Asger hesitated. Nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The truck backed against the rubber and stopped. Wayman opened the door beside the bay. In a moment, Finch jumped down from the driver side of the truck holding a newspaper. He climbed the cement steps and entered, looking like he’d partied too hard the night before.
Luke came into view around the front of the truck, appearing just as run down.
“What’s wrong?”
Without answering, Luke entered. Wayman closed the door behind him.
“Finch,” Luke said. “You know what to do with the meat?”
“Asger!” Wayman called. He held up his hands.
“Clear.”
“Take them up,” Wayman said to Finch. He turned back to Asger, still across the bay. “Help him.”
Luke unlocked the truck, and Finch opened the latch, the newspaper tucked under his arm.
“What are you doing with that?” Luke said.
“Just want something to read later.”
Finch made noise inside the truck as he prepared to secure the girls. Luke led Wayman a few steps.
“Your call …” Wayman said. “What happened?”
“I don’t know whether it’s about the business or not. But someone shot Cephus last night.”
“What?”
“He had trouble with one of the girls. He took her out and didn’t come back.”
They walked farther from the dock. Wayman turned and saw Finch pull the first girl, tethered by handcuff to a steel cable, across the bay.
“Shot?”
“In the face. Dead.”
“What do you mean, dead? How—was it the girl, you think?”
“No way it was her. Someone in wait. We searched the area and found a tent. Whoever—”
“Where was this?”
“Off forty, before Williams. Anyhow, whoever was staying in the tent loaded up and left right before we got there.”
“A tent?” Wayman rolled it over in his mind. “That doesn’t fit. We’ve got two enemies in this business, and neither stay in tents.”
“That’s why I gave you the heads up. I don’t know who killed him. But the other thing that doesn’t add up is this: A couple hours before, Finch hit an axle on the road. When they were coming up from Sierra Vista. Blew the front tire out. They were there fixing it and, you know, to get the jack, you have to open the back. Finch opens the door and the only boy in the group jumps out and hauls ass. Cephus put him down with the .308. And he went back to the same place with the girl.”
“That means it was chance. Not a sting, or something.”
“Right. It was pure fucking chance. Someone happened to be there the first time, and Cephus didn’t know it. He goes back the second time, and they got him.”
“Or ...”
“Say it.”
“Or was it somehow planned?” Wayman said. “Someone put that axle out there for Finch to hit, and he was part of it?”
“I thought of that. But with all we know about Finch, him being a fuckup, he’s never actually taken real action against us. He’s never fully crossed over.”
“Yeah. I don’t see Finch having the nuts to blow out a front tire on purpose. It’s not a threat to the business. It’s some asshole we have to find and put down.”
“Well,” Luke said, “Not so fast. What’s an ordinary person going to do if he sees what I just described? Wait with a gun in case it happens again? I don’t see it. Ordinary man hauls ass and hopes he wasn’t seen. Self-preservation. But our guy sat there and waited. Took one shot. A head shot. At night. Who the fuck does that? Point being, you can’t trust this is isolated, and has nothing to do with anything else. That’s why I gave the sitrep call.”
“Okay. I get it.” Wayman leaned on the wall. “So, was Finch part of it or not?”
“Don’t think so. But afterward I gave him the chance to get in or out and he chose out. I’m not going to have that kind of risk floating around. I want it done and over with. Tonight.”
“Roger that. But do you think maybe you ought to give it another day? You just lost your son. Hell, we all knew he was the golden boy. You can’t be thinking clear, whether you’re right about Finch or not, your thinking isn’t right.”
“Decision’s made.”
“Let me double-check your work. I have a special situation to deal with tonight and it’s perfect to figure out where Finch’s head is at.”
Luke exhaled hard.
“Dad. This is a decision that’s worth a second opinion. He’s your son, and even if you’re right, what’s the harm in delaying a day? Let me help you out with this one. You’ll thank me one day. Even if the decision is the same, you’ll thank me you didn’t make it in haste.”
“Fine.”
“You want a room tonight?”
“Nah. I’m going to the Motel 6. Get some sleep.”
Wayman rested his hand on his father’s shoulder.
“I feel like I haven’t slept in a long time,” Luke said. “It’s only been one day.”
Wayman slapped his back. “Get some rest. I’ll deal with Finch. One way or the other.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Finch followed Asger through the kitchen, past a butcher room replete with a band-saw, a massive bench table suitable to butchering anything from antelope to bison, sausage grinders, bell scrapers on the wall, the works. When Wayman first opened the place, Finch had eaten there and thought it was the coolest thing in the world: an older brother with a fine restaurant and quaking nightclub, all named the Butcher Shop. Hell yeah.
But Wayman had never led him any deeper into the building. Never upstairs. Cephus had always taken the meat up, leaving Finch to practice staying in role. He’d drift over to the nightclub side and bum weed off the bartender. Make passes at the beer maids.
Now, after telling his father he wanted out, he was being led deeper inside. Was it an effort to compromise him? Like when the kingpin forces a doubted underling to make a kill? A way to make a part-out guy all-in?
Or was Luke forcing him to see what he would give up if he left the family business?
Finch led the first girl by her arm and the rest, attached by handcuff to a steel cable, followed. They were still drugged, but it was near the hour when, for the last few days, they’d had their second knock-out of the day. They were becoming more aware, and as they walked, would become less groggy.
Asger stopped, held open a door. “End of the hall. We take the stairs.”
Probably too much weight for the elevators, Finch thought.
“Hey, I’m going to leave my stuff here.”
Asger nodded.
Finch shrugged out of his jacket and piled it along with his paper on a food preparation table.
The door to the stairwell was marked. Finch opened it. “Up?”
“Up.”
He led. The girls trudged.
“Stop at four,” Asger said, entering the stairwell behind the last girl.
Finch thought about the building’s layout, what he was familiar with. The nightclub had a separate street entrance from the restaurant. They were linked by a hallway behind the kitchen, which connected to the storage area behind the nightclub’s back wall. But no customer could go from one to the other without first going back to the street.
The restaurant had a two-story ceiling. The nightclub, three. Wayman kept the remainder of the third floor as his office and residence. The fourth floor, apparently, was where the girls lived.
The fifth and sixth?
Arriving at the fourth, Finch tried the door handle. Locked. The girls stopped climbing. Asger pushed one aside and joined Finch. He unlocked the door and said, “To the right. Get them all against the wall, and wait.”
“Yes sir, captain.” Finch waved his arm. “Come on, girls, you heard Ragnar, let’s go.”
Asger held open the door.
It felt like a hospital. Linoleum floor, white walls. Except the floors were devoid of the red dots they painted on the tiles to
tell you where the heart clinic was, or radiation. At the distant end of the hallway, a door opened and a young woman emerged. She walked toward them with an assurance that made Finch wonder what Asger would do when he saw one of the prostitutes had gotten loose.
“Hey, you probably want to go back to your room, missy. This doesn’t concern you.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
She barked in Spanish and the girls froze. She lifted the first girl’s chin, studied her eyes, mouth. Squeezed a breast. Snickered.
Asger leaned against the opposite wall and crossed his arms.
To Finch she said, “You have my key?”
“What?”
She took the lead girl’s hand and lifted it, displaying the handcuff. “Key.” She cocked her head toward Asger. “Who is this retard?”
“Boss’s brother.” To Finch he said, “Meet Amy. She runs this floor.”
Finch gave her the universal handcuff key.
Amy unlocked the first girl, commanded her. The girl walked to a room, opened the door, and entered. She did not close the door behind her.
Amy moved to the next girl, and the next.
The elevator dinged.
Wayman emerged into the hall but kept an arm back, holding the elevator open. He waved Finch toward him. “Asger, you too.”
They all entered the carriage. Finch took it in. Wood paneling. Mirrors. Hardwood floor. He watched Wayman press the top button and noticed it said 13, even though in sequence, the floor would be the sixth.
“You’ve never been up here, have you,” Wayman said.
“No.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. I guess I haven’t seen enough.”
“That’s about to change. Dad told me about your conversation. He wanted me to show you a little more of how we do things. He thinks maybe you’ve only seen the work, and not the reward.”
The elevator dinged. The door opened. Finch stepped on a burgundy carpet. Opposite the elevator, a painting that looked splotchy, like a Monet, opened the entire wall into a field of flowers. Turning, Finch saw painting after painting, each lit with a recessed fixture above. He stepped to the first.
“Is this real?”
“Yes it’s a real painting. But no, it’s not Jackson Pollock, if that’s what you meant. It’s a derivative painter.”
“Who?”
“Who gives a shit? It’s derivative.”
Wayman led them down the hall. Even the air smelled different on this floor. It must be where all the sex happened, Finch thought. Like a high-class whorehouse, crown molding, twelve-inch baseboards, brass fixtures, and sex with kids.
Finch wanted to throw up.
Wayman put his finger to his lips. “I want you to be very quiet now. The walls were sound proofed—but years ago, when the technology wasn’t perfect. I need to have them redone. Even our weight as we move across the hallway can disrupt the most sensitive people, like the man in the next room. So just be quiet, and see if you can hear anything.”
Finch followed, light on his feet, a sense of dread rising as the constriction in his chest grew tighter. He didn’t want to hear some kid getting molested, but he sensed that was not what Wayman wanted him to experience.
Looking behind, he saw Asger had stopped walking. Finch tried to think tactically. If he had to escape, the only ways out were the elevator and stairs, situated beyond. He’d have to pass Asger to reach either.
There were fire escapes, but with the business being a sort of prison, he doubted the windows could be opened. If something went haywire, he had no choice but to overcome both Wayman and Asger.
Wayman stopped. Finch bumped into him. Wayman put his finger in the air:
Any moment now ...
They waited.
Longer.
Wayman’s eyebrows arched. He nodded.
Finch heard nothing.
Wayman tilted his head and smiled.
Faint ... the voice of a girl. Screaming.
Wayman looked down the hall where they had come from and nodded. Finch backtracked. Twenty feet retraced, Finch said, “Why did you want me to hear that?”
“Anticipation.”
They walked and stopped where Asger stood beside a door. Finch looked at the number.
13.
“Some kind of joke? The floor number ... the room number?”
Wayman nodded to Asger and stepped aside. Asger unlocked the room. He pushed open the door.
“Go ahead,” Wayman said. “Go inside.”
Finch stepped around the corner and froze.
“What—oh, God.”
Wayman pushed his shoulder. Finch backed from the door.
Inside, on the bed, a naked girl lay with a knife perpendicular in her chest. Beneath her, brilliant white sheets were slashed and soaked in blood. Red spattered the walls behind the bed, and Finch thought of the fake Jackson Pollock—here was another derivative—dribbles and splashes of red on white.
The air from the room overcame him. The smell was metallic and pungent, like feces and blood. His stomach rolled.
“That’s why she was screaming, little brother.”
Gashes exposed the inner parts of the girl’s muscles and bones. Her thigh was open, split apart across the top, lengthwise. Her left breast amputated and placed on the night table. Her ribs exposed, like a four-inch swath of skin and bone had been peeled away.
Finch turned away. Blood rushed into his brain, and the sound was like the ocean coming in, spinning him and stealing the air from the hallway. He felt sick in the back of his throat, like he would vomit. He leaned forward and noticed footprints of blood leading to the bathroom.
Finch remembered the wire on his chest, the mission from the FBI. He remembered his father agreeing to his help, this one time, to get through the pinch without Cephus.
“Oh, wow, shit. I wasn’t ready for that. Whooeee. Wow. What is this?” Finch said. “Who is she?”
“You brought her here last month.”
“Who, uh, who’s the painter?”
“His name is not important. But it is Naganori. He’s a finance man from Japan. Big, big money.”
Calm. You’re cool with this shit. How’s the weather? Fuckin A hot for this time of year, right?
“Holy shit. You, uh, don’t see that every day. I think I recognize her. Oh, shit, I didn’t see that coming. But you got me good. So uh, when did this happen?”
“She’s been dead about twelve hours. A couple less than that.”
“Some accident, huh? Wow.”
“No. This is ROI. Return on Investment.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I know, and that’s the purpose of tonight’s lesson. To see if you can understand. So here’s an example of the business model. An exact replica. Give me a dollar.”
As Finch stared at the dead girl his mental awareness drew to a single focus: the wire on his chest, the band-aid sized recording device.
“I’m not bullshitting. You really need to understand this, and I want to break it down for you in terms you’ll grasp. Give me a dollar.”
Finch extracted his wallet. “I don’t have a dollar. Here’s a five.”
“Perfect.” Wayman took it, reached into his pocket and withdrew a hundred.
“Here, take it.”
“What’s this?”
“Shut up. It’s a fucking C-note. Now what if every time you put a five into your business, two weeks later, it gave you back a hundred? What if it happened every time? What would you ask yourself?”
“I—”
“Yes, you do. You know exactly what you’d ask. How many fucking five-dollar bills can I put in? Well, the answer is about five thousand a month, meaning, twenty-five thousand dollars a month is what you can put in. We average five clients a month right now—usually about a week apart. Each of these girls costs us five grand. Each one pays a hundred. That’s a half million dollars coming back at us, every month. But we’re growing. O
ur maximum would be about thirty a month, when you look at supply, transportation”—he waved his arms around— “the size of the factory. Our max is about thirty girls a month. So you might say, out of our complete capacity utilization—the total amount we’re capable of—what we’re actually doing is about sixteen percent. That’s a lot of room to grow, little brother. A half million dollars a month is only sixteen percent of what’s possible, with our present arrangement. Is it starting to sink in, Finch?”
“I had no idea.”
“You thought sending T-bones and rib-eyes to every grocery in Arizona is what made the money, right?”
“Not really. I thought it was just, you know. Pedophiles. And the money ... I didn’t know the business ... the kids ... was this big.”
“Big isn’t the word. Huge isn’t the word. Not when you think of the size of the market. And it’s all ours to grow into. We’re making the fucking iPhone here. No one knows the size of the market, or how badly they want the product. You know there’s five hundred billionaires in the United States, and a couple thousand in the world. And listen to this. There’s thirty million millionaires in the world. Thirty million. Now you think about the proportion of people who want to fuck a kid, and the proportion who want to kill one, and see if you can guess the ultimate size of our market.”
“I—can’t guess.”
“I can’t either. All I know is, we’ll never saturate the market. We can grow as much as we want and we’ll never reach the top. The only thing that can get in our way is the bad guys. The people we can’t trust.”
Finch glanced at Asger, whose eyes seemed to hold nothing at all.
“So tonight, my man, you see it all. The business and the reward. Tonight you clean a room, dispose of a body, and then have a five-thousand-dollar hooker from downtown slob your knob in a hot tub. Then you’ll go out and buy your first Range Rover, cash. Then you’ll get a second blowjob in the front seat from the guy who sells it to you—thumb up your ass if you want. You’re going to know the full experience. Buckle in. Finch. Buckle the fuck in.”
Finch looked at the blood pooled on the tile floor.
“Go on,” Wayman said. “This room’s got to sparkle.”
Asger walked down the hallway.
Pretty Like an Ugly Girl (Baer Creighton Book 3) Page 10