Choosers of the Slain pos-3

by John Ringo

  “Your motivation is to get us out of this fucker alive,” Russell replied.

  The bouncers in armor eyed both of them as they approached the front of the line but it was the sweeper that waved them to a stop.

  “I understand there’s a cover,” Mike said, flicking a folded hundred euro note up where it could be seen over his thumb.

  “That covers it,” the bouncer growled in accented English. He took the bill, but still insisted on sweeping them. Mike wasn’t as sorry about leaving the weapons behind as he was about the radios and cameras.

  The line skipped, the two of them walked in, paid their real cover of seven hundred and twenty-five thousand lei, or about ten euros, got their hands stamped and walked through the doors.

  Romanians considered the popular Western image of “Count Dracula” as an insult. “Dracul” translated as “Dragon” and was the name of an ancient order of Romanian knights, the equivalent of being named to the Order of the Garter. Vlad Tepes was, in fact, a defender of Romania against incursions by the Ottoman Empire and was celebrated in Romania not as a blood-drinking monster but as a strong and willful leader of the anti-Ottoman forces, a sort of fifteenth century George Washington.

  The fact that he occasionally ate his dinner while surrounded by hanged bodies was politely overlooked.

  The Club Dracul, however, bowed to the Western tradition. It was more Gothic than most Goth clubs in the states, with coffins on the walls and ankhs being the primary symbol. The waitresses were dressed in long flowing gowns, slit down to their navels in the front and up to their waists on the side, and wore heavy black eye shadow and lipstick. The pointed teeth on many of them came as something of a shock, though, even to Mike who had spent plenty of time in Goth clubs in the States.

  Unsurprisingly, the club was dark as hell. There were three elevated dance floors, each with a girl or girls up on them wearing from very little to nothing at all, and two floor-level dancing areas. These were crowded with both males and females. The Romanians clearly believed in combining regular dancing with strip. For that matter, as he was checking out the environment Mike saw one of the girls he’d pegged as a patron get up on the platform and start making out with the dancer while slowly stripping.

  “Okay,” Mike said. “I think this is my kind of place.”

  “What?” Russell shouted over the heavy European industrial-dance music booming from speakers set all around the periphery.

  “Let’s get a drink and pace!” Mike replied.

  “Special dance, sir?” a nearly naked brunette asked, rubbing up against Russell.

  “Maybe later,” Russell replied, looking around.

  “Grab her while you can,” Mike said over his shoulder.

  “Here,” Russell said, handing her some cash. “Walk with us.”

  “We want someplace out of the way,” Mike shouted at the girl as they walked to the bar. “But where we can watch!”

  “I no speak English,” the girl replied. “You wanna good time? I not expensive.”

  “She speaks enough English,” Russell shouted.

  “Is it just me, or would a firefight be quieter?” Mike screamed back. He was definitely going to be hoarse by the end of this evening.

  “Much!” Russell yelled back.

  They got their drinks, and a “pay-me” drink for the brunette, then circulated as the girl continued to try to scam Russell out of all his spare change.

  “Eleven o’clock,” Russell yelled.

  Mike looked left and got a glimpse of the tango. Nicu was near the back of the club at a semicircular banquette. He had a girl on either side, then a couple of guys that Mike pegged as friends or business acquaintances. There were a few more girls scattered around but most of the people in the immediate vicinity were muscle.

  There had been more muscle scattered around the room but it was definitely concentrated in the vicinity of Nicu. And the muscle around him was as heavily armored as the bouncers out front. And more heavily armed. One of them was toting a Czech Skorpion 9mm SMG on friction straps.

  Mike got all that in one quick glance then spotted a table where they could keep an eye on the tango and the floor.

  When they were in posession of the table, Mike leaned over to Russell.

  “Go lay the bitch and check out the security in the rooms,” Mike said as quietly as he could under the circumstances.

  “Will do,” Russell said, taking one of her upper arms in a hamlike fist.

  “He be very good to you!” Mike yelled to the hooker as they walked away.

  “You be good to me?” a female voice near by his ear.

  Mike turned to look into an exquisite pair of nearly black eyes. Very shapely. So was the rest of the body when he got his eyes off of hers. And he could see that plainly because every stitch she had on was see-through.

  “Maybe,” Mike yelled back. “You sit and talk. I pay.”

  “Okay,” the girl yelled back. “I speak English.”

  “So what the fuck are you doing in a place like this?” Mike asked, looking around for a waitress.

  “Making money,” the girl replied with a laugh. “You want drink? I get.”

  “Only one for you,” Mike said, pulling out a twenty euro note and handing it to her. “Get something real for yourself and come back! There’s more where that came from.”

  “I will,” the girl said, eeling away through the crowd.

  When she got back, with a real honest-to-God energy drink, she handed him the change.

  “Yours,” Mike yelled. “And here,” he continued, handing over another twenty. “That means you stay with me for an hour.”

  “Twenty minutes,” the girl replied, tucking the the money into her G-string. “Twenty minutes, twenty euros. You want blow? You want fuck?”

  “How much?” Mike asked.

  “Twenty minutes, twenty euros,” the girl yelled back, laughing.

  “What’s your name, girl who laughs?” Mike asked.

  “Nikki.”

  “Sure it is,” Mike replied, shaking her hand. “I’m Mike.”

  “Sure it is!”

  “Nice club,” Mike yelled back, looking around.

  “Is only good dance club in Timisoara,” Nikki yelled back. “All others closed. Government shut them down. Said they were illegal brothels!”

  “So is this,” Mike pointed out.

  “You noticed!” Nikki said, laughing again. Very merry eyes. “See man in corner?”

  “There’s a bunch of them,” Mike pointed out.

  “Silk suit, silk shirt, open at collar, gold chain, Tanya and Svetlana feeling him under table?”

  “Got it,” Mike yelled.

  “Nicu Gogasa. Owns club. Says he owns club, anyway. Twenty euros, twenty minutes. Fifteen to him, five to me. And all of the five goes to pay off my ‘debt’ for when he bought me from the man who raped me. Or to food or my clothes that I don’t even want.”

  “That sucks,” Mike said, distantly. It was clear he wasn’t really listening.

  “Very,” Nikki said, her face suddenly hard. “But all other clubs, close by government.”

  “Somebody’s got the ear of the government,” Mike said, looking around.

  “Club is owned by Albanians,” Nikki said, turning sideways and spitting on the ground in a most unladylike fashion. “Run whores through here. Bring them in from all over. Then they go away.”

  “When are you going to go away?” Mike asked, looking at her darkly.

  “Soon,” Nikki said, no longer laughing. “Club always have new girls. That what makes it best in town. Would leave if I could. Can’t.”

  “No papers,” Mike said. “Where are you from?”

  “Belarus,” Nikki said. “You know story, right? You been in clubs like this, yes?”

  “Many times,” Mike said with a nod. “Was it a waitressing job in Italy?”

  “Taking care of kids in Belgium,” Nikki said sadly. “I was looking forward to it.”

  “Things s
uck all over,” Mike replied.

  “Seem like nice guy,” Nikki said. “Like boyfriend I had in Belarus. Why you go to clubs like this?”

  “To meet pretty girls like you,” Mike said.

  “No,” Nikki said. “Eyes are wrong. Not watching girls, watching men. Not gay ones. The breakers.”

  “Bouncers,” Mike corrected automatically.

  “That too,” Nikki said, reaching out and turning his face to her. “And breakers.”

  “Gotcha,” Mike replied. “Good work if you can get it.”

  “You think?” Nikki asked angrily.

  “What would you say if I told you I was shopping?” Mike asked, turning to look out at the floor again.

  There was a pause and he looked over at the girl.

  “I’d say maybe,” Nikki admitted. “Is that what you do?”

  “Maybe,” Mike said. “How much for you?”

  “To buy?” Nikki asked angrily. “You think you can just buy like so much vodka?”

  “If I walked over to whatsisname and offered him five grand euros, what do you think he’d say?” Mike asked, turning to look at her again.

  “I think your twenty minutes are up, that’s what I think,” Nikki said, turning away.

  “I don’t,” Mike said, grabbing her arm. “Sit and talk. You’ve got five more minutes. Don’t make me take it up with the management.”

  “You would,” Nikki said, sitting down and crossing her arms in front of her chest.

  “Let me put it this way, would you rather stay and take your chances with the Albanians or with me?” Mike asked, turning at movement and realizing it was Russell coming back through the crowd.

  “I think the Albanians,” Nikki spat.

  “Bad bet,” Mike said as Russell sat down. “Well?”

  “Wired to the max,” Russell replied. “Camera and probably sound.”

  “Live on Candid Camera?” Mike asked. “Must be off-putting to the customers.”

  “They were concealed,” Russell said. “I had her get on top so I could get a good look around.”

  “You’re not shopping,” Nikki said.

  “Shit!” Russell snapped. “She speaks English?”

  “Quite well,” Mike replied. “Go on.”

  “Security door at both ends,” Russell said, looking at the girl. “Booths along the sides, curtains. She was very professional but still sort of stumbled through the motions. She hardly cried at all, though. These are intermediate whores. They’re still getting settled in.”

  “You’re looking for better trained?” Nikki asked nastily.

  “We’re doing research,” Mike said. “On the sex trade in Eastern Europe.”

  “Sure you are,” Nikki snorted.

  “Parts of it,” Mike said. “And you talk a lot. Don’t you get in trouble for that?”

  “All the time,” Nikki said.

  “They’re good about not leaving scars,” Mike noted.

  “You should look under my hair,” Nikki said. “And the needle marks don’t show up much.”

  “Gotcha,” Mike said, standing up. “Come on.”

  “Don’t go over there,” Nikki said, pulling back. “Please.”

  “Time to find out what you’re worth,” Mike replied, dragging her towards Nicu’s table.

  She straightened up and tried to appear as if she liked the idea as soon as a bouncer looked her way and had almost managed a smile by the time they got to the table. One of the muscle stood up and held his hand out to stop the twosome but Nicu waved them forward with interest in his eyes.

  “Mind if I sit?” Mike said, waving at the chairs filled by women.

  “No,” Nicu said, glancing at Nikki darkly.

  “Nice club,” Mike said. “Very classy.”

  “Thanks,” Nicu said, looking sideways at one of the men at the booth and then back. “What can I do for you?”

  “How much for this one?” Mike asked, waving at Nikki.

  “For the night?” the pimp asked, grinning. “Five hundred euros. She could have told you that. Should have told you that,” he added, looking at Nikki again, this time with a smile that promised pain later.

  “No, to buy,” Mike said. “I’m in the market.”

  “That, of course, would be out of the question,” Nicu said, smiling faintly. “That would constitute sexual slavery. This young lady is free to come and go at any time.”

  “Sure she is,” Mike said. “Half the cops in town would pick her up for you if she could even get out of the club. We’ve danced through all the proper forms. How much? Time is money, Mr. Gogasa.”

  “And you are?” Nicu asked, suddenly curious.

  “A drunk American who wants to buy a sex-slave,” Mike said blankly. “Of course. What else?”

  “Many things,” Nicu said, glancing sideways again. Mike ignored the look but he’d now pegged the “associate” as something on the order of a control.

  “Well, what I actually am is a guy passing through with a group of girls intended for sale in Macedonia,” Mike said. “A special sale. Very special. I think she would do well at it.”

  “And I can believe that or not,” Nicu replied.

  “Would you believe five thousand euros?” Mike asked.

  “Hah!” Nicu said, grinning. “You make me laugh. I will make more than that off of her before I sell her.”

  “You don’t sell her,” Mike pointed out. “You move her to your boss’s network.” He glanced over at the “associate” and nodded. “Right?”

  “And we will make more,” the man replied, coldly. “Far more.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Mike said. “Sure, you move her through the network, maybe to Albania then over to Italy. Then up to the rest of Europe, maybe the U.S. or U.K. But what’s going to happen along the way? You lose how many girls that start from here? What’s your actual profit per girl? I know I will. And you don’t have to deal with her support anymore. Or the possible loss. Raise, fold or call.”

  “Fourteen thousand,” Nicu said, glancing over at the Albanian with a raised eyebrow to which he received a nod.

  “Out of the question,” Mike snapped. “Half that, maybe. I can walk out onto the street and buy any four free women for that much.”

  “But she is trained,” Nicu pointed out. “She has been taught not to try to escape, what that gets her. And she has been trained to give sex well. Would you like her to show you how well she sucks? Nikki is a very good sucker. Thirteen is a very reasonable price.”

  “All of that is assumed,” Mike pointed out. “And your training is sunk costs,” he added, gesturing at the muscle. “You pay them from the profit from the bar, not even counting the money you’re laundering through here.”

  “What money?” the Albanian asked angrily.

  “Oh, get off it,” Mike snapped. “Clubs are perfect laundering spots. Did you take in a thousand in cover charges or ten thousand? How are the police to know? Water the alcohol and charge it at full price, then figure on the margin. Then there’s the girls. Are they turning ten tricks a night or twenty? The difference between the two all goes in your pocket. Do me a favor and don’t take me for an idiot, okay?”

  “Okay,” the Albanian said. “But you must take us for idiots. You come in here with a bullshit story about selling girls in Macedonia. To who? I know all the buyers in Macedonia.”

  “I don’t know who they go to after our special customers are done,” Mike said. “I just get them to the house in Macedonia.”

  “There was a crackdown on those,” Nicu said, frowning. “Most got shut down.”

  “Jesus,” Mike said, looking at the Albanian. “You don’t keep him around for his brains, do you? Who forced the crackdown?”

  “IFOR,” the Albanian said, looking at him carefully. “And KFOR. And you’re American military. The haircut, the build. Their fucking Special Force, yes?”

  “So you think they really cracked down on our house?” Mike asked.

  “You buy for the military?�
�� Nicu asked, really confused now.

  “Of course not,” Mike said, sighing. “Soldiers can’t afford what we sell.”

  “You make black funds,” the Albanian said, nodding as he sat back. “You run house that raises money so your military can do the things your government doesn’t pay for. The things your parliament cannot know about, yes? Twelve thousand. Because the American military has been very good to my people.”

  Mike had to admit that the Albanian would make a great writer for the Democratic Underground. Of course, there was more than a gram of truth to it. He did do black work and he was doing some fundraising. He’d have to give it some thought. But he knew he didn’t sell girls. End of existential angst as the chief would say.

  “And for the Israelis, yes?” Nicu said, the light finally dawning.

  “There are things you don’t talk about,” Mike said with another sigh. “But let’s just say that Mossad got its funding cut way back this year, just when we really needed them to keep funding their Damascus office. Okay? And thirteen is out of the question. I need to make a damned profit, okay?”

  Over a couple of drinks and more than one copped feel they got an eventual price of ten five worked out.

  “And you think you will make a profit from her in Macedonia?” the Albanian asked.

  “For what we offer rich bastards from the states and Japan?” Mike asked. “You betcha.”

  “We have such visitors,” the Albanian said, still clearly puzzled. As well he should be; Mike was spinning bullshit so fast it was practically brown silk.

  “Look,” Mike said, shaking his head. “What is the U.S. Military known for?”

  “Destroying countries?” one of the other men asked.

  “Very good bombs?” Nicu said.

  “Invading any country that has oil?” the Albanian asked, shrugging. “Being very good at killing people and less good at finding them?”

  You just wait, motherfucker, Mike thought.

  “Okay, all of that,” was what he said. “But the main thing that matters here is we don’t talk. What happens at the house, stays at the house. Period fucking dot. That’s something that our customers can depend upon. We don’t have fucking cameras in the booths. Hell, we don’t even have booths. You have your choice of anything from silk bedrooms to the dungeons. And anything goes if you’ve got the cash. Understand?”