by Zoey Parker
Neither Anthony nor Roger sits down.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Clarence says, still in his leaned-back position, clasping his hands, twirling his pen in his hand now, “All Toni is saying is that we have to look into it. That’s all. An actual change could be years down the road.”
When Anthony and Roger sit down, they are still glaring at me.
I shoot Clarence a grateful look.
His timeline may be way lengthier than what I have in mind, but clearly, I’m going to have to break this to the men gently or risk an all-out rebellion.
“Oh, and Toni?” Clarence says, leaning so his clasped hands are on the table, “Out of interest, what does your father think of all this?”
I glare at him.
“I mean it was he himself, after all, who built our empire from the ground up. Who had the brilliant idea of including the trafficking at all.”
“I’m going to talk to him about it,” I say coldly.
The silence sprinkles the inferences of what Clarence said all around. That I have no idea what I’m doing. And that I haven’t consulted the one person who does – my father.
Roger jumps up.
“You don’t even know anything about it – about the girls, about just how much money we make – anything.”
I stare at him for a second, my mind blank with the truth of his words, and he storms out of the room without another word.
I glance to Anthony, whose sweat bead is finally rolling down his face, then Clarence, who meets my eye with a smug flick of his lips.
Now it’s my turn to snarl, “That may be so, but I will. And my orders stand: I want us looking into other sources of revenue: restaurants, clubs, wind energy, whatever the hell is profitable and doable.”
Anthony and Clarence rise. Clarence turns to me, still with that smug smirk I want to smack off his face.
“Whatever you say, boss.”
He and Anthony leave me to my turbid thoughts and the infuriating sight of the monogrammed pen Clarence left.
I pick up Clarence’s pen and heave it across the room. It hits our Award of Excellence, the fake plaque Papa paid the city councilor to give us for our “Service to the Community.”
More of the same old lies. Just like that bastard Clarence. He tricked me.
I stand up, then breathe in, then out.
I have to be careful. If I push my lieutenants too hard, I’ll drive them straight into Carlos’ arms. Or worse – even into the Rebel Saints’.
The loyalty their leader Gabriel inspires is already renowned. I can only imagine what he’d do at a chance for some of our men, especially after Carlos bought out their guy Kyle for a cost he still won’t admit.
My phone beeps, and I check it eagerly.
Finally.
My face falls as soon as I see the sender of the text.
Clarence: I’ll be in my office if you need me ;)
I shove my phone in my bag, stomp out the door.
Screw that smug pig Clarence. Screw all of them.
I stride down the hallway, locking my gaze on the elevator until I’m in it.
Roger may be right that I don’t know much about what we do, about the sex trafficking, but he won’t be for long. I’m going to do precisely what I’ve been avoiding doing for weeks, ever since I found out. I’m going to look the horror straight in the face. I’m going to the Factory.
Chapter 9
Gabriel
As soon as I wake up, I scramble out of bed and to my feet. I know. I can’t sit on this any longer.
I need to find Hannah. Nothing is going to be okay until I know she is.
Even last night was ruined by it. All the girls being up to par, Jaws and I enjoying a late-night Angel cake, even him offering me a go with his cousin from out-of-town, all of it was tarnished by it. Her absence casts a shadow over everything.
I throw myself into some clothes, shove the electric toothbrush over my teeth and gums – 50 seconds for each part, because I don’t have time to appease Momma. If I don’t find Hannah, nothing else matters.
As I grab my phone, that stupid paper with her number slips out. By now I practically know it by heart: 416-747-1111.
I shove it in my pocket.
I’m not calling her now, maybe not ever. The last thing I need now is more problems.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and hurry out the door to my bike. Though getting on it, finally moving as fast as my thoughts are racing, is no relief.
I need to be at Hannah’s university, talking to her friends, finding her— now.
Soon is not fast enough when she may be in danger, maybe even…
I glare at a lone pizza joint that comes into focus as I roar down the street.
Stupid Italian filth. The Piccolos should’ve stuck to making pizza and spaghetti, not tried their hand at the trafficking business. The Rebel Saints have been the undisputed leaders for girls here for decades. And now, as if messing with our shipments wasn’t enough, they might’ve done something to Hannah…
I squeeze the gas on the handlebar.
I need to keep going, keep pushing – fast, faster. I can’t stop, can’t pause. Not even for a minute. I can’t stop because then I might not be able to keep going.
God, please don’t let me lose her, too.
The upcoming light somehow goes from green to red, and I hit the gas.
As I speed through, my little just-in-time traffic light clearing attracts the attention of some of Toronto’s finest.
The white wailing cop duo behind me only makes me hit the gas harder.
For the police, it’s an unfair game of cat and mouse. After all, only half the players are aware of their role. The poor mice police have no idea they’re chasing the cat.
They don’t understand that they don’t stand a chance. I have nothing to lose and the world is my road. The sidewalk is only a road messy with slow people and inconvenient posts. Bike lanes are a get-out-of-jail free card. The opposite lane is only a free road to watch out for oncoming cars.
Traffic’s got my back too: long bumper to hood lines of cars, leaving spaces beside each other just wide enough for a motorcycle rider who doesn’t mind taking out a side mirror or two.
And so the police chase me, every block falling further behind, as I turn, twist and roar further out of their grasp.
By the time I pull into Hannah’s driveway, I lost the cops five or so blocks back.
Poor guys. Though maybe if I told them they’d understand. That I have to find my sister, and there’s no time to waste.
Hannah’s doorbell’s a song and her roommate’s sassy.
“Yeah, she sent me a weird text too,” she says, waving her purple nails back and forth, “She probably dipped for a bit, wanted to get away from Toronto.”
She throws me a significant purple-lidded look to indicate the unsaid: And her over controlling brother.
I give her a “fuck you” smile back.
I just check in from time to time to make sure Hannah is okay. By the looks of it, I haven’t been checking in enough...
I step forward, ask, “Can I come in?”
The roommate – who I’m pretty sure is named Sam - lets my question hang for a good while, pretends to think about it, before sighing and saying, “Fine.”
I give her another middle finger of a smile as I come in.
“Are you sure she’d… Hey!” she protests as I walk straight to Hannah’s room.
I swing open the door and stop.
Something is very wrong.
“Hey, what the hell – you’re not even going to ask? You’re not her dad you know,” Miss Feminism 101 spouts.
I stare blankly at the clean room. Yes. Something is very, incredibly, undeniably wrong.
“You see her pack up or anything?” I ask.
“No,” she says.
“You’ve seen her room?”
“No, I…” her bitch voice trails off at the sight that had rendered me speechless.
Spot
less. Hannah’s room is bare-floored, closet-closed clean. Cleaner than I’ve ever seen any room she’s ever been in for more than five minutes.
There’s no way Hannah left her room like this.
“Oh,” the roommate says.
I round on her.
“Who’s been in here?”
“I don’t know. No one. Maybe she just…” her voice dies away again at the ridiculousness of what she’s trying to suggest.
I go in and start ripping open drawers. The roommate stalks in beside me, gets up in my face.
“Hey, I don’t think-”
I stride past her, throw open the closet doors to see everything hanging up neatly.
“This isn’t Hannah and you know it. Now, who did you let in?”
“No one. Maybe it was her boyfriend or something. Fuck you,” she says, storming away.
I follow her into the kitchen, which looks more like Hannah’s domain: towers of dishes and tiny pink Post-its everywhere.
“What boyfriend?”
The roommate – who I can now see based on some congratulations letter on the fridge really is named Sam – flops into a chair.
“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” she asks casually.
She opens up a pizza box on the table, takes one for herself, pauses, then, turning to me, asks, “Want one?”
I sit down, slam the pizza box shut, grab her slice – and freeze.
Sam is frozen, trembling, afraid.
God, she’s just a kid. Just like Hannah.
I release the pizza, clasp my hands on the table, then reclasp them.
“Sorry. Sam – listen – this is really important. I have some enemies and this isn’t like Hannah at all to go disappearing. You saw her room. Please. I need to know everything you know.”
Sam exhales, nods, her droopy eyes seeming to droop further with my words.
“I’m sorry, too. It was just these past few weeks. She’d have him here sometimes, this tall Italian guy. They always seemed to be having fun together, but she made me promise not to tell you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I just figured since you’re overbearing she didn’t want to introduce you when it was so early in the relationship and everything.”
I nod.
Something is definitely up. Apart from the business, Hannah and I have always shared pretty much everything, from crushes to lovers to crazy nights and horrible mistakes.
“What’s his name?”
“Carlos.”
I curse.
“What?” Sam’s mouthful of pizza asks.
I scrutinize her face, but she’s clearly oblivious of just what this means.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, pretty sure. Last week when they were arguing, I’m pretty sure she yelled “Eff you Carlos” more than once.”
Even as my heart falls to the pit of my chest, I can’t help but smile. That’s Hannah for you. Part of the Pierson family, the last three generations in motorcycle gangs, sister to me, leader of the Rebel Saints, one of the most notorious criminal gangs all around, and yet she wouldn’t even cuss.
“Last week,” I say, the pieces falling together in my mind, “Was that the last time you saw her?”
Sam takes a big bite, swallows, finally says, “Yeah but…”
Her gaze flicks to mine nervously.
“That doesn’t mean… I mean I was in and out for school and work the next few days so she could’ve come back at any time.”
With the back of her hand, she wipes sauce off her face, her eyes bulging out of her head.
“I mean you saw her room, she had to have come back. She had to.”
“Thanks,” I say, rising and walking out of there.
I wonder who she was trying to convince: me or herself.
###
The landlord downstairs isn’t any help, nor are her neighbors. They just tell me things I already know:
“Hannah’s a lovely girl, just lovely.”
“Always on time with rent, that one. Real reliable.”
“It’s only been a few days and already my dog Bernie misses her!”
None of them know anything about a boyfriend, but if this is as recent as Sam said, that’s not surprising.
Shit, how could I have missed this – the Piccolos messing with my sister right under my nose?
This can’t be happening.
I inhale then exhale.
Calm down Gabe, you don’t know anything for sure yet. No point in going on a rampage when you still don’t know that Carlos bastard was involved for sure.
I go to my motorcycle. I pull out my phone, and then the phone number. I haven’t stopped looking, in fact, I’ve hardly started. But right now, I need comfort. Release.
Chapter 10
Toni
I’m in front of the building when I get the call.
“Is this my two nights ago?” he says, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“Maybe,” I say.
“Good,” he says, “What about now? Same place.”
I throw a glance over at the Factory, its ragged exterior nothing compared to what’s awaiting me inside. Getting out of this would be nice; I’d like nothing better. And yet I know. There will be no getting out of this. I have to go in there, see the horrors that lie inside. I have to know.
I have to do this.
“What about tonight?” I say, “Same place. Seven.”
“Sounds good,” he says, then “Wait-”
“Yeah?”
“What’s your name?”
I laugh.
“What’s yours?”
“I asked you first.”
I laugh again.
“We’re not there yet. Maybe tonight.”
“I’ll get it out of you,” he says, a smirk in his voice, and hangs up.
I smile as I slip the phone in my back pocket.
At least I have something to look forward to tonight. After this.
I turn to face the Factory and force my legs to start walking.
Better savor that smile while it lasts. After I go in here, the last thing I’m going to want to do is smile.
When I walk in, a few bored-looking men come over, raising then lowering their guns.
“Piccolo,” I say, pointing to myself.
They nod, muttering to each other.
As I walk on and take in my surroundings, I try to keep my breathing steady, my head erect and upright.
But already this is like a scene from some horror movie. The walls are coated with angry slashes of graffiti, the floors with worms of dirt.
The worst, however, is the quiet. It’s as if nothing living is here. And, in a way, there isn’t.
When I round the chipped-off corner, the sight of what’s there paralyzes me.
Dogs of women are tied to a pole jutting out of the floor. From an out-of-place armchair in the corner, their cowboy-hatted guard nods at me. Just another day in the life for another regular white old hillbilly.
There’s about ten or so women. Most of them don’t even glance at me, though some slide glassy gazes in my direction. They’re dirty, gray. Everything’s dirty, gray, dank. Everything except their lingerie: bright fuchsias, baby blues, yellows. They’re like half-unopened mashes of candy. Their limbs are smeared with bruises and dirt, their faces with traces of makeup and happier days.
Most are Asian, there’s one black and, in the corner, there’s me. Or almost. The woman looks just like me. She’s curled in the corner with a chunk of a book. Her head is dipped deep into it, probably trying to make sense of the cut-off words.
I inhale, then exhale, but more breath, more clarity, only makes this worse.
No, there’s no making sense of this. No making this right.
I walk over to my doppelganger in the corner, lean down. When I put my hand on her shoulder, she jerks.
“Hey,” I say, “Hey, I…”
But she keeps her gaze locked on the book, on the sawed-off words, the chunked together
meanings. Her eyes are drug glazed, her skin malnutrition-faded.