Damaged Goods

by Dane, Cynthia

  “I can assure you that Agent Kline is prepared for her role. Sheen has already spoken with our contact here in Portland requesting a reference to a reputable escort agency. The fake company name has already been dropped in his ear, and everything, from the phone number to the website, is set up for his perusing.” Going undercover wasn’t as simple as putting on a fake mustache anymore. “We’re ready.”

  “For everything except the key player to your operation!” Genevieve laughed. It was not in reassurance to her son. No, she would never do that. Everyone loved to give Joseph shit about being a mama’s boy, but things couldn’t have been further from the truth. This was the little boy who had jumped at the chance to live with his father instead of his mother when he was little. Genevieve had reared him through his nursing years, but as soon as she entered the police force she pawned her only child off on his father, who was already married and raising two other children of his own. But the Montoyas had always been a gracious family, even for their wealth and status in society. “You still don’t have an agent picked out for your pivotal role. This operation is supposed to start next weekend. What are you doing, Joseph?”

  He inhaled deeply, wishing his mother hadn’t spoken to him in such an admonishing tone. It didn’t matter if she was also his commander in this instance. It felt terrible knowing that she could still get to him on such a mental level. Why oh why did I insist on following in her footsteps as an investigator? Fifteen years ago, when he was graduating high school and being told by the Montoyas that he didn’t stand a chance in hell at inheriting his father’s company, he thought it would be a great way to get back at them by pursuing his mother. The rubberbanding between two such completely different identities had never done him any favors, and he was paying the price now. Sometimes he wished his mother would transfer to another department and let him have a commander he wasn’t related to. He was shocked he was even allowed to work beneath her. Maybe they knew we aren’t close at all. They had Thanksgiving together, but that was about it. And I send her things on her birthday and Mother’s Day. It felt weird to ignore that.

  There were no pictures of him in her office. No presents on his birthday, no inquiries about his personal life. Genevieve Stone had always done the bare minimum, emotionally, when it came to her son’s well-being. He didn’t hold it against her. She had never been a warm woman to anyone. Barely dated after separating from Horatio. It was to the point where Joseph wondered if his mother was even capable of that sort of thing. I don’t think she cares about any kind of relationship. His mother had always been married to her job, whatever that job was. Her son was a byproduct of a one-time affair with the heir of a vast Mexican fortune. Horatio described it as her “rebellious” phase that lasted about two months when she was around twenty.

  “I have someone in mind, but I’m waiting to hear back if she accepts.”

  “Please don’t tell me you’re still thinking about that prostitute.”

  “I believe the PC term is now sex worker.” Joseph cleared his throat. “I know Sylvia. She was with me when the Crow investigation was going on. She’s already been briefed about the investigation but needed some time to think about it…”

  “She’s a civilian, for fuck’s sake.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time we used a civilian in an undercover operation.” They had employed a number of them when they took out a drug ring two years ago. “She has what it takes. She knows how to work men of Alexander’s status.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she does.”

  They reached a quiet impasse. Then, as his mother often did, Genevieve leaned forward, elbows resting on her desk as she stared her son down. The loose sleeves of her old Narcotics rain jacket rustled against her skin.

  “You’ve slept with her.”

  Joseph, at the very adult age of thirty-two, blushed.

  “Christ.” Genevieve picked up a pen and scribbled something on a notepad. “Here’s a bit of advice, Joseph. Don’t hire your girlfriends for undercover operations. That worked out so well for you last time.”

  Another kick in the gut! Big mistake introducing her to Stella. Joseph couldn’t risk seeing his mother much when he was undercover, but he dared to bring Stella to her place for Christmas. That woman had been in so much professional love with Genevieve that she spent the whole night stuttering and making a huge ass out of herself. Even Joseph had been embarrassed for her. Suffice to say, my mother was not impressed. To be fair, Genevieve was rarely impressed by anyone, let alone the women her son dated, so it was a low bar for Stella to hit.

  “For the record, Stella and I weren’t an item until we started working together.” Joseph leaned his arms against his legs. “And Sylvia is not my girlfriend. Though I do think she would be our best bet for this operation. She’s a professional in every sense of the word.” Don’t blush again you loser. “She knows how to handle men like Alexander and keep her cool around them.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. I’m not convinced, though. I don’t like the idea of sending a civilian in for something like this. We don’t have much time to train her.”

  “The odds of her having to deal with any danger are slim to none.” Joseph had made sure of that. Sylvia’s job – assuming she took him up on it – was simply to gather intelligence. Being around Alexander Sheen all day would give her plenty of opportunities. Every profile on the man that crossed Joseph’s desk suggested that Alexander loved to pick up his arm candy and show her off to the men of the city. It was a status thing, the profilers told him. He picked beautiful women that most of his business contacts had slept with and showed them how much better he was because he could make them genuinely happy, or whatever. So, having a woman on the inside who knew how those men intimately functioned was paramount.

  Except it was hard to trust civilians. Shit, it was hard to trust most agents those days! Sylvia was perfect. Not only did she fit the profile for who Joseph wanted to send in, but he knew her. Sure, she could turn on him, but he had a better feeling about her than any other civilian they could pick.

  “Give me one more day to hear back from her.” Joseph stood up and took back his copy of the files. “If I haven’t heard about it this time tomorrow, I’ll pick an agent to fill the role by the end of the day. You have my word.”

  Genevieve sighed. “At least I know that’s good for something.”

  Yeah, there was that, one supposed.

  Joseph was halfway across his mother’s office when she spoke again. “If you’re not busy this weekend, Stanley says he wants to have dinner with you and his daughters. It’s not mandatory, though.”

  Wow. She’s inviting me to something. Joseph had to refrain from laughing. And Stanley? He had forgotten that man existed. Probably because he and Genevieve were so low-key in their two-year “love” affair that it was easy to forget they practically lived together in Genevieve’s petite mansion up in Washington Park. “I’m supposed to see the family this Saturday.”

  Although she hadn’t been smiling before, Genevieve certainly frowned now. She didn’t say anything, however. All she did was nod as her son showed himself out.

  The family. Code for the Montoyas. The only real family Joseph had ever possessed, even if they refused to give him an inheritance due to his illegitimate status. In true Mexican fashion, there was a family gathering of some kind every weekend, whether it was in Portland, Seattle, or even Mexico City. The extended Montoya family was spread out all over the Pacific Northwest, but Joseph’s pocket tended to stick to their stomping grounds of Lake Oswego, a cozy, upper middle class town south of Portland.

  “Hey, Montoya.” That smarmy voice sounded very… FBI. Sure enough, when Joseph looked up, he saw the tall and muscular ebony form of Agent Margaret Jameson sauntering toward him. Her partner followed behind her. His smile wasn’t much nicer.

  These were the agents who had out-undercovered Joseph earlier that year and took Crow down using nothing but the FBI. Much to his humiliated chagrin, they still hung around, wor
king out of the northwest regional office not too far from there. They were always stopping by to talk shop with the investigators in Joseph’s department… and they loved to fuck with his head.

  “Found those whips and chains yet?”

  “Ha, ha.” Joseph tossed his folders onto his cluttered desk and debated going to get some coffee. “Found them at home. Turned out they were there all along.”

  The two agents smiled at him, but did not leave his side.

  “Can I help you?”

  “So happens we might be able to help you,” Maggie said. “Heard you were talking about Alexander Sheen’s big visit happening next week. You didn’t hear this from me, but…” Maggie looked around the office, not that anyone was eavesdropping, “got it on good authority that he’s been talking to the manager at some skeezy strip club down on Barbur. Decades, I think. One of our own informants delivered that nugget to us last week.”

  “But I didn’t hear it from you?”

  Maggie slowly shook her head, lips pursed.

  “Thanks.”

  She slapped him on the back, knocking the air right out of him. “Have fun taking down one of the biggest human traffickers on the I5 corridor,” she chided. “We’ll try to stay out of your way this time. Should let you have the glory at least for once.” She and her partner laughed their way to the other end of the room. God, I hate the FBI. The rivalry between FBI and police was strong in Portland, but Joseph felt it on an extra visceral level. Still, a lead was a lead… and while Joseph tried not to think about Sylvia flaking out on him, he started digging into the history of Decades, one of many, many strip clubs in the Portland metro area.

  Chapter 6

  Sylvia

  I wish I had never started working here. Sylvia checked her outfit in the backstage mirror one more time. As soon as Cherie was finished with her set, it was Sylvia’s turn on the stage. Nine PM on a weekend night? The place was packed with blue collar schlubs and hipster assholes ready to ironically (and unironically) throw money at women dressed in period pieces from the past century. Sylvia had chosen this joint to strip at because it let her indulge in her love of the twenties. Now she wished she had worked at the vegan place or whatever it was tourists loved to go on about.

  Cherie ripped her miniskirt off to a club remix of “Yellow Submarine,” her braid extensions bouncing off her naked breasts. The crowd, a healthy mix of those John Lennon loving hipsters and older baby boomers who remembered the year the original song came out, cheered in unison. Because everyone loved them some hippie tits.

  “You’re on, Sylv,” Cherie said as she stepped backstage, dollar bills clenched in her hands. Every heavy step on her long legs made her large breasts uncomfortably sway, but in Decades, everything was uncomfortable.

  “You did good.”

  “I better have. Pip says I got two lap dances scheduled out of that, and I bet I’ll be in the box within half an hour.” They smiled at each other. “A box for a box is so like a fox!”

  “Let’s give it up for Sylvia, the Charleston sweetheart your great-grandfather was making sweet love to almost a hundred years ago!” The MC never had any idea what he was talking about. But that was Sylvia’s cue to get out on the stage and strut the stuff her mother gave her. She wasn’t as tall as Cherie, but she was cute, and men loved them some schoolgirl cute. Even if she was a 1925 schoolgirl.

  Too bad for her there were slim pickings when it came to set music that matched the time period. Not that these bastards cared. They came to see her strip down to her lingerie. On a good money night she would take off her bra, and the current crowd looked game enough to throw extra cash for that tonight. All right, I’m doing it. This was a pasties-free club. Sylvia wasn’t shy about showing off her tatas to a group of horny men, but she only did it if it was worth it. Rent was due soon enough. It was worth it tonight.

  “Royals” played on the speakers as she stepped lightly in her shoes. One by one she kicked them off, sending them to the backstage before grabbing the pole and taking a spin. Sylvia was not an acrobatic girl, but she could taunt and tease as well as anyone else. Just because she enjoyed a more subtle form of seduction didn’t mean she couldn’t make most of these men hard in the three minutes she had on stage.

  Her little black dress was barely off when the first bill hit the stage. A construction worker, from the looks of him. Sylvia got down on her hands and knees and went to him, smiling that sadistic, shit-eating grin that always got her more money. Men love it when they think they pull the strings. Another bill popped out of his pocket. Sure, she didn’t mind going over and sticking her tits in his face if it meant some good tips. It would also make the other men more likely to empty their wallets for some attention too.

  Ah, there it was. A ten dollar bill!

  Sylvia had to go where the money was. She gave the construction worker one last (but very judicious) view of her cleavage before she crawled to the ten dollar bill, her ass always up in the air, black lace clinging to every fold of skin.

  “Hey baby!” came a voice from the back of the crowd. “Show us your tits!”

  She never responded. Not verbally, anyway. That was saved for lap dances and the box, where men paid for a private show more exclusive than a lap dance. Out here on the floor she had to be more careful. That meant going to the ten dollars, but not touching who put it there.

  He was dressed in a heavy black sweatshirt that didn’t say anything. One of the most common sights in Portland, outside of flannel and torn up blue jeans. Ah, there were the jeans. Nice ones, too. The sweatshirt may have had bleach stains on it, but the jeans looked like they hadn’t been outside since they were purchased.

  The man wore a baseball cap and the hood of his sweatshirt over that. In the dark club, Sylvia would never see his face. That suited most men – and her – fine. About half of the crowd was determined to be recognized to some extent. They were open with their identity and why they were there. The other half? They were like this guy. Anonymous. Only there to blow off some steam before going back to study for his next test or working a twelve hour shift.

  “Hey, handsome,” is what she would say if she were the type to say anything at all on stage. “Come here often? Got more of those Hamiltons? He’s my third favorite president after Jackson and Grant.” One time this place did cough up a fifty dollar tip. Didn’t happen often!

  The men surrounding this guy were hollering for him to give her more money to take off her bra. All she got was a smile.

  She recognized that smile.

  Lorde had a lot to say about being a royal. When Sylvia originally picked this song, she thought of the beat, the sultry vocals, and it being used as an anachronistic soundtrack to The Great Gatsby. Now she hated it, because it held a more literal interpretation.

  “Hi,” Joseph mouthed at her. He left the Hamilton for her to snatch.

  “Fuck you,” she whispered back. After pasting her smile back on, Sylvia stood up and finished her dance with a couple of twirls on the pole a flash of her left nipple. No full bra removal, though. Not after what that man had shot into her gut.

  Joseph was stalking her. There was no other explanation. As soon as Sylvia was backstage again, she grabbed her robe and sat down at the break table with a huff. At least she was safe back here. Safe from a handsome cop with more money than most of the white collars he arrested…

  “Ah, Sylvia,” Arnold, the manager of the fine establishment said. He hovered near her, his awful aftershave making her gag. Arnold was a punk rocker who couldn’t let PNW savior Kurt Cobain go. It’s been twenty years, man. Give it up. He definitely smelled like teen spirit, and that was not a compliment. “Glad you’re back here. Someone’s looking for you.”

  “So?” she scoffed. “I’m not talking to anybody.”

  “Uh, you kinda have to.” There was Joseph, hood down and hat off, sauntering up behind Arnold. He gave the backstage area filled with women in various stages of undress a healthy glance. “He’s a cop. We play nice wit
h law enforcement, remember?”

  Of course she remembered! She had been there when the previous manager was busted for murder! “For the record, I hate this guy and you should have him thrown out at your earliest convenience.”

  “I’ll get right on that.” Arnold shrugged in Joseph’s direction. “She’s all yours. Have fun, man. She’s a real bitch.”

  “And you’re a peach, Arnold.” By then he was gone and checking in with another dancer. His hand rested on the woman’s shoulder, making her recoil in disgust. I hate this place more than I hate Joseph, I do have to say that. Arnold hadn’t tried it with Sylvia yet, but that was only because she wasn’t his type. He preferred his women… darker. Little black dresses didn’t count. “What the fuck do you want?” she asked Joseph.

  He sat across from her, such a stark contrast from the work outfits she had seen their past two meetings. He even sat differently, with his back sinking against the chair and one leg folding against the other. Somehow Sylvia doubted he would ever dress like that with a suit on. “Believe it or not, I didn’t come here to see you. Happy accident. I came here for another reason, promise.”

  “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “Know anything about that manager of yours?”

  “Who, Arnold?” Sylvia snorted. “I try not to know anything about the men I associate with. Bad for the blood, you know.”

  “That so? Here I was hoping you could divulge some juicy information about any inclinations he has for funneling girls through a human trafficking ring.” Joseph’s voice was so low that Sylvia could barely hear him. Good thing I can read lips. Thanks to her previous clients who were meeker than mice. It was a useful skill to have when a woman worked in loud clubs.

  “I don’t know anything about that.” Sylvia crossed her arms. “Does this have to do with your thing?” He had to be kidding. What did a guy like Alexander Sheen have to do with Decades? He would never be caught dead at a seedy, blue collar place.