Grift

by Jason Mosberg

  It’s then that Jesse walks in. He stops in the doorway. He knows something’s up. He looks at me, sees I’m the most upset. “You told them?”

  Kim, Mars, and Rob all look puzzled, wondering what I could have told them that would have been so serious. From their curiosity, he senses his assumption was wrong. Jesse looks to me, and now he can tell from my face this isn’t about him and me. This isn’t the melodrama of two ambiguously star-crossed lovers.

  “Piper, what is it?”

  As soon as my words flow, so do the tears. I’d held my composure as I focused my efforts on figuring out what to do. But now Max is making the phone calls, and we have to wait to see what he can find out about Ladislav.

  Now, at this moment, there’s nothing for me to do. But wait.

  And cry.

  Jesse rushes over to me, and I stumble into his arms.

  part two

  --Darkness.--

  CHAPTER NINE – Princeton Orange

  Ladislav Kral will arrive tomorrow.

  He already had a specific girl lined up for each night of his stay, but Max put together an ingenious plan to get his attention.

  Max had the escort service send Ladislav a picture of me along with a description of their newest escort – an 18 year old who recently dropped out of Princeton and moved to Las Vegas. The email praised Ladislav on his loyalty to the escort service over the years and invited him to be the first to take out the new escort. Hopefully, the chance to introduce an Ivy League freshman-turned-escort to her new lifestyle will be enough to entice Ladislav.

  We don’t expect to hear anything until the morning. I lie in bed. Trying to sleep. But I can’t. All I can think about is where Sophie might be. Whether or not they’re feeding her. Hoping that she’s not being mistreated. But no hope can drive the fears from my mind. That she’s being abused.

  Or worse. That she’s already dead.

  I wish that I could switch places with her. Wish I could put myself in her danger and magically swap her out of it.

  Maybe I messed up. Maybe I should have turned Sophie in to social services. Maybe I should have let her be raised in the system. Maybe she would have been better off in a group home.

  Maybe I should have moved her away from this sin filled city.

  Maybe.

  I start to reconsider every decision I ever made for her. My mind keeps circling back to the day I first took Sophie away from Madeline.

  Our mother had always been horrendous. She brought clients back to our apartment. She snorted cocaine in front of us. When she was on a coke-bender, she let us stay up all night with her watching R rated movies and drinking Pepsi.

  After seeing a scary shower scene in one of those Poltergeist movies, I went through a period where I didn’t like getting wet. At one point, she let me go three weeks without a shower or bath.

  In some way, I’m sure she loved us. Most nights, she told us long stories when we got in bed. (The stories fluctuated in their intricateness and appropriateness based on her level of fucked-up-ness.) And she tried to make sure to feed us. One time when I was about nine, she spent four hours teaching me how to make chocolate chip cookies even though she didn’t like chocolate.

  But the good times were few and far between. Mostly, it felt like we burdened her. She yelled at us. Complained about us. Punished us. Ignored us.

  I remember being 12 or 13 – when I was already living with Max – and reading this article in a magazine about adoption. Up until that point, I didn’t know anyone could simply give up their child for adoption at any time. I figured, based on how she treated us, that Madeline had to keep us.

  If she didn’t love us, surely she would have given us up for adoption. So yes, on some level, deep down, I do believe she loved us.

  But with her drug addiction, it didn’t matter if she loved us. We always came second to cocaine. As things got worse and worse, we became a more and more distant second.

  The tipping point came on a hot August afternoon. I had just turned 11 that spring, and Sophie was a few months short of 8. Sophie had caught a bad cold. Or so we thought. But then her fever went up over 103 degrees, so I convinced Madeline to take her to the doctor.

  Madeline either didn’t have the money for a doctor or didn’t want to spend the money to go see a doctor. So she went to a doctor friend of hers, claiming he owed her a favor. I now realize that this doctor was a client of hers. Or maybe a former client.

  I don’t know whether Madeline had sex with this doctor in exchange for Sophie’s visit. Maybe it was for a past or future transaction. Either way, he did a check-up and diagnosed Sophie with strep throat. The doctor wrote a prescription for an antibiotic.

  Two days later, Sophie’s fever wasn’t any better. It was almost up to 104. She’d lie awake crying all night, bouncing back and forth between shivering and sweating. I remember staying awake with Sophie and singing to her. I put a cold towel on her forehead when she was sweating and cuddled with her when she was shivering.

  I’d had strep throat once before. I remembered how bad the fever was. I remembered going to the doctor. And I definitely remembered the antibiotics kicking in almost immediately. Within six hours of taking the first pill, I had started feeling better.

  With Sophie’s fever still so high, my instincts told me something was wrong, so when Madeline went to give Sophie her pill for the day, I made sure to watch. Madeline was too coked out of her mind to realize she’d been giving Sophie one of her antidepressants each day rather than the antibiotic.

  I packed a bag that night. Clothes. Food. And the actual antibiotics.

  I’ve been raising Sophie ever since.

  Up until now, I’ve always felt like I made the right decision. To get her away from Madeline. I’ve always believed I’m the only one who can take care of her. I got my period when I was 13, so biology seems to think I’ve been fit to be a mother for four years. Legally, I know I’m not old enough to be her guardian. Madeline was old enough to be a legal guardian. That didn’t make her a better mother any more than my being too young to be a legal guardian made me a worse mother.

  But now Sophie’s gone, and I can’t help point my finger at the mirror. The group home or orphanage or foster parents that I strove to keep her away from now suddenly seem like paradise compared to her current situation.

  Knocked unconscious, stuffed in a duffel bag, kidnapped, and being held against her will for a ransom. Scheduled to die in five days if that ransom isn’t paid. What have I done?

  Was having Sophie kidnapped the cards I was dealt? Or the cards she was dealt? Or was there some hand I should have played differently to avoid this outcome?

  Another hour of sleeplessness passes before the door to Jesse’s room slides open. After lying awake for over two hours, my rods and cones have long since adjusted to the dark. I watch him walk to my bed on his toes to avoid waking me. He climbs in the bed. Doesn’t say anything. Just climbs in bed. The way he used to.

  I take it as a gesture of friendship.

  Neither of us say anything. And we stay on our sides of the bed.

  But I’m glad he’s there. Within five minutes, I fall asleep.

  ***

  “The official motto of Princeton is Dei Sub Numine Viget which means under God’s power she flourishes. The school was originally founded in 1746 as College of New Jersey. It moved to Newark in 1747 and then to the town of Princeton in 1756. It was officially renamed Princeton in 1896. It has close ties to the Presbyterian Church but has never had any official affiliation with any denomination.”

  Kim continues scrolling down the iPad. She’s been feeding me trivia tidbits about Princeton for the last twenty minutes.

  Ladislav took Max’s bait; the fictional story of a Princeton girl turned prostitute got his attention.

  I’ve been up for a few hours. Practicing my Princeton persona. A tough task considering I never graduated high school let alone middle school.

  I bet Sophie could have gone to Princeton if she�
��d grown up in some normal setting. I figure we both must’ve received our intelligence from our respective fathers. Since Madeline isn’t exactly the brightest light in Vegas.

  Sophie, like me, has no idea who her father is. Actually, at one point, Sophie and I thought we knew who her dad was, but it was just Madeline conning this Persian blackjack dealer over at Hooters. She told him that, based on when they had sex, he was the only one who could have been the father. He came by twice a week to take Sophie to do something fun (like Adventure Canyon at Buffalo Bill’s or the Fun Dungeon in Excalibur). He always brought groceries with him and gave Madeline some spending money for the week.

  The con lasted a good month, but when she started asking for more money, he got suspicious. The more she asked, the more suspicious he got. He demanded Sophie and he take a DNA test, and when Madeline refused, the guy knew he’d been conned. He left and never spoke to Madeline again.

  Knowing what I’ve learned from Max, it’s not hard to see why her con failed. The biggest mistake was asking for more money. Max would have told her to play it slow. Maintain his trust and present the need for more cash, but don’t ever actually ask for it. In fact, Max would have encouraged her to turn down the first few offers of cash.

  Poor Sophie. My poor sister suddenly had a dad in her life and then suddenly didn’t. It was worse than never thinking she had a dad.

  Still sitting at the barstools in the kitchen, I look at my makeup in the mirror app of my IPad as I wonder if Sophie’s actual dad (whoever he is) would help us if he knew the LV mafia carted her off in a duffle bag.

  Max paces in front of me. “What’s your name?”

  “Sarah.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Princess Anne, Maryland.”

  “Why’d you drop out of school?” It’s the third time he’s asked me this.

  “My parents pushed me to go to Princeton. Once I got there, I couldn’t stand it. I’d never been west of Vail, Colorado, and I’ve always wanted to go to Las Vegas. So here I am.”

  Max nods his approval. Next, he reviews everything he has on Ladislav Kral. Again.

  “He’s in his mid-30s. He has lived in Prague his whole life. He has a wife back in Prague, but she never travels with him when he comes to Las Vegas. He has no kids. He inherited his father’s energy empire at 24. Despite being the chairman of the natural gas company, he plays a small role in the day-to-day operations. Instead, he mostly travels, parties, and gambles.”

  Imagine being dealt those cards…

  A royal flush.

  Max continues. “Ladislav always plays Craps or blackjack but will occasionally play roulette. His normal Vegas routine includes taking a girl out to dinner, then gambling for one to two hours, and then finally bringing the girl back to his suite in Caesars. Though not unusual for the girls to stay until three or four in the morning, they never stay the whole night.

  “He always has a bodyguard or two with him. They stand within earshot while gambling, but they never return to the suite with him at the end of the evening.”

  Rob, who hasn’t spoken for a few minutes, suddenly blurts out, “Makes you so sure he’ll wanna take her out again? The girl just flat out flaked the night before.”

  Mars and Kim jump to their feet in a panic as if Rob just brought up the one flaw none of them had considered, but Max remains calm.

  “That’s how Ladislav is, according to the escort services he deals with. Once he sees something he wants, he doesn’t stop until he gets it. I’m told that on one occasion, a girl he had his eye on changed her mind and tried to cancel their date. Ladislav eventually convinced her to re-change her mind by offering her fifty thousand dollars. After having spent the whole previous night with Piper, he will want to see her again.”

  Wide eyes and blank stares. No one seems convinced, so I defend Max. “That’s how these alpha dogs are. For them, the dinner and gambling is all foreplay. If they go through all that but don’t get the girl in the end, they’ll still be sweating her the next day.”

  Only twenty minutes remain before I have to leave to meet Ladislav. Max spends ten of those minutes having me practice putting up the camera on our pantry. The pantry doors slide open on hardware similar to the closet doors in the Caesars VIP suites.

  While I attach the camera over and over again, Max reviews the exact location on the closet doors he wants me to put the camera.

  “Piper, I can’t stress this enough. It’s imperative that the camera have a view of the safe when the doors are open, not just when they’re closed. We need to catch Ladislav opening the safe on camera, and the closet doors will be open while he’s accessing the safe.”

  Once Max is convinced I have it down, I put the camera in my purse.

  Everyone wishes me luck. Kim gives me a long hug. Then Rob and Mars each embrace me. Max kisses my forehead.

  “This is cake for you,” he says. “Cake.”

  Jesse hugs me next.

  He’s the only one who doesn’t say anything, but he makes his eyebrow-sagging “I’m worried/rooting for you” face. And that face means more to me than anything he could have said.

  I’m about to head out the door when the prepaid phone left in place of Sophie rings. Max answers the phone. It’s agonizing to only hear his side of the conversation.

  “Hello.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “Yes.” Pause. “I’ll have the money in a couple days.”

  Before he hangs up, Max makes a demand.

  “Wait! If we’re going to do this, I need proof of life. I need to know she’s alive.”

  This was actually Jesse’s idea. I doubt any of us would even know what proof of life meant if it wasn’t for the movies. It’s not exactly an expression you use in everyday life.

  I can’t help focusing on the words and their meaning. Proof. Of. Life. Proof that my sister has life. Proof that Sophie is alive.

  Our demanding proof of life implies she might not have life. Sophie might already be dead…

  After Max hangs up, he turns to us. Looks directly at me as he says, “We’ll get proof of life by tomorrow.”

  “Piper, that’s good news,” says Kim.

  “I know.”

  Having the exact proof will comfort me more than planning to receive it.

  We speculate over how they’ll prove Sophie is still alive, but after a couple minutes, Max points to his watch.

  Time to go.

  ***

  Amidst the pricey artwork, fancy architecture, and lavish fountains, I meet Ladislav in the lobby of Caesars. One of his bodyguards stands beside him. Ladislav wears a suit. Well the bottom half of the suit. His bodyguard holds the jacket.

  Ladislav stands taller than I expected. Over 6’2” and just a few pounds short of 200. With his suit, he looks like a professional athlete dressed for a postgame interview. Between him and his bodyguard, it’s a toss-up who’d win in a scrap.

  I’ve only conned marks with bodyguards a few times. Typically, a bodyguard signals a wealthy mark, a deeper pocket to pick. But they also provide another set of eyes. Another element of defense working against the con.

  This is it. This is it. I take a deep breath as my last step puts me right in front of Ladislav. I smile but wait for him to talk first.

  “I’m Ladislav Kral.” His voice sounds deep but soothing.

  “I’m –”

  “Sarah. I know. It is excellent to meet you.”

  Charming. And good looking. And rich. I find myself wondering why he resorts to paying escorts. A question I find myself asking often. Sometimes, my clients are fat, old, and detestable – making the leap to their reliance on prostitutes comes easy.

  But rich, good looking, young, funny clients? They could walk into a bar in any city and have decent luck hitting on girls. So why pay for what they can probably get for a drink or two?

  Some men are ignorant of their appeal and therefore lack confidence that women will be attracted to them. Other men don’t want to put the effort into hitting on c
ivilians (I call non-prostitutes civilians). Some married men seeking an affair prefer prostitutes because of their discretion. Certain guys have a fear of rejection – hiring an escort removes that possibility. Some seek out prostitutes as a way to ensure emotionless sex. Others I believe simply get off on the idea of the woman giving herself up for money. None of these make me feel warm and fuzzy, but the last one in particular makes me f-ing furious with a capital Fuck.

  Which one or combination of these is the reason Ladislav relies on escorts? Too soon to tell.

  “It’s nice to meet you too,” I reply.

  He motions for me to follow. From the lobby, we walk out to the loading zone where his driver waits in a Town Car. Max said that Ladislav normally travels with two bodyguards, so I suspect that the driver doubles as a second bodyguard.

  His first bodyguard sits in the front seat as Ladislav and I climb in the back.

  He still hasn’t spoken to me beyond our initial exchange. Finally, he breaks the silence. “Are you nervous?”

  “No. Well… maybe a little bit.”

  I’m scared shitless. Normally, I must attract a mark in the moment. But here, I have to make Ladislav desire me to the degree that he still wants me tomorrow. I have to make Ladislav desire me so much that he cancels the girl he has scheduled for tomorrow to take a second date with me.

  “I understand you’re new to the city,” he says.

  “Yeah. Two and a half weeks.”

  “What do you think so far?”

  “Can’t deny that I’m experiencing a bit of culture shock. Certainly a lot different from sitting in my freshman seminar.”

  “What was the subject of your freshman seminar?”

  For a moment, my mind goes blank. But I shuffle through the responses Max and I went over.

  “The social impact of social media.”

  Ladislav smiles. And fidgets slightly in the seat, a tell that he’s turned on. I suspect specifically hearing me talk about college turned him on. Credit goes to Max. Playing this angle of an Ivy League girl fleeing to Vegas was perfect.