Songbird

by A. J. Adams

  “Go on, sirena.” Arturo was smiling. Being cheeky had worked. Probably. I had the feeling that Arturo was not the trusting type, but he was willing to let this go. For now.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s sirena?”

  “They’re mermaids. They sing to sailors.”

  “Like in The Odyssey?”

  Arturo looked startled. “Yes”

  “Told you I’ve got a brain.”

  I sounded cool and in control, but I wasn’t feeling half as chipper as I sounded. Sirena was siren, and I remembered Homer’s story of how they lured sailors to their deaths by tricking them into running their ships onto the rocks. Odysseus had ordered his men to stop their ears with wax, and he heard their music safely only by having himself tied to the mast.

  All good, but why the hell did I know all that but not my own bloody name? Solitaire what? Arturo said I’d sold Escamilla out, which seemed perfectly sensible, but why hadn’t I bitch-slapped the fuck out of him and walked? What could Escamilla possibly have had on me that I would just let myself be abused by that living skeleton?

  It didn’t make any sense. I went to the loo, and after running endless cold water over my wrists in order to try and calm down, I finally stopped shaking. I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been. I’d almost gotten myself killed with that idiotic stunt, and I was going to be damn careful not to do it again.

  As I dried my hands, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, and I saw the woman in the bed again. It creeped me out, but when I closed and opened my eyes again, she’d disappeared.

  Remembering that head injuries show in your eyes, I peered into the mirror, checking to see if my pupils were both the same size. They were. I stared at myself, trying to will my memory back, but it was no good, so I went back to see Arturo.

  He was sitting on the sofa, having a drink with Lucifer. I didn’t like the way they looked at me as I walked up. Part of me wanted to run away screaming, but as it turns out, I’ve got plenty of backbone. I straightened my shoulders and went to join them, smiling as if I were perfectly happy and relaxed.

  “They’ll have a new team here stat,” Kyle was saying.

  “Good. We’re off for a walk and then Soho,” Arturo said.

  “Nice. Haven’t been there in years.”

  “And you’re not going tonight,” Arturo said coolly. “You need some R&R.”

  “Soho is party central.”

  “Go catch up with Mac.”

  By the sound of it, Kyle was fussing over my walking out past his security. He didn’t seem to blame me though, because when Arturo twisted round saying, “Where’s that waiter?” Kyle flagged one down and ordered a Tanqueray and tonic for me.

  Actually, maybe he was showing off that he knew my favourite tipple. Bloody good thing, too, because I’m not sure if my subconscious would have produced that bit of intel or not. Kyle then disappeared, which was a relief in itself, and then the waiter produced a tall drink that promised further good cheer. The second I got a whiff of that citrusy scent, something else became clear.

  I held up my glass. “Have a sniff.”

  Arturo did and looked blank. “Something wrong?”

  “No, silly! That’s why you smell so great! Your aftershave’s like Tanqueray gin!”

  Some men might have been miffed, but Arturo burst out laughing, and I rather liked him for it. Seeing he was friendly again, I decided to pump him for information. “How did Kyle know I like this?”

  “It’s in your file.”

  “I have a file?”

  “We have files on everyone.”

  That sounded creepy but useful. “Can I see it?”

  Arturo sipped his beer. “Why?”

  “Oh come on! If someone had a file on you, wouldn’t you be dying to see it?”

  Cheeky was working well for me, because he pulled his Tab out of his pocket. “Go on then.”

  I took a look and almost died. There was my life, all written down and tabulated into Overview, Activity, Family, Medical, and Legal.

  My surname was Rotheringham, which had a nice ring to it. I was 26, Gemini, born in High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire. No arrest warrant outstanding and a clean bill of health from a doctor’s clinic in Essex dated a month before and repeated weekly and sent to José Escamilla.

  That was all fine, but the rest was grim reading. I read it all, determined to learn as much as I could, and then I handed it back to Arturo. “So. I’m a whore, a thief, and an orphan, but the good news is that I’m clean.”

  Arturo looked at me curiously. “I wouldn’t say a caution for soliciting makes a career,” he said mildly. “And most kids steal at some point. Two of my cousins were banned from Bloomingdales after a truth and dare game gone wrong.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I didn’t get him. I really didn’t. “I dunno,” I mumbled. “I think I was expecting a ‘You’re a slut and you’re my slut’ speech.”

  “Let’s do that later. It sounds good.”

  I couldn’t help it: I got the giggles. I think it was relief, really. A nervous reaction from coming so close to serious trouble.

  Arturo smiled at me and drained his beer. “We’ve got some daylight left. Let’s go for a walk.”

  “I’d better put on some flats.” I smiled at him. “Want to come with me and watch me change my shoes?”

  Arturo sighed. “Don’t beat it to death, Solitaire.”

  When I came back Arturo looked at my tatty tennis shoes with disgust, but I knew I was right. “I don’t want to come down with blisters. And if we stop off for a drink, I’ve got my sexy shoes in my bag.”

  “All right, sirena.”

  It was just as well I changed my shoes because the so-called stroll took us from the Tower of London to Soho. It was quite the hike, and it was just what I needed.

  I didn’t like what I’d read in that dossier. Don’t get me wrong – I knew it was correct. The bits and pieces that had come floating in fitted the big picture.

  The file consisted of police reports and newspaper articles. The woman in the bed I kept seeing was my mum. It seems daddy was a big man in the City. I’d grown up quite the little princess, with private schools and ponies. It had all come crashing down when daddy was accused of insider trading. He shot mum and then himself. He’d shot me too, but his hand must have been shaking because they’d found me unconscious with only a graze at the back of my skull, no other damage. That was when I was sixteen.

  Funnily enough mum had survived, too. She’d been in a coma though, lying in a private hospital in London for almost ten years. She’d passed away two weeks earlier, and the newspapers had referred to her as a medical miracle for lasting that long.

  After daddy’s shooting spree, I’d been in care for six months, in jail for two months for burglary – I robbed some old biddy of her silver – and on my release I’d gone completely wild. There was a more recent newspaper article about me, about three years old, titled “Whatever next?” that detailed my descent into crime. It said I’d done all sorts of jobs from topless waitressing to orchestrating international drug shipments.

  That dark face I’d seen yelling at me was one James Danjuma, a former boyfriend and London-based coke dealer who’d beaten me up after I’d spent a night in jail for soliciting. He’d been arrested, but he was let off with a caution.

  The newspapers lost track of me after that, but an email dated a month earlier from someone called Christopoulos said I’d been working for the Polish mafia in Amsterdam, running a topless nail bar before taking up a job with Miguel Fuentes, Christopoulos’ boss. Clicking through that name, I saw that Fuentes was a transporter, famous for smuggling everything from dope to guns all over the Med, North Africa and the Middle East. I had apparently been in charge of admin in the Moroccan office, but Fuentes had taken me on tonnes of trips. I guessed that seeing the man having his head chopped off must have been during that time.

/>   Christopoulos said I’d left Fuentes about six weeks earlier after a huge fight and that I had gone back to London. By cross tabulating, I saw that it was shortly after that that Escamilla had gotten a hold of me.

  A note from someone called Fucho said Escamilla had seen me while I was at a rave and that he had moved me in with him. Fucho noted that I was not involved in business matters, and the file stopped there with a note from Kyle telling Fucho to update him if my status changed.

  Fucho hadn’t bothered to tell Kyle that I had been there unwillingly. That told me that these people played rough, but as I was nothing to them, it didn’t surprise me. It did bug me that my previous associates hadn’t given a shit that I’d disappeared completely. I mean, I was with Fuentes for over a year, and although we’d fought, you’d think he would have checked at least to see if I was alive. The fact that he didn’t tells you how wonderful my life was, doesn’t it?

  The file didn’t trigger anything new, but a black feeling of depression, rage and helplessness washed over me.

  “I’m sorry about your mum.” Arturo was watching me, a sadness in his eyes. “I don’t think he took her out, though. From the newspapers, it was natural.”

  So that was it. Escamilla had blackmailed me into being his whore by threatening my mum. That knowledge made me wish that I could bring him back and see him boil again. But apart from my volcanic anger, I was horribly aware that I was completely alone.

  If I’d been on my own, I would have gotten tanked, but with Arturo wanting to walk, I had time to think things through. As we passed Big Ben and Parliament I decided that I wasn’t going to even try to get my past back again. Clearly it had been a complete disaster. What I needed was a future. It wasn’t going to be easy. From what I could see, I had buggered up my life so badly that I now had two options: die or be Arturo’s girl. That second option came with two electives: be his personal girl or turn pro.

  It didn’t give me much of a choice.

  Chapter Five: Arturo

  When I woke up and Solitaire was gone, my first thought was that she was in the shower. When I went to join her and discovered she’d skipped, I couldn’t believe it. “This can’t be fucking happening!” I yelled at Kyle. “Find the bitch and shoot her!”

  Kyle was about to call the others when security rang him. The cocksucker on my door had fucked off for a piss, but the man on the front door had recognised Solitaire. He was a pro, so he’d not left his post, but wondering why she was alone, he’d called in.

  Kyle told him to bring her back but refused to leave me. “Your security walked, and now you’re being lured out of cover,” he said. “I’m not moving a fucking inch, and you’re not going anywhere.”

  I saw the sense of it, so we sat there, with me cursing a blue streak and Kyle looking grimmer than death.

  The pisser came back, whined that he’d only stepped out for a moment and ended up on the floor with a crushed jaw and ball-sack. My brother has no problem expressing his anger. It’s something we have in common.

  Seeing that the pisser and Solitaire’s disappearance weren’t connected, we made our way downstairs. We just got to the lobby when my phone rang. The man who’d been sent after Solitaire was just reporting that she’d dodged him and that he couldn’t see what direction she’d taken when she came flying in.

  I saw instantly that Solitaire hadn’t meant to cause trouble. She’d gone straight to the church, hadn’t spoken to a soul and had run right back to me. She was so freaked that she didn’t even spot Kyle; she came straight to me, convinced someone had tried to mug her.

  She didn’t seem to realise at first why I was upset, and when it dawned on her that I was seriously pissed, she sassed me like she didn’t give a damn, but I’m good at spotting fear. I saw that nervous flickering of her lashes, and it told me she was all wound up. So I let it go and chalked it up to experience. From now on Solitaire wouldn’t move an inch without me okaying it.

  I showed her the file that Kyle had put together to let her know I’d forgiven her. It didn’t occur to me that seeing it would freak her out, but it did. When she called herself a whore, I decided she was ashamed.

  I don’t get why people are so down on working girls. I’m telling you: if women were willing to pay for it and men were earning, we’d have sex worker unions, fixed rates and lobbies forcing through legislation to jail non-payers. But as the number of men who can convince women to pay for getting laid is practically zero, it’s never going to happen. So we pay to fuck women, and if they’re lucky, all we’ll do is trash talk about them. If they’re unlucky, we put them behind bars for it. It’s seriously fucked up.

  Solitaire wasn’t exactly a virgin, but from what I could see, she hadn’t been a hooker, either. She’d worked as a topless waitress and moonlighted in some health clubs as a masseuse, but considering she was earning a fraction of what she could have in a whorehouse, I was surprised to see she was hurting. What was interesting was that she’d made it out of the skin trade and into management. She’d run a topless nail bar for the Polish mafia in Amsterdam, and then she’d taken a job with Miguel Fuentes, an independent operator based in Tétouan with close ties to the Abergil crime family. It wasn’t clear what she’d done for him since ‘administrator’ covers a lot of territory, but whatever her duties were, they certainly didn’t include hooking. There was a note saying she’d been doing Fuentes, but I could see it wasn’t part of her job description. Looking over her resume, it was pretty good.

  I found myself comforting her. Not that I told a lie. I meant what I said, and as I’ve had everything from a five thousand dollar girlfriend package in LA to a dollar blow-job in Bangalore, I know what I’m talking about. There wasn’t a whiff of ho about Solitaire.

  She got it right on the button though: most men in my position would have given her the slut speech, but that’s because they lack finesse. Why be an asshole and make her resentful when soft words motivate? So I gave it to her straight, knowing that the truth would make her happy and spur her to spread that joy around a little. To me.

  She was very quiet during our walk by the Thames, but I wasn’t worried. Solitaire was thinking, and as she was a smart girl, she would decide being with me wouldn’t be all bad. She’d been pretty good that afternoon when I’d spanked her, but I’d kept things sweet because I knew she was still a bit spooked. Looking at her now, however, I was confident that she’d bounce back, and I was looking forward to seeing that slutty sirena again.

  In the meantime, I was having a blast just walking about. I know it sounds fucked up. Most people would look at my five million dollar home, the unending stream of hookers and the ten figure bank account and envy the fuck out of me, but the fact is that my kind of life comes with a price.

  There are so many people after me that I seldom leave my house. When I do, I’m dogged by a security patrol. Even then I never tell anyone where I’m going because it may be fatal. Of course sometimes you just have to be in a specific place at a specific time, and that’s always risky. Like the night I went to the Mayor’s party – the one where I met Gina – there was a sniper waiting for me. My people took him out before I got there, but others have been luckier.

  I took my first bullet when I was seventeen. They’d been aiming at my father and got me instead. It was just a scratch, but it was a turning point in my life. While I was being treated in hospital, I heard papa yelling at someone for letting security lapse. Not his, you understand, but mine. I’d been so innocent that it never occurred to me that he’d been protecting us all for years. This is because my father was a remarkable man. I am named after him, and I hope to God that I can be as good as he was.

  My father, Arturo Senior, was an enforcer for the Gulf Cartel. He was barely literate, but he was sharp as a razor, and he was a millionaire in 1970 when a million was still a lot of money. My brother Juan and I adored papa, but there was no doubt he was hard to live with.

  Our father led a violent life, and he took his pleasure where he liked
. Each time he took a mistress, mama suffered, but papa just couldn’t help himself. I don’t think anyone was surprised when our parents’ marriage fell apart, but unlike other families who stayed together no matter what, my father allowed my mother to divorce him.

  “You can’t force love,” he told everyone. “And what sort of man doesn’t want the mother of his children to be happy?”

  He got her a job in Austin, kept an eye on her, and when she asked his permission to remarry, he agreed. What’s more, he sent Juan and me to live with her and her new husband so we could go to an American school. We were three and four years old at that point. We weren’t alone for long though. Mama had Kyle nine months after the wedding, and a second boy, John, a year later.

  We kids had a blast, going to school in Austin and staying with Papa on his ranch outside Nuevo Laredo in the holidays. Papa remarried too, a lovely woman called Marie Angela with the face and soul of an angel. She had Julia and Loli, and when they were old enough to go to school, they joined us boys. As they were younger than we were, we grew up with the habit of watching over them. They’re terribly spoilt, but we love them to death.

  I knew about papa’s business, but I’d been sheltered by growing up in America. That ended the moment I got shot. From that moment on, I knew that my path in life was set.

  I had been accepted by Princeton that summer, and up until then I’d dreamed of being a big swinging dick on Wall Street. I’d read Liar’s Poker, you see, and it had inspired me. But after that bullet, I saw that once papa wasn’t around, someone would come gunning for the family. He’d made too many enemies for it not to happen. Most of the men out for revenge were too afraid to try anything while he was alive, but the second he was in the ground, someone would be gunning for us. That’s the way it is in the cartel.

  Juan was tough and already committed to working with papa, but it was me who had the brains. Back then we were all Gulf Cartel, but there were strains that hinted at trouble to come. The Gulf was divided into those who did the dirty work and everyone else, and it was causing resentment. I could see we were coming up for a war, and it was going to be a bitch.