Given his apparent appetite for copious amounts of sex, if anyone in this town knew how to track down Gabriel, it would be Ivanka Vetrov, among the most successful and long lasting of Washington D.C.’s sexual favors providers.
She was an always friend, sometimes lover, and had helped me to get my private investigations business up and running as I was recovering from my myriad of health troubles. Some of you might judge me for calling someone friend who makes their way in this world offering young and attractive women and men to others for profit, but the fact is, Ivanka is someone I can trust, and in this life, that’s worth far more to me than the approval of the morality police.
“Hello Frank. Nice to hear from you.”
I always dug the thick Russian accent that had remained with Ivanka despite her many years living in the United States. It lent her an air of dangerous nobility, which complimented the real power she held in the den of secrets that is D.C.
“I was hoping to stop by in about thirty minutes. Is that ok?”
“Of course, Frank, for you I always make time.”
That was no lie. Ivanka was gold.
I placed my cell phone back into my jacket and turned to see the priest staring back at me, his expression one of anticipation, wanting to know who I had been talking to.
“Well?”
Father Barnes growled the question, his patience quickly running out.
“You mentioned how Gabriel seemed pre-occupied with sex. I happen to know someone who specializes in that kind of thing. She might be able to help lead us to him.
“A prostitute?”
I couldn’t tell if the priest’s tone was one of judgment, or gratitude.
“Sort of, is that going to be a problem?”
Father Barnes shook his head, already heading toward the basement exit.
“Hell no, Mr. Bennington, you hear of some of the people Christ hung out with? Pillars of society they were not! I don’t judge. I leave that to Him.”
I found myself once again moving to catch up to the priest as he disappeared outside.
“How far away is this woman you want to talk to?”
I was glad to see the priest waiting for me at the top of the stairs, allowing me a moment to catch my breath.
“It’s over in Truxton Circle, a few miles from here.”
Father Barnes looked toward the street on the other side of the fence, clearly contemplating something as the sound of passing cars reverberated against the monastery structure.
“Ok, follow me.”
Here we go again.
Determined to keep up, I grimaced as my legs and arms began working in unison while I jogged alongside the wide shouldered priest. Nearly a hundred yards from the entrance to the basement, he stopped in front of a narrow, red bricked shed that had a single, large white door at the end of it.
Father Barnes moved toward the door, grasped the chrome handle at the bottom, and then pulled the door upward with a slight grunt of effort. In the darkness of early evening, I could just make out the faint metallic outline of a pickup truck.
“This used to be the maintenance vehicle for the monastery for almost thirty years. I knew the custodian who drove it until he retired…hell that was 2004. His name was Carlo. About the nicest man you’d ever know. The plants around here have never looked as good since he left. It’s a ‘75 Ford. Best damn truck ever made. The church auctioned it off three years ago and I bought it so it could stay right here where it belongs. I’m so sick and tired of the out with the old and in with the new mentality of our society. I keep the fuel fresh, change the oil in the spring, and run her for an hour or so from time to time to keep the seals fresh. And don’t let the paint job fool you, she’s solid. No rust on this old girl.”
My eyes went from the faded red paint of the truck’s exterior, to the unexpected Ford Motors enthusiasm of the priest. Fact is, there was nothing for me to disagree about regarding his views on our throwaway society. His words could have been my own, though I would have probably added a few choice expletives in the mix.
“Get in.”
I went to pull the passenger door open but found it stuck.
“C’mon Bennington, put some muscle into it you pansy!”
“You know what? You are one ill tempered, overly demanding servant of God, I’ll tell you that!”
I gritted my teeth and yanked the door open as it protested with the sound of worn metal scraping against itself.
The truck’s motor fired up instantly, the low rumble of its exhaust reminding me of a now long ago age when American made was the envy of the world.
Father Barnes smiled as he pulled the transmission into the drive position and mashed down on the accelerator, the truck launching itself from the shed like a pent up animal ready to stretch its legs. We drove forward to a small, partially hidden gate housed between two large oak trees.
“Pull the gate to the right and then close it after I’m on the street.”
Again the passenger door stuck, requiring me to slam my right shoulder into it to get it to open as Father Barnes shook his head. Unlike the Ford’s door, the gate opened easily on well oiled tracks, and then closed just as easily as the Ford waited on the street, its taillights two unblinking red eyes looking back at me.
Moments later the truck was moving us quickly toward Washington D.C.’s Truxton area, and the home of Ivanka Vetrov.
17.
Ivanka was as beautiful as I last remembered her. Her age now hovering near sixty, she wore those years with a dignity rarely seen in this time of instant celebrity and perpetual plastic youth. The lines on her face did not detract from her powerfully graceful presence, but instead, both complimented and enhanced it.
“Ivanka, this is Father Victor Barnes. He’s working with me on a case. That’s why I’m here. There’s someone we need to find, and I think you might be able to help.”
Ivanka’s mouth curled upward into a sly smile as her eyes hovered over the priest.
“You become more interesting each time I meet you, Frank. Now you bring me a priest! How marvelous!”
Father Barnes nodded to Ivanka as she extended her heavily jeweled right hand toward him, which he then grasped in a brief, light handshake.
“Father Barnes, you will wait here in the sitting room while I speak to Frank. Thank you.”
Ivanka left the room, her long, light blue dress trailing behind her.
The priest’s brow furrowed as he too watched Ivanka’s departure.
“Looks like your friend is making quite a living for herself.” It’s hard to argue there’s not money in sin.”
The interior of Ivanka’s residence did nothing to hide her wealth. She was proud of her success, proud of her determination to protect those who worked for her, and perhaps even more proud of her reputation for the kind of discretion D.C.’s political aristocrats demanded when it came to keeping certain desires out of view from media and public attention.
“She’s an impressive woman, Father, and just as formidable. I’ll be back soon, hopefully with information we can use.”
Finding myself back in Ivanka’s bedroom was not an uncomfortable event. Her large, ornately designed bed, plush carpeting, and the sheen of gold accents that bordered both the ceiling and floor, had always made me feel safe. I didn’t try and understand where that sense of safety might have come from, but simply welcomed and appreciated it.
“Oh, Frank you stink like a pig farmer! Take a shower first, and then we’ll talk.”
I began to protest, but Ivanka cocked her head in a way that let me know the demand was non-negotiable. She had a point too, I must have been pretty ripe, given my running around working up a sweat, and hiding out on the dirt floor of a centuries old basement.
“I will leave a fresh set of clothes for you inside the bathroom. Now hurry up.”
The hot water of Ivanka’s multi-head shower did wonders for relaxing me, and allowing me to better clear my mind and focus on what was known, and what yet needed
to be known, regarding the case.
As promised, a new suit, shirt, and dark blue tie were neatly hung on the inside of the bathroom door, awaiting me after I had dried off. The suit fit perfectly, and I couldn’t help but pause in front of the large mirror that hung over the double sinks imbedded in the dark, gold tinged Italian tile that was the dominant theme of Ivanka’s bathroom.
You know, you don’t look half bad old timer.
Ivanka’s eyes looked back at me approvingly as I re-entered her bedroom.
“That’s much better. Now you look the part of a man who knows his business, and appreciates the finer things in life.”
Something about Ivanka’s tone hinted she expected payment of a physical nature. I had a brief moment of disappointment, given I’d just gotten dressed, but was then reminded of how pleasurable time spent with Ivanka could be. If a hot shower cleared my head, good sex was even more conducive to focusing.
As I began to remove my new suit and place it carefully over a chair placed to the right of the bathroom door, Ivanka proceeded to move herself under the covers of the bed, and then beckoned me to her with her arms outstretched in front of her.
Seconds later, and we were doing what came so naturally between us. A brief respite from the troubles of a world both she and I sensed was passing us by, still living relics from a soon to be forgotten time.
The pace of our union began slowly, our bodies appreciative of the familiarity. There was no need for silly posing, or attempts at proving oneself. Such things were the folly of youth. We knew how to relish the act of being, and sharing, knowing that time moved ever more quickly, and such moments would be gone from us all too soon.
Only toward the end did Ivanka become more demanding of me, her right hand grasping the hair on the back of my head, her warm embrace increasing in intensity until we arrived at mutual release.
As we both lay heaving under the sheets, our eyes staring at the ceiling above us, Ivanka reached over and ran her fingers lightly across my forehead.
“So what do you want to ask, Frank?”
I pushed myself up into a half sitting position and looked over at Ivanka.
“We’re looking for a Frenchman who I was told, has no issue with paying for sex.”
Ivanka rolled her eyes.
“Most men don’t, despite what they say to the contrary.”
“This Frenchman goes by the name of Gabriel, around forty years old, is a smoker, kind of a manic personality, might talk about---“
Ivanka cut me off, her right hand landing gently onto my lips.
“I may know of him.”
I turned toward Ivanka, my eyes widening.
“Where is he?”
Ivanka rose from the bed, her lean, naked form crossing toward the bathroom. She emerged in a plush, dark purple robe that hung halfway open.
“You know I have to honor my clients’ privacy, Frank.”
Ivanka was right of course. If word got out she was willing to give up who her clients were, or where they could be found, her business would disappear. Still, I also knew her to be a person with a particularly sensitive protective instinct for other women in need.
“Please Ivanka, he won’t know how we found him, and it’s to protect him as much as getting the information we’re hoping he has – information that might save the life of a woman sitting in a hospital bed right now, dying of cancer.”
I watched Ivanka’s features soften as she stepped back toward the bed.
“This is someone you know, this woman?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, I work with her. She saved my life, and she’s a good woman Ivanka, a former soldier who was left with half a face and body torn away from her for her service.”
The Russian sat at the end of the bed, her eyes staring at the thick carpet below her feet.
“And you think this information might save her?”
“I hope so.”
Ivanka turned her head to look back at me, her voice nearly a whisper.
“Do you love her?”
The question was unexpected, causing me to flinch, my face tightening in confusion. I was uncertain how to respond, while also fearing Ivanka would sense anything less than truth, and refuse to help because of it.
“I care for her, yes.”
The Russian woman’s tone took on a more icy quality, which I regarded as clear warning she would not tolerate a lie.
“That is not what I asked, Frank. Do you love her?”
Ah to hell with it, just say what you feel.
“Yeah, I guess I do. I’m not sure what kind of love it is, or if she even feels anything close to the same. I do know that she deserves to have a life. She deserves to find someone who loves her for who and what she is. Who can see past the scars, because those scars are just reminders of the beauty that’s inside.”
Ivanka took a deep breath, her emotions hidden and unreadable.
“What is her name, Frank?”
“Dedra. Dedra Donnigan.”
Ivanka’s mouth slowly turned upward into an almost smile.
“Ok, Frank this I know. Gabriel has met some of my girls in an apartment above the Black Cat Bar, in the Anacostia district. Room three at the end of the hall.”
The Anacostia area was among D.C.’s most crime ridden neighborhoods, known for thefts, assaults, and murders. I was surprised to hear Ivanka tell me she sent girls into such an area.
“You have girls go into Anacostia alone?”
My question clearly annoyed Ivanka, her eyes lighting up with indignation. She did not care to have her concern for her workers’ safety questioned.
“My girls are under my protection, and in such neighborhoods, that is made well known, Mr. Bennington. If any choose to challenge that protection, Arman deals with them personally.”
Being dealt with by Arman, Ivanka’s Russian Mafia brother, quite often ended in death for those who crossed his sister. I also made note of how Ivanka had just addressed me as “Mr. Bennington”, instead of by my first name. What that meant, I wasn’t entirely sure, but it seemed to indicate our relationship had changed.
“Of course Ivanka, and I’m well aware of how effective Arman can be when it comes to that kind of thing.”
Ivanka again smiled, but it was a gesture absent any warmth.
“Yes, yes you do.”
18.
“That took longer than you said it would.”
The priest gripped the steering wheel of the old Ford truck tightly, his eyes fixed on the red stop light in front of us. An evening drizzle began to fall, threatening to turn into a downpour.
“I guess it did. We have a location for Gabriel though, which is a lot more than what we started with, so I’d say you’re waiting a bit longer was worth it right?”
Father Barnes ignored my response, instead accelerating through the intersection toward the Anacostia neighborhood. The buildings lining the street showed the results of years in the making decay, while shadowy figures scurried into dark alleyways as the Ford’s headlights temporarily washed over them.
“It always leaves me amazed that the capital of the wealthiest and most powerful nation on earth has neighborhoods like this not more than a couple miles from the White House.”
The priest grunted, his eyes remaining locked on the passing street in front of them.
“It’s what happens when a people are spiritually bankrupt Mr. Bennington, and make no mistake, America has been happily rolling in the muck and mud of sin for a very long time now.”
I pointed toward a small white sign that hung from the side of a grey concrete building on the left side of the street in the middle of which was the outline of a dark cat. Above the lower half of the structure were three windows facing the street, likely the apartment rooms Ivanka had mentioned. We had arrived at the Black Cat Bar. A group of five or six shabbily dressed men mingled outside, smoking cigarettes, their eyes looking toward us as the priest slowed the truck down to park it alongside the opposite side of
the street from where they stood.
Father Barnes lifted his jacket and withdrew his handgun from the back of his pants, checking to make certain it contained a full magazine. He looked over at me and gave a brief nod.
“Ok then, let’s go see if Gabriel really has been making this hole his home.”
As we walked across the street, the drizzle transformed into a hard rain, each droplet pounding the pavement like thousands of tiny detonations. As we neared the bar I was able to confirm five men of varying height and builds staring at us, a cloud of burnt tobacco swirling just above their heads. They were sizing both me and the priest up, likely wondering if we were easy marks for theft – or worse.
Private Detective: BENNINGTON P.I.: A thrilling four-novel political murder mystery private detective series... Page 43