captors. For them, this is just another pit stop in their journey of hell.
The man shoots me a disgusting smile, a grin of camaraderie.
I step forward, to tell him just how wrong he is, to yell at him - this man, this monster, this horrible sick monster - to save these women.
My hands tremble with impotent rage. They want to strike this man, beat him how I can see he beat them, so he can never hurt anyone else again. They want to cut these women’s chains and take them with me, to the hospital, to anywhere. To help them.
Behind me, footsteps sound. The men with the guns are coming in, eyeing me curiously.
I inhale, then exhale. Wipe away the tears brimming in my eyes.
No, I have to let this horror remain, continue – for now.
As soon as the decision is made, I stride out of there. I can’t take another second of it.
Out in the fresh air, in freedom, the tears fall.
I can still hardly believe it. What I just saw seems surreal, like an overdone movie. And yet, the image of that woman hunched over the book is as imprinted in my mind as if it had happened to me.
I take a long look back at the dilapidated hellhole of the Factory, letting the tears fall. I don’t wipe them away.
Now, I know. My life has been built on a wrong. And, now that I know, in order to live with myself, I’m going to have to make it right. I’m going to have to stop all this.
Chapter 11
Gabriel
As soon as I hang up, the restlessness returns.
Relief is on its way soon. But “soon” isn’t soon enough.
I need to do something. Now.
I call Jaws. I need to talk to someone.
“Hey man, you haven’t heard anything about Hannah, have you?”
“Naw, you told me she was on vacay, yeah?”
“Yeah but... Jaws man, it’s weird. The text I told you about – it wasn’t Hannah. Then I went to her apartment and it was crazy clean and I heard something about some boyfriend named Carlos.”
A sharp intake of breath, then Jaws says, “No… you don’t think…”
I break in before he can finish the sentence with what I don’t want to think about, “I think something’s up. Would you ask around the other Rebel Saints chapters, put out some feelers, see if anyone’s seen anything?”
“Yeah, yeah man. Shit.”
“I know.”
“Oh, and Boss?”
“Yeah?”
“You coming around? The new shipment’s in and it’s a good one. There’s a few you’ll definitely like.”
Oh yeah, the shipment. Shit, I’d almost forgot. Good thing the motel thing’s tonight, not now.
“Yeah,” I say, “good on you for reminding me. I’ll be right over.”
As I hang up, I’m not sure what I feel anymore. At least I’ll have something to take my mind off things.
I hop on my bike and roar her to life. Then I drive toward the foggy polluted haze of the horizon. The buildings look topless, the sky a cloud.
I should’ve asked if it was the usual place.
At a red light, I paw at my phone before letting it be.
No matter. It's always at the usual place.
Besides, I’m here already.
The usual place is just as stunning as it ever is: smooth marble walls, overhead spangled with lights, the “Royal York Hotel” sign gleaming.
As I walk through the already parted doors, I think of the first time we came here.
I had my gun in my jacket pocket, I was so sure that it wasn’t going to work.
And yet we pulled it off, six or so of us heaving the Smart car-sized crates through the opulent palace of a lobby, beneath the exquisite chandeliers and furniture that looked like it belonged more in a Rococo museum than a hotel, we did it. We lugged our two crates of fifteen or so girls through Toronto’s finest historic hotel, our footsteps just loud enough on the floor to blare out the shuffling inside the crates.
“Statues,” we’d tell anyone who asked.
As I head for the twined golden staircase, a nice specimen of a concierge gives me her best $35 an hour smile, says, “Welcome sir.”
I nod, smile back.
They know me here by now.
Management, staff, they know to respect the “Do Not Disturb” sign on our door and leave it at that.
But oh, if they only saw what was in those crates.
Stacked on top of each other like life-size Barbie dolls, the drugged-out girls would make quite a sight indeed.
It takes a few hours, along with a few bottles of the hotel’s best wine to get the girls back to life but it’s worth it. The palatial surroundings both impress and intimidate them; we usually don’t have to even show them our guns at all.
I step onto the golden stairs and ascend, letting my hand slide along the sheath railing.
Truth is, this place is the main thing that makes this all bearable. It almost makes it seem posh, what we’re doing in these marble walls.
By the time I press my palm into our door and walk in, the girls are already roused and ready: sitting on the plush carpet in the center of the room, looking around, bored.
From a lush velvet throne of a couch, Jaws nods to me. Then, gesturing to the tubby nightgowned woman on his knee, he says, “Brought the honey.”
Tinsley titters, and turns to flutter a sausage-fingered wave at me.
Behind her back, Jaws mouths at me, “I got her the ice cream shorts.”
I grin and give him a thumbs-up.
Seeing those two almost makes me believe in love again.
On a bench that looks like a golden elaborately-carved platter with legs, Pip gestures to me. I flop down beside him and the show begins.
Jaws clicks the remote, music engulfs the room and the girls begin moving.
“Dance!” Jaws calls, sweeping his hand out in several figure eights, as if after what he said there was still any question of what they’re supposed to do.
As the women get up and start moving, I let my gaze slide around them.
Jaws was right. This is a good batch.
They look like women off the street: well-fed, a bit bored – but not malnourished or miserable. Hell, even their lingerie is higher-quality, one of them’s got some satin boyshorts that are driving Pip wild.
I tear my gaze away from her gyrating ass. Outfits can be changed, what matters is the girls themselves. Many aren’t cut out for dancing, and I don’t want a ticking time bomb who could blow up any second.
I keep my gaze on their faces, switch it from one to the next and the next.
Now, who looks like they might actually be a good addition to the Rebel Saints strip club?
The first has droopy Eeyore eyes, looks like she might pass out at any minute. The second’s gaze is locked on a golden flower of a lamp on the wall, looks like she just received a text from a boring ex-boyfriend or something. The third has a telltale tear of mascara down her cheek. The fourth is bobbing her head off-beat. The fifth’s eyes look like they’re ready to beam out of her head entirely. And the sixth –
I stand with a jolt.
No, no way.
I shake my head, then sit down, my heart still pounding in my chest.
“You good Boss?” Pip asks, and I nod.
“Thought I recognized someone.”
That sixth girl, her long-lashed doe eyes, for one horrible second I thought she might be… Hannah.
“Yeah, I’m waiting for the day,” Jaws says with a laugh, “When I see an ex-girlfriend or some bitch from primary school here.”
He laughs again, and I feel sick.
“I’m partial to the mascara smear, but you know how I am about blondes,” Jaws chats away gaily.
I switch my gaze to the end of the shipment, but again a jolt has me standing. That girl at the end, her long raven hair and crimson lips. Just like… the woman from the other night. My no-name tonight.
In my pocket, I crumple up her number.
Why do I care? So, she was wild, fun, passionate, actually read “War and Peace”– who cares? I’m seeing her tonight; shouldn’t that be enough?
“I like the boyshort one,” Pip says softly, giving me a sidelong glance, trying to help.
I nod again.
“Yeah, this is a toughie, yeah? So many good ones it’s hard to choose,” Jaws gabs on.
I stand up, walk past them to the door.
/>