MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH

by Michael Lister

I pull out four twenties and hand them to her through the bars. She buzzes me in and doesn’t offer change.

  The reception area is small, with soiled furniture that doesn’t match, and a funky smell I can’t identify.

  I stop and look around, trying to take it all in.

  There’s a counter with a small TV on it and an opening with a beaded curtain hanging down.

  —You go this way, she says, pointing to the left down a narrow hallway with doors on each side.

  I turn and hit the button to buzz open the door, and Brad enters.

  —You no do that, she shouts. I call cops.

  —Go ahead, I say, pulling out the picture of Little Caesar and holding it up. I’m sure they’d like to talk to this guy, too.

  —No. You leave now. Want no trouble.

  —Where is he?

  —He no here. No work here no more.

  —You fire him ’cause he killed Amber?

  —We not kill no one. You leave. NOW.

  —I no leave without him, I say.

  Brad laughs.

  —What kind a joint you running here? I ask. Just happy endings or hardcore?

  —I no tell you nothing Mr. Motherfucker.

  —We’re gonna have a look around, Brad says. You sit down and shut up.

  —This my place. You no tell me shut up in my place. Hey I recognize you. You been here before Mr. Bad Bone.

  I laugh.

  —Bitch, that’s Mr. Big Bone. Just ask your girls.

  —They say you Mr. Limp Dick Motherfucker.

  —Yeah, I say, I heard that, too.

  I head down the hallway. Starting at the end, I open each door. Three are empty, five have bare breasted women giving hand jobs, one has full-on fucking.

  Based on the nationality of the workers and the fact that they appear to be living here, I’m pretty sure many of these girls are the victims of trafficking.

  —Health inspection, I yell. How many licensed massage therapists we got here?

  The workers yell — joining the rants coming from the lady up front — johns scatter, clutching their clothes as they rush out.

  When I open the final door, the man from the photo steps forward and presses a small revolver to my forehead.

  —You want see him now, Mr. Limp Dick? the small Asian woman, who has just run up behind me, asks.

  —I’m Mr. Motherfucker, I say. Brad’s Mr. Limp Dick.

  —You all look alike, cracker ass cracker motherfucker.

  I back down the hallway and into the reception area, hands raised.

  —Fuck you now, the small woman says. Get fuck outta my place.

  —Don’t worry, Jade, the man says. Takin’ out the trash is part of my job.

  —That include Amber? I ask.

  —Don’t forget other one, Jade says.

  The man looks confused, but before he can ask what she means, Brad steps through the beaded curtain and places a gun of his own into the back of the man’s head.

  —Drop it, Brad says.

  I hear something in Brad’s voice I’ve never heard before.

  —Bet I can shoot him before you can —

  Brad hits the man so hard with the butt of his gun it sounds like his skull cracks open. He falls to the ground, unconscious, bangs the front part of his head on the floor and drops his gun.

  —Bet you can’t, Brad says. I win.

  I pick up the gun and look at Brad admiringly.

  —Thanks.

  —Haven’t done anything yet. Thank me when we get the girl back.

  I’m more disturbed by what I saw in Jade Gardens than anything in recent memory — mostly because of my own culpability in its existence.

  Exploitation always angers me.

  And there seems to be more of it now than ever before. We’re living in a fucking domination system where the powerful do whatever the fuck they want with impunity, a world of nation-corporations where the rich eat the poor and congratulate themselves on winning, as if what they’re destroying are the plastic toy figures of a board game instead of the lives of actual human beings.

  Predatory politicians, preachers, and pundits prey on the weak and vulnerable, their self-centered existences devoid of empathy, mercy, doubt, and remorse.

  But nothing incenses me like the sexual abuse of women — whether domestic violence, rape, or sexual slavery, I’m never filled with homicidal rage as much as when confronted with this form of pitilessness and brutality.

  And this form of exploitation is on the rise.

  Sexual Trafficking, the recruitment, transportation, transfer, harboring, or receipt of persons for the purposes of commercial sexual exploitation, is estimated to involve somewhere between seven hundred thousand and four million women, children and men each year.

  Of course, when most people hear the word trafficking, they think of poor, lawless third-world countries, but yearly, right here in the land of the free, an estimated 14,500 to 17,500 women and children are trafficked. The United States has become a destination location for commercial sex exploitation and slavery. Sex trafficking has been reported in at least twenty different states, with most cases occurring in New York, California, and Florida. In fact, Florida is being inundated with trafficked women from Russia, the Ukraine, and Central Europe.

  Traffickers typically lure women to the U.S. with false promises of jobs as waitresses, nannies, and models.

  Women are prevented from leaving by security guards, violence, threats, debt bondage, and retention of documents. The traffickers maintain control through isolation — in many instances, the women must live and work at the same location.

  Once imprisoned (and no matter what it looks like that’s what it is), the women usually find themselves being threatened with physical abuse against themselves and their families in order to force cooperation. Traffickers also play upon the women’s fears of arrest and deportation.

  The girls are moved around a lot — from town to town in makeshift brothels — mobile homes, campers, rented houses, apartments, hotel rooms. If they’re ever caught and arrested, their exploiters bail them out and move them to a different city.

  But it’s not just women and children from other countries who are being treated so inhumanely. Every day young girls are being abducted or coerced and forced into sexual surrogacy by boyfriends and others they think they can trust — raped and abused in unimaginable ways, the threat of death, for them or their families, hanging over them at all times.

  I’m reminded of Liz Jameson, and the story I’m going to write for her. I’ve got to call her, to get her involved with this.

  What makes me feel even worse is about a year ago I had been contacted by a reporter in South Florida working on a story about the international sex slave trade. The Miami Herald was doing a piece on the prevalence of sex trafficking in Florida, and she wanted to know if it extended into the Panhandle. I had learned a lot about sex trafficking at the time, but I had failed to find any victims and concluded that it hadn’t made it to Panama City. Failed is right. I had an opportunity to expose something most Americans can’t even fathom — that slavery never ended in this great country — and I blew it.

  Jade Gardens is still in operation, still in the business of slavery and rape because I didn’t do my damn job.

  But am I culpable in other ways? Does my use of porn or my patronizing strip clubs in some small way enable, even encourage sex trafficking? It’s difficult to think about, but I have to, have to examine my actions and their consequences — even the unintended ones.

  On the drive over to the address Brad gave me, I try Regan again.

  Still no answer.

  After leaving her another message, I call Liz Jameson, tell her what I found at Jade Garden, and recruit her to assist the victims there and to help find Casey.

  When we finish, I call Frank Clemmons.

  —Place on Front Beach, I say. Jade Garden.

  —Yeah?

  —Massage parlor. Pretty sure it has a connection to Amber
’s murder and Casey’s disappearance. Amber worked there and so does the guy Casey left the club with.

  —Motherfucker.

  —What?

  —We sent a deputy over there earlier in the week when we found out Amber worked there.

  —And?

  —And, had he done his damn job, we’d’ve known about this sooner.

  —Even if there’s no connection, I say, I’m pretty sure there are sex slaves working and living there.

  —Shit like that brings out the worst in me.

  —I can’t think of anyone better to unleash it on.

  Brad had told me to give him half an hour or so before meeting him. After talking to Rashard and trying Regan again, it takes me about forty-five minutes.

  The address he gave me is an abandoned house trailer on the east end of the beach. It’s one of two remaining in what was a mobile home community and was to become a townhouse subdivision before the housing bust.

  The day over, the night not quite here, the limbo-like moment one of gloom, as if trapped between the sun and the moon.

  The dim, dusky evening atmosphere adds to the menacing mood draped like a shroud over the mobile home.

  I knock on the door, but there’s no answer. Pushing it open, I step into the dark, damp dwelling.

  I pause a moment for my eyes to adjust.

  All the windows are blacked out, most of the furniture has been removed, and the carpet is soggy from rain water that has poured in from a leaking roof.

  I follow the only light and sound down a narrow hallway to the very back room.

  In it, I find the man from the massage parlor bound to a chair, beaten and bloodied, whimpering beneath the duct tape covering his mouth.

  The four high-powered flashlights trained on him illuminate a series of cuts and slashes I assume are the result of the large knife Brad is holding.

  —Right on time, Brad says, as I walk in.

  —For what?

  —To hear this canary sing.

  I look at him quizzically.

  —Watched a film noir marathon last weekend, he explains.

  I think about all the ways I’ve condemned torture in articles and columns I’ve written over the years and what a hypocrite I am.

  —Aren’t you? Brad asks the man.

  He nods vigorously and attempts to say something from beneath the tape.

  —Ask him anything you like, Brad says.

  —Where’s Casey?

  Brad rips the tape off his mouth.

  More tears flow out of his eyes and down the swollen skin of his pain-filled face.

  —Who?

  Brad steps forward and slices the skin between the first two fingers of the guy’s left hand, which looks to be taped down especially for this purpose.

  He screams.

  When I look at his right hand, I can see that Brad has already used up the four spaces there.

  —Tell me who that is. I’ll tell you the truth. I swear to God. Just tell me. I don’t know a Casey.

  —Tiffany, I say. From The Dollhouse. You left with her.

  —Oh. Her. Yeah. No. I don’t know where she is now.

  Brad moves toward him.

  —Wait. Wait. I’m not lying. I handed her off to this guy. I’ll tell you everything. Just don’t cut me.

  —Need to cut your damn hair, Brad says.

  —What guy? I ask.

  —Don’t know any of their names. I swear.

  —This isn’t helping, I say, and we don’t have time to be fuckin’ around. Start from the beginning.

  —And you better tell the fuckin’ truth, Brad adds.

  —I will. I swear. I swear. These guys with money. They come down during Thunder Beach and want to party while they’re here. Want girls. You know? Sometimes I help with girls. Escorts, strippers, whatever. They pay me a small finders fee for finding what they’re looking for and supplying it. Some want a black girl or a fat girl or a young girl. This one guy wants Miss Thunder Beach, wants Amber Nicole. Willing to pay big money. She’s up for it. It’s what she does. You know? So we do the deal. I get my little fee. Life goes on. Next thing I know, she doesn’t show up for work, won’t answer her phone, disappears. A few days later, I get a call from this guy saying there’s a problem. He needs another girl — one that looks like the first one. I was like where the fuck am I gonna get a girl that looks like the other one. But I have to, you know, ’cause now he’s offering an insane amount of money. Guy he works for really, really wants a girl that looks like Amber Nicole. Anyway, so I’m tellin’ this to a buddy of mine, and he says, the judges of the Miss Thunder Beach competition must have the same taste as this guy ’cause the girl they picked in the fall looks just like the one they picked last spring — Amber. Said he knew her, her name, where she worked, everything.

  —What’s your buddy’s name?

  —He’s more of a real good customer. Comes in to see Amber all the time. Think she reminds him of this other chick.

  —His name, I say.

  —Vic.

  —Dyson?

  His eyes widen a bit.

  —Yeah, he says. You know him?

  —So what happened next?

  —He tells me she works nights over at The Dollhouse, so I take a couple of grand and I go see her. Come up with this story — my son’s in the hospital, it’s his birthday, he’s turning twenty-one today. All he wants is a lap dance by a beautiful woman. All I want is to make him happy. I’ll give her two grand just to come to Bay Medical and give him two dances.

  —She fell for that?

  —Thing is, I know this guy who’s in the hospital. I pay him to tell her this story if she calls. So when she wants verification, I give her his name. She calls the hospital, asks for him, is told his room number, and is transferred up to it. They talk. She says okay. She could really use the money. I give her a thousand up front, show her the other, then we go. At the hospital, everything goes real well. My friend sells it well. I pay her. So now she’s got two grand — and I tell her, you wanna make three more I’ve got a friend having a bachelor party out on the beach. Show her the other three G’s, tell her it’s a public place, she’ll be safe, and...

  —She goes?

  —Yeah.

  —Where?

  —La Vela. The guy’s waiting there for her. They meet. He approves. Pays me. I’m gone. Last I seen of her.

  —We went to La Vela looking for her that night, I say. No one had seen her.

  —They were in the Posh Ultralounge.

  —It was closed.

  —For everyone else. They had it by themselves ’til after the concert.

  I shake my head. I was there, so close to her — and didn’t even know it.

  —You threw around a lot of money, Brad says. How much did he pay you for the girl?

  —Twenty.

  —Thousand?

  —Yeah.

  Brad looks at me.

  —What?

  —He bought her, he says.

  —What?

  —We don’t find her, she’s not coming back.

  I look at the guy bound to the chair.

  —So, I say, where can we find her?

  —I swear to Christ I don’t know.

  —Where can we find the guy then?

  —I just don’t know. I swear. He’s just a middleman, wouldn’t do you any good anyway, but I don’t know. I’m not lying. I’ve told you everything.

  —How does he contact you?

  —Phone.

  —You got his number?

  —Always blocks it.

  Brad looks at me.

  —You believe him? he asks.

  I shrug.

  —I swear it’s the truth. I’ve told you everything. I swear it. You can torture me some more and I can make some shit up, but I’ve told you everything.

  Are you really doing this again? I say on Regan’s voicemail. Now? Right now? With all that’s going on you’re disappearing on me again?

  I’m racing down Bac
k Beach toward Pier Park to test an idea I had.

  When I left the trailer, Brad was about to take one more go at the man to make sure he had really told us everything he knew. When he finishes, he’s going to let me know so I can call Frank Clemmons to pick him up.

  —Listen, I say, if you really can’t answer your phone for some reason — if something’s happened or... I’ll feel horrible, and I’m sorry, but I think, given our history, you’ll understand why I might make the assumption I am. If you’re bailing again, fine, I’m not surprised, but think about your timing. Just do me a favor. Text me with what you found out about Kevin. Please. If nothing else, please do that.

  Driving way too fast, I dart in and out of traffic, attempting to be cognizant of the many motorcyclists, hoping I won’t get pulled over.

  When I finish the message for Regan, I call Rashard.

  —Got a line on Vic Dyson yet? I ask.

  —Put him on the back burner with everything else going on. Why?

  —He’s involved.

  —How? And how do you know?

  —He’s the one who pointed Casey out to her abductor.

  —You sure?

  —Positive, I say. Think you can move him up to the front burner?

  —Yeah, but he’s a slippery little bitch. Paranoid ’cause he’s always up to somethin’.

  —Thanks.

  —How you find out he’s involved?

  —Long story, I say. I’ll tell you when I can. Gotta go.

  I tap off the call before he can say anything else.

  The last light of the setting sun is just a pink streak beneath a splash of indigo on the western horizon.

  Even on Back Beach, the traffic is heavy and slow, and it takes me longer than I’d like to make it to Pier Park.

  Pulling in the first entrance, I head directly to the AT&T Store and run inside.

  The store is crowded, people lined up waiting their turn, and though Adam is helping a customer at his desk, I motion for him.

  Excuse me just a moment, he says to the plump, sunburned tourist in the too-tight summer dress.

  —What’s up?

  —Got an emergency, I say. Need your help and I don’t have a lot of time.

  —Okay.

  —There a workstation in the back?

  —Yeah. Give me just a second.

  I’m filled with relief and gratitude — again, and I think about how much help I’ve received over the past few days. At first it seems remarkable, but then I realize that it’s not only that most people genuinely love the opportunity to help when someone’s in need, but that I’d chosen those most likely to say yes.